Lady Midnight (15 page)

Michael was taken aback by the sudden question. Spirits? Did he? He sometimes fancied he sensed Caroline close to him, watching him with her golden sweetness. And when he was a lad, he had loved listening to tales of haunts in the night, restless, ancient ghosts dragging chains down palace corridors. But now, honestly... "No. I don't."

One of Mrs. Brown's dark brows arched in question, like a raven's wing. "Do you not? I once thought I didn't, either. I was too educated for that, too sophisticated. There is something here, though, something we cannot see, but it's all around us." She looked away again, to the fields, and it was as if she weren't there at all, but in her own realm. "There were strange things in Venice, too, to be sure. They were different from this. This is even older. And not—not..." Her voice trailed off into nothingness.

Michael was mesmerized. It was as if she were a sorceress of some kind, as if she could hold up her hands and raise spirits from the very earth and water. And she took him with her into her strange world, the world she summoned with her voice and her hair, her perfume, with the very essence of whoever she was. If she touched him, surely he would follow her anywhere.

He remembered an old play then, lines from Shakespeare he had thought long forgotten. They echoed in his mind, like a whisper from a vanished life.

For you are called plain Kate,

And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;

But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom;

Kate of Kate-Hall, my superdainty Kate

Kate of my consolation

Kate of my consolation.

She turned her head to stare at him, her face suddenly closed with a fresh wariness, the sorceress gone, vanished into the moor mists. He feared for a second that he had said the poetic words aloud, and she would fly from him like a startled bird.

But that was not it. The words were still only in his head, his heart. "You must think me mad, Mr. Lindley," she said, with a nervous little laugh. Her hands folded at her waist, the gloved fingers twisted together. "I promise you I am not usually so fanciful. I will not be teaching about leprechauns and water nymphs in the schoolroom."

Michael longed to put his hand on her arm, to settle her and reassure her that he did
not
think her mad. Or if she was, then he was, too, for his wild imaginings of sorceresses and Shakespeare. But his sister and the men were nearby, so he gave her only a smile and not the touch, the embrace, he longed for. "It is this land, Mrs. Brown. You are right—there are things here we cannot see. It makes even the most sensible among us fanciful at times."

Her stiff shoulders eased a tiny bit, but she did not smile again. "You are very kind, Mr. Lindley. And understanding."

Michael shrugged. "I have lived in Yorkshire for many years now, Mrs. Brown. It is an—unusual place. A healing one."

"Healing?" Her forehead puckered in a small frown. "Have you found it so?"

"Indeed I have. I was greatly in need of healing when we came here, and the moors gave that to me. I hope that they will to you, as well."

She looked as if she wanted to say something else, to question his presumptuous words, but Christina called out to them.

"It is nearly teatime, Michael," his sister said, skipping back to his side. "We should be getting back to Thorn Hill."

Mrs. Brown turned to Christina and smiled at her. The smile for his sister was free of any reserve or caution; it was open and friendly. He wished she would smile at him so. "It will surely take us hours to walk back, Lady Christina!" she said lightly. "I am not sure my poor boots could stand it."

"I will drive you both back to Thorn Hill in the cart," Michael said. He moved away from Mrs. Brown, striding to the vehicle to catch up his coat and neckcloth. "I fear it will be a rather rough ride, Mrs. Brown, but it will be faster than walking and easier on your lovely boots."

She glanced uncertainly at the wall. "Oh, Mr. Lindley, but your work..."

"It is very nearly done, and I'm sure the others need to get home to their own tea. Is that not so, Mr. Herrick?"

"Aye, indeed, Mr. Lindley," Mr. Herrick answered affably. "Mrs. Herrick will have my skin if I miss her fresh seedcake again."

"In that case, I accept the ride gratefully, Mr. Lindley," Mrs. Brown said.

"I would rather walk!" Christina protested. "I saw a new growth of strange ferns back there I should examine closely."

"Later, my sister naturalist," Michael told her. "Mother will have a fit if you miss tea, especially after fleeing from Lady Ross's visit. Besides, Mrs. Brown and I need a chaperone." He winked at Mrs. Brown, and earned a small smile and a soft laugh for his teasing.

They were more precious than rubies. Or sapphires as big as a thumbnail.

Christina gave a snort of disappointment, but she let him lift her up onto the wagon seat. Once she was settled, Mrs. Brown reached her hand out to him and he helped her up next to Christina. She still smelled of roses, but also of the clean moor wind and fresh heather. Her boots were scuffed and the hem of her pelisse was snagged, but there was no denying the happy pink color of her cheeks.

"Ah, Mrs. Brown," he said. "We shall make a countrywoman of you yet."

Her laughter sounded surprised, pleased. "Do you really think so, Mr. Lindley? I pray you are right. I have a great deal of work to do to catch up to your prodigious walker of a sister."

"You kept up with me very well, Mrs. Brown," Christina said. "Next time, I will show you some of the herbs that grow wild here in Yorkshire."

"I will look forward to it," answered Mrs. Brown.

Michael pulled himself up onto the seat next to Christina and gathered the reins, turning the sturdy farm horses toward home. "What have I told you about bullying Mrs. Brown, Christina?"

"Indeed, I am not bullying anyone, Michael!" Christina protested, leaning against his arm. "She
wants
to know about the plants—she just said so. Did you not, Mrs. Brown?"

"I did," Mrs. Brown agreed serenely.

"You see?" Christina said. "And she has been telling me today about London. Mother always makes it sound like such a dull place, full of nothing but modistes and fripperies. Yet I am sure the museums must be splendid! Mrs. Brown said..."

Christina went on chatting about London, while Mrs. Brown watched the landscape jolt past with that same quiet half smile on her lips. She was a sensible, calm governess once again, all thoughts of ancient spirits apparently abandoned.

But Michael could not help but long for the sorceress.

Chapter 8

"'Je pars, nous partons, tu pars, vous partez, il part, ils partent. Partir
is 'to leave.'"

"Very good, Amelia.
C'est bon
," Kate said as the child's soft voice paused hesitantly on the unfamiliar words. "Your accent is quite Parisian. Go on—tell me
sortir."

Amelia gave her a shy, quick smile, then bent her little golden head back over her books. "
Sortir
is 'to go out'...."

Kate turned back to staring out the schoolroom window, tapping her fingers to the wooden sill in time to the murmured words. In truth, she had nearly dozed off for a moment. It was warm in the room, with the sunlight from the windows and a small fire in the grate, and her stomach was pleasantly full of an excellent luncheon of venison pie. Amelia's sweet voice was a quiet, rhythmic murmur as she practiced her French verbs.

Christina sat in the corner, silent for the moment, reading a book on Court etiquette. They had spent that morning, before luncheon and the arrival of Amelia, practicing proper curtsies.

"Oh, blast!" Christina had cursed in a most unladylike fashion when she wobbled and fell on her bottom for the third time. "Why must I curtsy so low anyway? It's ridiculous!"

Kate held out a hand to help Christina up, trying not to laugh. She had to remain the stern taskmaster. "Because whoever is presiding over the royal Drawing Room when you come out will expect it. And remember—you will be wearing a train and a headdress with heavy plumes, so it will be even more difficult than it is now. So come, try again. Hold your back leg still, like this. And don't say
blast."

And so the curtsying went on, along with graceful hand movements and head gestures, until they both collapsed in famished gratitude at the luncheon table. Kate smiled now to think of the farce of it all, though really it was no laughing matter. Lady Christina was the daughter of an important family, and her behavior during her debut Season reflected on that family as well as on herself. Christina had an independent, stubborn spirit, but surely even she could see that. And she
did
try—Kate knew that. Her curtsies were becoming smoother, and didn't always lead to falls. Christina would just have to learn to erase those fierce expressions on her face as she lowered herself to the ground.

Just as Kate had to learn to mind her words. Her fingers curled into a fist on the windowsill. She had been a fool to voice her fancies to Mr. Lindley yesterday, her musings on the unseen spirits of Yorkshire. Her dreaminess always got her into trouble—it must be all the poetry she read. Once, as a child, she told her nursemaid she believed water nymphs lived in the canals, flitting about causing mischief. The nurse, a sensible Neapolitan woman, just pulled at Kate's hair as she brushed it, and clucked disapprovingly.

"Now, how could a nymph live in such dirty, smelly water?" she said reasonably, quashing Kate's fancies.

But they never went away entirely, and here in Yorkshire she felt them stronger than ever. She should
never
so forget herself as to voice those airy, poetic notions to Mr. Lindley, though! He would think a woman given to notions of moor spirits and water nymphs unfit to teach his sister and daughter, to lead them through a complex society, full of pitfalls for unwary ladies.

She sensed that he was a kind man, not one to be rigid and unforgiving with his family or servants. He joked with the farmers, was tactful with his mother and sister and affectionate with his daughter, and always treated Kate with nothing less than respect. Yet she knew that he was a man with responsibilities, and he took them very seriously. He could never want a
flighty
governess, one who dwelled on spirits and legends of drowned lake cities.

As for a daughter of a whore, an almost whore herself—if he found out the sordid truth of her past, she would find herself out of Thorn Hill on the hour. Unemployed, disgraced. Never to see Michael Lindley again, to bask, even for brief moments, in the light of his smile, the rich, dark sound of his voice. She would be out in the chilly darkness again, when she had only just found a warm, safe nest.

Kate turned away from the window into the schoolroom scene laid before her. Christina was still bent over her book of etiquette, her face set in stubborn consternation. Court manners were obviously far more complex to grasp than the Latin nomenclature of her beloved plants. Amelia murmured her French verbs. The dusty sunlight cast a glow over the child's bright curls, making them shimmer as if alive. Her white pinafore was smudged with ink, but her pink muslin frock was immaculate. The smell of ink and parchment, and sugar from their luncheon pudding, hung richly in the warm air. It was a quiet, cozy scene, replete with domesticity and safety. Kate had never known anything like it before, and its sheer ordinariness was precious beyond price.

Surely she could hold her secrets a little longer. She would never again speak of spirits with Mr. Lindley, or anyone else. It would be just between her and the moors.

"Is this right, Mrs. Brown?" Amelia asked, her soft voice full of concern.
"Je sors, nous sortons, tu sors, vous sortez, il sort, ils sortent."

"Tres bien, mademoiselle,"
Kate answered, returning to sit beside the child and examine her copybook. "You catch on very quickly indeed."

"The language is almost like music, Mrs. Brown," Amelia answered. "I can see it in my head, like notes."

Kate waited a moment to see if Amelia would go on with this intriguing line of reason, but it was obvious Amelia had said all she wanted to. Amelia smoothed the pages of her book, her small fingers careful. "Your father will be so proud."

Amelia glanced up with a hopeful smile. "Do you think so, Mrs. Brown?"

"Of course."

Christina was distracted from her own studies, and examined them over the top of her book. "Your papa is always proud of you, Amelia, no matter what you do."