Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8)

by Lancaster, Mary

  The man who sat opposite her and controlled her future might have been better dressed and groomed than on that first encounter, but he still seemed alarmingly harsh. And large, in a way that had less to do with his height than the force of his sheer presence. His hard, grey eyes pierced hers, searching. She wondered if he were recalling her insolence only a few weeks ago.

  “What did you fall out about?” he asked abruptly, taking her by surprise once more. “You and Lady Braithwaite.”

  She blinked. “I’m not sure that’s your concern, sir.”

  “I am sure it is. If you are to care for my daughter, I need to know why you were dismissed.”

  “Perhaps I chose to leave,” she snapped back.

  “Did you?”

  She dragged her gaze free of the sudden mockery in his. “No.” She took a deep breath. “Lady Braithwaite misunderstood a…passage between his lordship and myself and imagined I was insolent enough to…set my cap at him.”

  “Were you?” he drawled.

  She stared at him indignantly. “I am not foolish enough!” she retorted. “My living depends on my spotless reputation.”

  “This is an odd place to come to keep your reputation—er—spotless.”

  “Beggars,” she pointed out, “cannot be choosers.”

  It was hardly the most conciliatory response she could have made. Mr. Benedict however, appeared more amused than annoyed. “Is that what you are? A beggar?”

  She tilted her chin. “I need a paying position.”

  He sat back, thrusting his hand into his pocket. “Was it a difficult position? With the Braithwaite girls?”

  “No. It was a good position and I was happy there.”

  His eyes searched hers again. “Were you?” he said deliberately.

  “I believe I said so.”

  Again, instead of being offended by her haughtiness, he appeared to be entertained. Certainly, his lips twitched.

  “This will not be an easy position,” he observed.

  Involuntarily, her gaze strayed to the shattered plate still on the floor by the door.

  His breath caught. “That, however, is a rare drama, for which I apologize. Teaching Rosa would be your main challenge.”

  “I am used to teaching girls of all ages.”

  His gaze held hers. “You may have noticed Rosa has…special demands.”

  “All children do,” she returned.

  “Most of them, however, speak.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened. “She does not speak? She is mute?”

  “For the last two years.”

  “Then she was not born mute? She is not deaf, is she?”

  “No, she hears and understands everything. The doctors believe she can speak. She simply chooses not to.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “A nervous disorder, they tell me. What will you do if you don’t take up this post?”

  It was an odd way to phrase it. Was he allowing her a pretense of choice? Or reminding her that she had none? He was the one who currently held her fate in his hands. His gaze, direct and penetrating, disconcerted her.

  “I shall look for another position,” she said calmly.

  “From where?” he asked at once.

  She stared back at him. “From wherever I choose. Please don’t feel obliged to give me this position, sir. I am not destitute and I do have friends.”

  “I am pleased for you,” he returned. “Though I’ve no idea why you should consider me so benevolent. I’m merely trying to work out if Braithwaite has done me a favor or dumped an annoyance upon me.”

  Since his words left her speechless, the sudden return of Rosa was a relief. She ran into the room at high speed, the wolfhound Caroline remembered close on her heels. They both ran around the table until it was impossible to tell who was chasing whom. And then the dog leapt on the girl, bringing her down so suddenly that Caroline was alarmed, afraid she’d misjudged the dog’s good nature on their last encounter.

  Since Mr. Benedict didn’t move, Caroline half rose from her chair to intervene. The dog had pinned the child to the floor and was enthusiastically licking her face while she hugged him and tried to push him off at once. Her whole face was alight with silent laughter.

  Over the animal’s head, Rosa’s merry eyes met Caroline’s, and she couldn’t help smiling back. It was clearly an old and well-established game. She relaxed back into her chair and glanced at Benedict, who’s attention was all focused on her. His thoughts were entirely masked. Whatever the test had been, she suspected she’d failed. She wondered if he’d lend her a conveyance of some kind to Carlisle, from where she could buy a seat on the mail coach to Edinburgh…

  He muttered something below his breath. It sounded like, “I’m going to regret this.” Then his gaze shifted to Rosa. “Show Miss Grey to her chamber, Rosa.”

  Without meaning to, Caroline smiled—partly with relief and partly because in spite of herself, the child intrigued her. “Thank you.”

  He rose abruptly. “Don’t thank me yet. You and Rosa may see if you suit.” And with that, he simply walked out of the room.

  *

  Rosa proved to be even more of an enigma than she’d imagined. Although in many ways she seemed younger than her ten years, she was clearly quick-witted and intelligent, always understanding Caroline’s murmured jokes and occasionally sardonic asides. And while she didn’t speak, her face was very expressive, and she supplemented that with her own sign language and with writing things down.

  She wrote quickly and clearly and could calculate quite complicated sums. Not that Caroline confined her to lessons that first afternoon. But they took tea together in the school room, and Caroline used the opportunity to discover a little of what her charge could and couldn’t do in the way of formal learning. For the rest of the afternoon, Rosa showed her around the house—which was not huge, but which contained a rather beautiful drawing room, a large library, and a study. The study’s closed door was not breached, and Rosa gave her to understand that Mr. Benedict was working in there.

  “What work does he do?” Caroline asked casually.

  Rosa made a ring with her finger and forefinger and raised it to her eye before making hasty writing motions with one hand on the other. From which Caroline guessed she meant he studied things under a glass and wrote about them. She didn’t feel much wiser.

  When the rain went off, Rosa took her hand and tugged her to the side door, where several coats and cloaks—including her own—hung on hooks.

  “You wish to go for a walk?” Caroline guessed. Personally, she had had enough of walking for one day, but she was loathe to disappoint her new pupil. “Do you have stout boots to wear? The ground will be very muddy.”

  But Rosa was already climbing into a sturdy pair of walking boots. As Caroline reached for her cloak and bonnet, the wolfhound careened around the corner and lolloped toward them, barking.

  “Should we take him?” Caroline asked doubtfully.

  “I’m afraid he will insist upon it,” replied a dry male voice.

  Caroline spun around to face Mr. Benedict, who strolled up to them wearing an open overcoat and a battered wide-brimmed hat. Without surprise, Rosa ran to seize his hand. The afternoon walk, clearly, was a regular occurrence. Caroline wondered if her presence was required or wanted.

  “Heel, Tiny,” Mr. Benedict commanded.

  “Tiny?” Caroline repeated breathlessly as the dog scampered to obey.

  “Well, he was once,” Mr. Benedict said and opened the door, bowing her out with only a hint of irony.

  Laughter bubbled up in her throat as she followed Rosa outside. “Tiny” bounded ahead, Rosa racing after him into the wild undergrowth encroaching over the paths. A few moments later, they bolted out again. Seizing her father and Caroline by the hands, Rosa tugged until they accompanied her back the way she’d come.

  To Caroline’s surprise, the stern-looking Mr. Benedict seemed neither surprised nor annoyed to be dragged through untamed grass a
nd thorns. Rosa crouched down and pulled back a tangle of wild rose branches to reveal a single small flower. She turned up her face and smiled at her father and then at Caroline.

  “Well, that’s quite a discovery,” Mr. Benedict said warmly. “How is it surviving in there without any sun?”

  Rosa grinned and jumped up to run on in search of the dog.

  “So,” Mr. Benedict said as they fought their way back to the path. “How peaceful do you find the environs of Haven Hall?”

  It was the first indication he’d given that he remembered her, and she couldn’t help flushing with embarrassment.

  “Acceptably so,” she replied as calmly as she could. Forcing herself, she met his sardonic gaze. “We have met before today. I didn’t think you remembered.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t count since no one introduced us.”

  “If I was rude, I apologize,” she blurted. “I didn’t realize it was your land, and you gave me a fright.”

  “Oh, it’s not my land. I only rent the house. For what it’s worth, I don’t recall your rudeness, and would be unlikely to dismiss you for it if I did. How do you find your pupil?”

  Caroline blinked at the change of subject. “I find her very bright and thoughtful and knowledgeable for one so young. Clearly, she has been well taught.”

  “Now and again,” Mr. Benedict said with a faint curl of his lips. “What of you, Miss Grey? How did you receive your learning?”

  “From my own governess,” she replied honestly. “Until I was twelve years old and pursued my own studies.”

  “Why?”

  “I was lamentably bookish.”

  “How fortunate, but as you very well know, I was prying. What happened when you were twelve years old?”

  “My father died, leaving us…if not quite destitute, then at least in genteel poverty,” she replied frankly. “A governess was no longer an affordable expense.”

  “And now you governess for others. What of the rest of your family?”

  “My mother lives quietly in the Scottish Borders with my widowed sister and nephew.”

  “And you are their sole support?”

  “Not sole, but my earnings are necessary, yes.”

  “Then I hope Braithwaite paid you better than most governesses.”

  “He did,” she replied calmly.

  Rosa, who’d been rushing ahead, ran back with sheer exuberance to skip along beside them, examining interestingly colored leaves she’d swept up on the way. She showed her favorites to her father and to Caroline. Again, Caroline was surprised by how much attention the saturnine Mr. Benedict gave to her childish interests. Whatever the reasons behind Rosa’s refusal to speak, they didn’t appear to include parental neglect.

  Since the daylight was fading, their walk was not long, and they all piled back into the house with Tiny, who shook mud all over them and then wagged his tail.

  “I’ll see you at dinner,” Mr. Benedict said in his abrupt way, giving his daughter’s hair a careless ruffle as he strode away.

  “Mr. Benedict,” Caroline called, hurrying after him as she untied the ribbons of her bonnet. He paused, glancing back at her. “Rosa dines with you?” she asked.

  He nodded curtly.

  “Where should I dine?” she asked. It was a thorny problem in many households, where the governess was neither servant nor guest. In the Braithwaites’ establishments, she had always eaten with her pupils, whether that was in the schoolroom or the formal dining room, but every family had its own preferences.

  “With Rosa,” he said in surprise. “And me.”

  For some reason, her stomach tightened. It wasn’t displeasure or even fear, for he intrigued her, and she wanted to know more about him as well as Rosa. He didn’t wait for her acceptance, merely limped off into the bowels of the house.

  *

  Since she made Rosa put on a clean dress for dinner—a demand that appeared to surprise Rosa but which she obeyed—Caroline changed her own mud-splashed, workaday garment for her Sunday gown, the only other she possessed. This was a slightly newer but equally drab brown dress. It wasn’t precisely evening wear, but she doubted Mr. Benedict was a stickler for etiquette. She did wonder about the lady who’d thrown the cake at him. But when she and Rosa entered the dining room, the table was set only for three.

  Rosa obviously noticed, for when her father arrived, she went and looked at him in silent question.

  “Marjorie isn’t dining with us tonight,” he said briskly. “You may go and see her after dinner.”

  Although the food was surprisingly good—thanks no doubt to the cook who had once worked at Braithwaite Castle—it was rather an odd meal. Since Rosa didn’t speak, and Mr. Benedict appeared to be silent by nature, Caroline didn’t feel she should be the one to break the silence. Rosa did smile at her encouragingly a couple of times, so she smiled back and continued eating her soup.

  The soup was eventually removed and a dish of chicken brought in. As she helped herself to vegetables, Caroline was aware of Rosa nudging her father and staring at him significantly.

  He picked up his knife and fork. “My daughter wishes me to make conversation, so that you don’t desert us for some more civilized family. Ouch,” he added with amusement as Rosa clearly kicked him under the table.

  “I’m happy to converse on any subject you wish,” Caroline replied, refusing to be put out. “Although, I have never been in favor of simply filling silence with noise if one has nothing to say.”

  “You see?” Mr. Benedict said to Rosa. “Miss Grey is clearly a lady of superior understanding. On the other hand, Rosa and I are both curious, so I hope you won’t consider it mere noise when I ask you about your life.”

  She met his gaze. “Sadly, I have nothing to say. My life has been largely too dull for conversation.”

  “But you give us hope in the word largely. When has your life not been dull?”

  “I did not say it was dull to me,” she retorted. “But it would most certainly be so to you and Rosa.”

  “I think you must allow Rosa and me to judge for ourselves. I know you have a sister. Do you have other siblings?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “In a country vicarage in Yorkshire.”

  His eyebrows flew up. “You are a vicar’s daughter?”

  She inclined her head. “The fact does not usually elicit so much…astonishment.”

  “I am adjusting my preconceived ideas,” he said obscurely. He chased his food around his plate for a little bit. Then, just as she shot him a surreptitious glance, he looked up. “So, were you good children, as a vicar’s should be? Or naughty like Rosa?”

  Rosa grinned at both her father and Caroline. Caroline couldn’t help smiling back.

  “I’m sure we were both,” she replied lightly. “Perhaps it’s my mother you should consult on the subject.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  Her gaze flew back to his, and he set down his fork. “Interesting. You don’t like that idea at all.”

  “I have never had an employer interview my mother before,” she retorted.

  “It would be outrageous, wouldn’t it? You must learn to tell when I’m jesting.”

  Caroline pronged her chicken with unnecessary force. “Must I?”

  “For your own peace of mind. What of your sister? Is she a governess, too?”

  “No. She has a child.”

  “And no means of support but you?”

  Caroline flushed. “Sir, my sister is not your concern.”

  “But she is yours. I find that does concern me.”

  “Why?”

  His glass froze in midair. A short bark of laughter escaped him before he raised the wine the rest of the way to his lips and drank. “Good question,” he allowed, setting the glass down again and pushing once more at his food. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Miss Grey?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. She swallowed. “I apologize for my rudene
ss.”

  “Oh, don’t spoil it,” he mocked. “You weren’t rude. And if you were, I am impervious to such things. Eat up.”

  It was advice he would have been better taking than giving. Caroline’s plate was almost cleared, Rosa’s all but polished, while Mr. Benedict’s remained nearly untouched. She recalled his soup plate had been removed still half full and he seemed disinclined to eat more than the couple of forkfuls he’d already taken of the chicken.

  She raised her eyes to his face. “Are you quite well, sir?”

  “Quite.” His fingers curled around the stem of his glass, his expression unchanging.

  It was Rosa who looked suddenly anxious, her large, scared eyes fixed on her father’s face. Caroline’s question had inspired that fear.

  “Rosa, did you not get any dinner?” Caroline tried a teasing note. “There’s hardly any left for you now.”

  Rosa gave a distracted smile, while Caroline ladled the last of the chicken on to her plate. “Eat up,” she said cheerfully. “Will there be pastry now?”

  That attracted a more enthusiastic nod.

  “What kind?” Caroline asked.

  While Rosa tried to sign the answers, Caroline was aware of Mr. Benedict’s gaze on her, but she refused to look to see if it was with disapproval or otherwise. However, by the time the servant brought the pastries, Mr. Benedict’s plate was not quite so full. As if he’d made an effort, at least to stop his daughter worrying—or to prevent the governess from blurting unhelpful remarks.

  Rosa set about her pastry with enthusiasm, and indeed it was delicious. The fact that her father took none did not appear to upset her. Presumably, he rarely did. Instead, he picked at some cheese and, having finished the wine, poured himself a glass of port.

  Rosa swallowed the last of her pastry. Catching her father’s gaze, she pointed upward in a hopeful manner.

  “Go and see Marjorie, then,” he said. “I’ll be up in a little to make sure you go to bed.”

  Rosa bounced to her feet and held out her hand invitingly to Caroline, who laid down her napkin.

  “No, Marjorie would prefer you alone,” Mr. Benedict said. “Besides, I wish to talk to Miss Grey.”