A Bewitching Governess

by Patricia Rice

  Olivia handed the children small branches. “You should follow behind us and sweep under the furniture. That means we can’t light yours, but it’s still very important.”

  Aloysius examined his bough with suspicion but followed the example of Simon’s children, who had evidently seen this done before. Oblivious, Evie danced and sang nonsense noises and swung her branch as if it were a magic wand.

  “I think we should all dance and sing like Evie,” Emma cried. “Let’s sing away the bad old year! I bet the house wasn’t smoked last Hogmanay.”

  Since it had been a house of mourning, Olivia assumed that was a safe bet. Using the excuse of towing a reluctant Simon down the hall, she secretly savored the opportunity to touch his muscular arm. He patted her hand in return. It was almost as if he understood her need to. . . be part of a family? Or just her longing for a human touch. She’d been so alone these past years. . .

  To her surprise, once they reached the front parlor, Simon waved his smoking juniper near the high ceiling and belted out a verse of Comin’ Thro’ the Rye. The physical connection between them was broken, but her spirit rose joyously with his.

  The staff joined in with more verses as they marched from room to room, chasing away the ghosts and the sadness in the ways of their pagan ancestors—the druids and witches of Malcolm lore.

  “I love that our family traditions carry on, even if no one understands what they mean,” Phoebe whispered to Olivia as she refreshed her smoking bough at a grate.

  “Keep an eye on Clare,” Olivia whispered back. “If there are ghosts departing, she’ll see them. I don’t think the twins have fully participated before.”

  The twins danced and sang along with Evie, and all three girls eagerly crawled under furniture to dust with their little evergreen branches. The boys, including Joey, spent their time climbing on furniture to dust behind it. Olivia tried to keep a wary eye on them as the rest of the staff scattered about, cleansing the smaller rooms. Determinedly wielding a feather duster, Maggie led the way.

  Talking of testing the new chimney cleaner, the men abandoned the ceremony once it moved upstairs. Everyone else still waved their branches and sang enthusiastically, although the tunes had turned to ones Olivia didn’t recognize. The twins took the stairs slowly on their short legs.

  Rather than have the children scampering through the bedrooms, Olivia steered them to the nursery floor. Phoebe followed, madly waving her smoking juniper branch. She chanted a more traditional prayer that Olivia gratefully followed. She wanted the children protected from the ills of the world for as long as possible.

  Clare plunked her bottom down at the top of the stairs and refused to continue marching. Cat, as always, was the one to speak.

  “Mama isn’t ready to leave,” she asserted. “She says she’ll keep us safe.”

  Olivia hadn’t seen the twins consulting, but they seemed to know each other’s minds. She halted the boys, trying not to notice a frisson of unease at the thought of Simon’s wife watching over them. “Would your mama like a prayer?”

  Clare shrugged. Cat nodded. “Can we pray she’ll come back?”

  Oh, dear.

  “We should have a séance someday,” Phoebe suggested, distracting from the question. “It’s really difficult interpreting a four-year-old’s version of what a spirit wants.”

  Olivia breathed a little easier. Maybe Letitia wasn’t really watching—and she’d only imagined weeping in the walls. “Do we have to invite the aunts for a séance? Clare is a little too young to act as a medium.”

  “Let’s wait and see if it’s important.” Phoebe scooped up Clare and carried her into the schoolroom. “My goodness, you’ve decorated the walls! Is this your drawing?”

  Olivia needed clarification of what was important. Sleeping with a man who might have a ghost haunting him rated pretty high in her books. She should be grateful Letitia hadn’t pushed her down the stairs.

  Since the twins had declared the nursery floor as a safe haven for ghosts, Olivia kissed and hugged Evie and left her cleaning under the schoolroom table with her battered evergreen branch. Spirits shouldn’t take umbrage at a child’s play.

  Leaving Phoebe to entertain the girls, Olivia went in search of the boys, who hadn’t followed them upstairs.

  Mrs. Susan had them in hand in Simon’s version of a library. The shelves consisted of a few books of fiction—probably Letitia’s choices judging from the titles—and layers of business periodicals. Aloysius was holding up skinny Joey so he could dust the books on higher shelves. Enoch. . .

  Olivia lifted a questioning eyebrow at the seamstress, who shrugged. “I didn’t think Mr. Blair’s journals had been cleaned yesterday, so they’re helping me.”

  In one palm, Mrs. Susan balanced an impossibly heavy stack of journals. With the other hand, she dusted the load with a feather duster—a tricky juggling act. At her feet, Enoch ostensibly dusted the shelves. He squeezed up his whole face in a concentrated effort—to lift the weight of Mrs. Susan’s burden?

  Olivia gestured for the seamstress to safely return the journals to the shelf before she interrupted. “Brilliant job, boys,” she declared briskly. “I say we have tea and biscuits in the schoolroom.”

  Enoch collapsed in relief, then dashed off shouting with the others.

  “The magazines. . .” Staring at the heavy stack, Mrs. Susan tried to find words for their seeming weightlessness.

  “Did you know Mrs. Blair at all?” Olivia asked.

  The seamstress shook her head. “I’ve been told she was a witch, but her family is all that good Christians should be, and I refuse to believe gossip.”

  “Letitia had the Sight. The twins might too. That doesn’t make them anything except a wee bit special, in the same way Evie is a special angel sent from heaven for us to love. Enoch. . . is male. Men don’t understand the world in the same way we do, but they want to help. That’s what he was trying to do.”

  Susan didn’t look any less confused, but she nodded agreeably. “I am grateful that you took me and Joey in. I’ve seen wickedness and know it when I see it. The children are not wicked. I’ll hope Joey grows to be as good.”

  Olivia tried not to consider a time when she was no longer here and Simon had the managing of all the children to himself. That was the future.

  In the present, the Hall and its tenants came first. She had to believe it would all work out somehow.

  If only she could search Owen’s hiding places. . .

  “You want to what?” Simon asked, staring at his normally civilized businessman of a cousin.

  For the party, Drew had donned some incredible concoction of tweed coat and wool knee breeches that could only have come from the inventive mind of his lady wife. Simon put his own tailored suit back in the wardrobe. If they were to play countrymen, he could do it with more style than his city cousin.

  But it was Drew’s suggestion that left him flabbergasted. “Pouring good whisky into the ground is a mortal sin, it is!”

  Drew shrugged. “Easier than carrying the barrels from the cellar.”

  “Yer aff yer heid, ye truly are. And what brought on this mad desire to deprive Hargreaves of his liquor?” Although Simon could make a very good guess.

  “Phoebe wants me to create a howl for his chimneys or some such. I could do that, but no sensible man will believe he’s haunted. But deprive him of his alcohol—”

  “A howl? You can invent a howl? I could give you an owl if ye’re all for eerie noise. No inventing needed. But pulling the plugs on barrels. . . truly a sin.” But his brain wheeled into motion as he reached for his own tweed.

  “Even if we had time to lug a cellar full of barrels, that would be theft,” Drew argued, apparently reading his mind.

  “Not if we hide them on the grounds,” Simon said with a grin.

  Drew removed a pocket knife from his breeches and used it to tighten a loose screw on the wardrobe door while Simon dressed. “Hide them where? And how many hefty lads do you ha
ve at your disposal?”

  “Ye’re startin’ to spake like a city boy,” Simon said with a scoff. “Me and a few others can heft the barrels. We’ll need to scout a hiding place. The trick is to replace them with empty ones, so they don’t go searching.”

  “Aye, I like that.” Drew grinned, mocking his brogue. “And if ye’re to talk to Hamilton and his ilk this evening, you need to practice your city accent.”

  Simon grimaced. “I’d rather move whisky barrels. She wants me to play whist! Now I ask ye, what sort of man sets about playin’ with the devil’s books?”

  “One who wants the lady or her land or both. Come along, scoundrel. You’re fancified enough for the occasion. A sprig of thistle in our lapels, and we’ll be the talk of the town.” Drew slapped his shoulder and shoved him toward the door.

  “If I’m moving barrels, I’ll need the leather breeches. You go entertain the ladies. I’ll be right with you.” Simon shoved his cousin out and shut the door.

  He had a cellar full of empty barrels. Tonight was not the night for moving them, however. He’d spent the day concocting his own plans, and they involved pleasure and a lady to start the new year—not theft and skullduggery.

  Olivia gazed in satisfaction at the crowded gathering. This wasn’t her occasion. It was Simon’s. And he was in full throttle, welcoming friends and neighbors and even Letitia’s family. Hordes of guests wearing everything from kilts and breeches to dinner suits and gowns crowded the buffet, milled through the parlor, hall, and dining room, and even lined the card room she’d made of the small withdrawing chamber.

  Aunt Margaret and Emma served as Simon’s hostesses, greeting guests at the entrance. Olivia had slipped down the staircase in a moment when everyone was crowding around the fire and the tables. She did her best to blend in with the other guests.

  She didn’t want any rumors starting about her place in Simon’s life. They might have shared a bed, but he would never accept—or even believe in—her difference. She needed to make a home of her own again—one where the children might visit and explore their gifts. Olivia didn’t need to have the Sight to foresee a lifetime of conflict over their different values.

  In the interest of being unobtrusive, she’d worn a gown with a black velvet bodice. Her red and green plaid taffeta skirt was a little more vivid than the widow’s weeds she’d been wearing but didn’t stand out in these rooms full of color. Phoebe had brought her a tartan sash that she claimed was all the rage, but Olivia preferred being a country mouse.

  Although her first sight of Simon’s muscled legs in his leather breeches and tasseled stockings caused a hot flush. She fought the urge to fan herself. He was a fine figure of a man, even if his loose-fitting tweed jacket concealed the true magnificence of his narrow-hipped, wide-shouldered build. She couldn’t even disapprove of the whisky glass in his hand. It was Hogmanay, after all, a night for celebrating.

  He caught her glance across the crowded parlor, and she thrilled at the happiness she saw there. Simon was a man who loved being part of a community. It had been hard on him this past year thinking people hated him.

  She slipped away before he could seek her out.

  The whole point of this evening was for her to meet or reacquaint herself with the landowners of the area, the people with influence should she take her case against Hargreaves to court.

  The table and cards had drawn a lively selection of dowagers uninterested in squeezing into the bustling crowd at the front of the house. They’d apparently filled plates and absconded to this quieter chamber.

  She needed their husbands and sons to join them. Men controlled the courts, but the women behind the men had influence. Using cards to manipulate this dichotomy was where she excelled, although she couldn’t explain that to a man like Simon who not only despised gambling but thought everyone should just come out and say what they thought. Olivia understood society on a female level.

  Noticing none of the wealthy dowagers had partnered Mrs. Hill, the steward’s matronly wife, Olivia led her over to a table containing two of the more influential citizens in the area—Sir Harvey’s sister and Mrs. Wilson, wife of the local banker. They regarded plump, merry Mrs. Hill in her woolens with doubt, but accepted Olivia for the gossip factor. As the cards were dealt, Olivia fielded their questions, cheerfully explaining her position as a teacher to the children as a favor to Letitia’s family.

  She’d appointed one of the Hall’s former maids to monitor this room, bringing beverages as requested and running errands.

  Olivia hadn’t played in a while, but the lessons learned at her father’s knees never went away. Rather than draw attention to herself, she played so her partner won the majority of the sets.

  “Perhaps we should change partners so you may try to win back some of your markers?” Olivia suggested cheerfully when the first set ended.

  Mrs. Wilson, the banker’s wife, insisted they flip a coin to see who partnered the winning Mrs. Hill. Any class differences had dissolved with Mrs. Hill’s apparent whist expertise—as Olivia had intended.

  “We should wager pennies on the markers,” Mrs. Wilson suggested, after she’d won Mrs. Hill as partner.

  “Leave it to a banker’s wife,” Olivia said teasingly. She had known Mrs. Wilson from Owen’s dealings with the bank and had not doubted money would come into the equation eventually. “If no one else has any objection, then I’ll have to send for coins. I don’t carry any.”

  “Yes, please,” Sir Harvey’s sister said. “I’ll need to ask Harvey. He’s such a stickler, but he can’t begrudge me a little fun.”

  Olivia gestured for the maid. “Will you ask Sir Harvey and Lady Phoebe to join us?” She glanced at Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Hill. “Should we ask your spouses to join us also?”

  Phoebe arrived with Andrew in tow. He stayed to converse with the other gentlemen as they entered to add coins to their wives’ purses. As hoped, before long, the withdrawing room began to fill with men eager to escape the music just starting up.

  Olivia really did wish to hear the players and see if Simon danced, but her future and the Hall’s depended on the men gathering in this room.

  After several sets, Olivia had redistributed the wealth to all three ladies at the table while losing her own small stack of coins. She gracefully bowed out and allowed Phoebe to take her chair. Phoebe knew about as much about cards as she did the African continent, but she was a quick student.

  In the interest of acting as hostess for the room, Olivia drifted from table to table, commiserating on a bad turn of the cards, calling the maid to refill drinks or bring food. Perfectly aware that it was bad form to comment, Olivia played innocent. She tapped Andrew on the shoulder and shook her head at him when he played a bad card. He insisted she choose the next one. When he won the trick, another of the players at the table asked that she stand over his shoulder for good luck.

  Had her father been here, he’d have demanded the American game of poker, which he could win by recognizing a player’s tells, the way Olivia read auras. But she was only here to win favor, not money, and to pick up on any gossip about the Hall. These men needed to remember she was a viscountess, granddaughter of a baron, and from a reasonably powerful and wealthy family—and that she had once lived at the Hall.

  Andrew and Phoebe helped in that interest. They called her Lady Hargreaves. They spoke about Lady Agnes and Lady Gertrude, their aunts, and Phoebe’s mother, the Countess of Drumsmoore. They even mentioned Baron Clayton, Olivia’s grandfather, who several of the gentlemen remembered meeting in London.

  “You should be staying at Hargreaves Hall,” dear Mrs. Wilson insisted, now that her purse was full. “Mr. Blair can hire governesses, surely.”

  The current viscount hadn’t spent much time in Greybridge if they didn’t know her circumstances, which worked even better for her purposes.

  Olivia played the room for sympathy. She donned a wan, brave smile. “Viscount Hargreaves prefers the company of his gentlemen friends, I fear. I
cannot live in that kind of situation, if you know what I mean.” Her tone implied more than she said.

  Gossip burned through the room like wildfire after that. No one, it seemed, knew the new viscount well, which made gossip so much livelier.

  Sixteen

  Simon leaned against the mantel, keeping an eye on the entrances to the packed rooms. He’d opened the pocket doors between the front parlor and the dining room. Furniture had been pushed to the walls to open the center for dancing. He’d seen that his guests enjoyed themselves. And now, he waited.

  Pipers piped. Fiddlers fiddled. The young ones stomped and curtsied in time to the music. Emma was having a fine old time leading the poor schoolteacher by the nose—or something lower. Mrs. Montgomery was here to keep an eye on her daughter. It wasn’t Simon’s duty.

  He was growing impatient, resenting the cards even more, but he resisted storming the card room and flinging decks and coins to the grate.

  Ah, there she was.

  The fool woman probably thought she was slipping in, unnoticed. But her sleek blond chignon was stacked higher and with more curls and furbelows and expertise than any other guest. Her vivid gown in some material that caught the light and shimmered—she wasn’t in mourning any longer!—had narrower skirts, ropes of pleated ruffles, and hoops of fabric that spoke of city fashion. Every man in the room turned surreptitiously to watch Lady Hargreaves’ graceful swaying entrance.

  People gossiped. Simon knew they did. He’d heard the rumors and answered the questions and didn’t dare stake a claim in front of the entire countryside. He curbed his ire when some young jack-a-napes offered her punch. Olivia graciously accepted the cup but moved on, speaking mostly to the women in the crowd. She didn’t differentiate between the servants, the villagers, and the landowners. She had a word for all. But not for him. She was avoiding him.

  The young ones and some of the villagers were already departing, heading for the traditional bonfire on the hill above the village. He’d have to act swiftly, before the musicians decided to take a break while they tippled his whisky and ate his food.