The Wicked Governess

by Mary Lancaster

  With a gasp, she whisked herself inside and closed the door. Leaning against it, she listened to the incomprehensible thundering of her heart. She thought she heard a faint, deprecating laugh as his footsteps walked on. It seemed his bedchamber, too, was in this part of the house, close to his daughter’s. And hers. She wasn’t sure why that mattered to her, but it did.

  *

  She woke to daylight and a strange, soft, scratching noise. Rosa’s head poked through the bed curtains while her fingernails scratched at their fabric. She smiled.

  “Good morning,” Caroline croaked.

  Rosa made hasty eating motions with her hands.

  “Ah, breakfast!” Caroline sat up in alarm, “Have I slept too long?”

  Rosa shook her head, gestured for her to hurry, and skipped back off to her own room.

  There was fresh water for washing—she must have been so heavily asleep that she hadn’t even heard the maid bringing it. Having attended to her ablutions, she dressed in her usual grey gown and brushed her hair by the mirror provided. As she bundled up her hair and reached for the pins, she caught her own eye in the glass and paused. She rarely looked at herself for longer than it took to ensure her neatness. Today, for some reason, she stared at her austere reflection with disfavor.

  Miss Grey the governess, severe, dull, part of the schoolroom furniture.

  She released the grip on her hair and shook it about her face and shoulders. She blushed to think that this was how Mr. Benedict had seen her last night—only worse, of course, for she had worn only her flimsy night gown and wrapper.

  “Go in, before I forget that I was once a gentleman.”

  He’d seen her, not as the governess but as a woman. His eyes had been all over her… only for an instant, of course, but he’d liked what he’d seen. Heat spread through her at the memory, at the implication. Just for a moment, he’d been attracted to her. He’d seen her.

  She touched her cheek, her lips, the corners of her eyes. Her skin was still soft. Her eyes still held the sparkle of life. Her dark blond hair shone with vitality. She was only twenty-eight years old. She should have been a young matron, the mother of Peter…

  The old pain of loss cramped her stomach, but it didn’t last. For it wasn’t Theo’s handsome face that swam into her mind. It was Javan Benedict’s scarred one.

  “Oh, no,” she muttered and seized her hair, drawing it into a tight knot at the back of her head. She inserted the pins with unnecessary force and regarded herself somewhat ruefully.

  Miss Grey the governess, she mocked, and walked through the connecting door to collect Rosa.

  “So, where do we have breakfast?” she asked.

  To her surprise, Rosa led her down the quiet staircase to the front hall and then away from the direction of the dining room toward the back of the house. There, they took the stairs to the kitchen, which was empty save for a very thin maid and a fat cook. Neither woman looked remotely surprised to see Rosa.

  “Good morning,” the cook greeted them cheerfully, pulling two chairs out from the large table in the center of the kitchen. “Sit ye down.”

  As they sat, the maid set a plate of fresh bread rolls in front of them with a slab of butter. The girl smiled at Rosa and, more timidly, at Caroline.

  “You’ll be the new governess,” Cook said comfortably, returning to her frying pan.

  “Caroline Grey.” She reached for a roll. “They smell delicious.”

  “I’m Betty Smith, the cook. This here is Nan the kitchen maid. Is it true you’ve come from the castle? I used to work there. How is everything?”

  “Well, I believe.”

  “Broke my heart not to be able to see Lady Serena get married. I saw her sister, Lady Frances, marry a year or so back, but I was working at the castle then. This time, for Lady Serena’s, I couldn’t get away. She’ll have been a beautiful bride.”

  “Indeed she was.”

  “So, what brings you from there to the hall?” Mrs. Smith asked with open curiosity.

  “I go where I’m told,” Caroline said lightly, nodding her thanks to Nan the maid who presented her with a steaming hot cup of coffee. “I suppose his lordship felt the young ladies deserved a little time off lessons, while Mr. Benedict clearly felt Rosa should have some time on.”

  Rosa grinned around her roll.

  “Do we always have breakfast in the kitchen?” Caroline asked her.

  Rosa nodded.

  “The others have breakfast in their chambers as a rule,” Cook said, waddling over with a plate of ham and eggs. “Only Miss Rosa likes company in the morning.”

  The child smiled gratefully and helped herself.

  “Well,” Caroline said, when even Rosa appeared to be full. “Shall we have a brisk walk before we begin lessons?”

  Rosa nodded with enthusiasm. Jumping to her feet, she gestured for Caroline to wait and ran off, leaping up the stairs two at a time.

  Caroline swallowed the last of her coffee. “I expect she’s gone to find the dog.”

  “And her father,” Cook said.

  Caroline’s heart gave a little lurch at the prospect of Mr. Benedict’s company. She wasn’t sure if it was dismay or excitement.

  “She goes to see him every morning after her breakfast,” Cook went on. “I think she’s afraid he’ll vanish, poor dear.” She glanced at Nan, who was some yards away, noisily loading pans and crockery into a bowl for washing. Lowering her voice, she added, “Not surprised, the goings-on in this house.”

  As the governess, Caroline was, of course, above such below-stairs gossip—although Lord Braithwaite had implied she would find a trusted ally in the cook. Taking her hesitation for encouragement, Cook said, “The child loves them, of course, but it’s no wonder she doesn’t speak. They’re both mad.”

  “Who is mad?” Caroline asked, slightly bewildered.

  “The master, of course,” Cook said, as if Caroline was proving herself to be little better. “And Miss Benedict. Ha, Miss Benedict indeed! According to him, she’s his sister, but it’s my belief she’s Mrs. Benedict, and he doesn’t want anyone to know!”

  Caroline frowned. “You’re saying the lady who has taken to her room is his wife?”

  “Hush, Miss, none of them would ever admit it.” Cook jerked her head at Nan, presumably encompassing all the servants the Benedicts had brought with them. From wherever they’d been before. Cook lowered her voice further. “It’s not so much that she takes to her room. It’s that he locks her in there!”

  Caroline’s eyes widened.

  “And before you tell me it’s lies and gossip, I saw it with my own eyes. Took her hot chocolate up to her chamber myself one morning—maids had come down with something and there was only Williams and me on our feet. I couldn’t get in. Then he—the master—turns up, casual as you please, and unlocks the door!”

  “I can’t see why that makes her his wife,” Caroline observed. She shouldn’t be allowing this conversation at all. She stood up.

  Cook blinked at her. “He wouldn’t bring his mad old sister with him, would he?” she said reasonably. “But not much he can do about a wife. I know they say in Blackhaven that he murdered her, but I don’t believe that. Besides, the girl is clearly fond of her. And his people, the servants, won’t talk about how the wife is supposed to have died. They don’t talk about her at all. Or the sister. It isn’t natural. Mix that up with how this house is haunted and—”

  “You don’t enjoy your work here, Mrs. Smith?” Caroline interrupted, a shade desperately. Lord Braithwaite might have imagined she and the cook could be allies, but Caroline already felt appallingly disloyal. She had to nip this gossip in the bud.

  “Well, as to that—” Cook began.

  Caroline hurried toward the stairs. “I’m very glad to have met you, Mrs. Smith. Thank you for the delicious breakfast. I’d better hurry and meet Miss Rosa.”

  She found her own way to the side door and was tying her bonnet when Rosa and Tiny came flying around the corne
r. Although Caroline held her breath, no uneven footsteps followed them. Only as they returned from their short walk, did she catch a glimpse of her employer, and that was when Rosa waved up at one of the windows of the house. A dark shadowy figure moved away, just as Caroline glanced up.

  “Was that your father?” she asked, and the girl nodded happily. “Well, he will expect us to do some work. So, let us go and begin.”

  *

  “Write about your family and your home, so that I might know them as well as you do.” Caroline generally began her first lesson with new pupils in this way. She found it a useful gauge to a child’s skill with the English language as well as other areas of necessary education. Besides which, it provided her with useful clues about the new family she was working for.

  In Rosa’s case, she was conscious of a too-urgent desire to know more, and not just to discover if Cook could be right in her speculations. She wanted to know about Mr. Benedict for his own good. And the lady who’d thrown the cake at him. And she didn’t want rumor and superstition. She wanted truth.

  While Rosa wrote, Caroline continued looking at her previous work, and discovered her pupil to be good at sketching and painting. One notebook was filled with colored pictures of leaves, flowers, and descriptions, complete with Latin and common names.

  “Who taught you this?” Caroline asked when Rosa brought her work over.

  Rosa smiled and pointed to the essay she’d just written. In particular, she pointed to the first paragraph which she’d titled: My Father, Javan Benedict.

  “Your father teaches you botany?” Caroline said in surprise, and when the girl nodded, Caroline smiled. “It is beautifully done. Now, let me see your new work.”

  Rosa released it to her but made urgent eating motions with her hand.

  Caroline glanced at the watch she had pinned to her gown. “Is it time for luncheon already? You had better run and wash your hands.”

  While Rosa ran off to obey, Caroline glanced quickly at the essay. The second paragraph was My Aunt, Marjorie Benedict.

  “Ha,” Caroline said aloud with triumph, before the third paragraph caught her attention. My Governess, Miss Grey. Miss Grey’s services have been kindly lent to us by the Earl of Braithwaite, who lives in the castle. She is kind, clever, and pretty. Both my father and I like her because her eyes laugh, though they don’t always. Sometimes I think she might be sadder than she seems, but I hope she is not unhappy to be at Haven Hall.

  Caroline shifted uncomfortably. Was it not speaking that made the child so perceptive? Rosa went on to talk about the servants, including the manservant Williams, whom she called her father’s valet who came home with her father and takes care of everything for us.

  Came home with him… a curious turn of phrase.

  Nan, Mrs. Smith, and the other servants were all listed as people who looked after the family. Even Tiny had his own, disproportionately long paragraph. Well, there were more funny stories to tell about him than about anyone else.

  But it was an odd household that had no housekeeper and no butler. She had never heard of a valet being in charge of the servants before.

  Smiling, Caroline returned to the beginning, to the passage about Mr. Benedict. She felt strange reading this, as though she were prying. Papa is very good and strong and protects me, even when he is convalescing. He is also very clever and always wins at jackstraws. He can make anything funny and he understands everything.

  Caroline frowned. These lines seemed to throw up more questions than they answered. Protects me… Why did Rosa imagine she needed protection? Was it just a child feeling safe with her father? A word he’d said, perhaps, when she was afraid of monsters under the bed—Don’t worry, nothing can harm you, I will protect you? He had sat by her bed last night until she was asleep.

  And what was it, exactly, that he understood? Why Rosa didn’t speak? Or was she simply a child in awe of her omnipotent father’s cleverness?

  On top of all that, most people would probably have struggled with the idea of the harsh-faced, taciturn Benedict making everything funny…

  Hastily, Caroline set the notebook aside and hurried to wash her hands for luncheon.

  When she entered the dining room, Rosa and her father were already there. Mr. Benedict stood and, to her surprise, held her chair for her to sit.

  “Forgive my tardiness,” she apologized. “I got caught up reading Rosa’s work of this morning. You are very observant and articulate, Rosa. I feel I know everyone so much better now.”

  Rosa beamed under the praise. Caroline felt Mr. Benedict’s gaze burning into her face, but she concentrated on Rosa and her food.

  “Rosa, do you play the pianoforte? Or any other musical instrument?”

  Rosa’s eyes widened. She shook her head vigorously.

  “Is there such a thing in the house, sir?” Caroline asked, braving the harsh gaze.

  “There’s a pianoforte in the ante-room off the drawing room,” he said with odd reluctance. “Why? Do you play?”

  “Adequately enough to teach Rosa. It is a necessary accomplishment for a young lady.”

  His lips twisted. “Of course. It’s under Holland covers and I’ve no idea what state it’s in but make free with it by all means. Williams will help you if you need to move it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can you tune it as well?” he asked with false civility.

  “Enough to erase the worst faults,” she replied calmly. “If you have the correct tools. But there is a piano tuner in Blackhaven, a retired musician, whom Lady Braithwaite called upon.”

  Benedict shifted his gaze to his daughter. “Do you wish to learn?”

  For some reason, Rosa hesitated, then nodded.

  Mr. Benedict shrugged. “Then by all means, try it. Tell me if it needs even greater skills than you possess.”

  It felt like a small victory.

  When she had eaten her fill, Rosa again caught her attention, spread her fingers on an imaginary keyboard, and wiggled them.

  “Later,” Caroline said. “First, arithmetic.”

  Rosa wrinkled her nose.

  “Go up to the schoolroom and find for me the most difficult calculations you’ve completed. I will be up directly, after I’ve spoken to your father.”

  “You have work for me, too?” Benedict drawled, making Rosa grin over her shoulder before she ran off.

  “Would you do it if I had?” she retorted.

  He laughed. “I might. I just might.”

  “I shall bear it in mind,” she said wryly. “For now, I merely wished to talk to you about Rosa’s speech. Or lack of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was wondering…has she ever slipped up and let a word fall? Does she ever laugh or cry aloud?”

  His face remained impassive. “Nothing more than a guttural…growl for want of a better word, and that only when something has startled or frightened her. In the year since I have been home, I have never heard her utter a word. Why?”

  “She is very articulate on paper. She reads and thinks and observes in words. I am at a loss as to why she won’t say them. Is it grief over her mother’s death or illness?”

  “She’d stopped talking nearly a year before my wife died. I found her like this when I came home.”

  Caroline frowned, deep in thought. “And could your wife offer no insight?”

  “None that she shared with me. With respect, Miss Grey, your task is to teach her. For the rest, we have doctors.”

  “But you said it was not a medical problem,” Caroline pointed out. “And as for teaching, I would be failing in my duties if I didn’t at least try to teach her to speak again.”

  “In the one week or two which you have allotted to us?” he retorted.

  Caroline flushed. “I always work to the best of my ability. Should I have a scale of effort to match the time I spend with my pupils?”

  She knew, as the words spilled out, that it was insolence. As his eyebrows flew up, she bit her lip, waitin
g to be dismissed—from the room at the very least. But again, he surprised her.

  “I’ve hurt your feelings. I apologize,” he said curtly. “If you can make her speak, we would both be forever in your debt. I merely doubt the possibility. However, if you are asking for my permission to try, you have it, on condition you say or do nothing to upset her or hurt her.”

  “I agree, of course,” Caroline said at once. “Which is why I was asking for some clue as to the circumstances. I don’t wish to say anything to upset her, or subject her to any hurtful influence.”

  “If I knew the circumstances, I would tell you. As I said, I was away at the time. Neither my wife nor the servants could elucidate.”

  “The servants here were with her at the time?”

  He nodded. “Except for Williams. And the cook.”

  Of course, Williams, as his valet, would have been with him, wherever he was.

  Caroline nodded thoughtfully and rose to her feet. “Thank you,” she said, walking away.

  Civilly, he rose with her. On impulse, realizing it must have seemed an abrupt departure, she glanced back over her shoulder. He was watching her, his eyes alight with amusement and something vaguely predatory that reminded her of last night’s encounter at her bedchamber door.

  Chapter Four

  The following evening, while Mr. Benedict sat with Rosa in her chamber, Caroline took a candle and went to the library. She went partly to find a new book to read, and partly to avoid the strange bated breath with which she seemed to await Mr. Benedict’s departure from his daughter’s room. Shut up in the library, she would not hear his uneven footsteps or imagine his hand raised to knock at her door.

  She found the library, a rather dusty room with a large and ancient fireplace, in total darkness. By the light of her own candle, she discovered others and lit them from hers. She carried one with her as she prowled along the book-lined walls, examining titles and occasionally kneeling on the floor with a book to look further.

  Overall, it was a motley collection, with nothing about plants that she could discover, so she doubted they were Benedict’s books. It must have belonged to the house’s owners, the tragic Gardyn family whose last heir had vanished as a child. Most people believed she was dead, but without proof, the estate was apparently kept in trust for her by distant family.