Lady Midnight (5 page)

Michael laughed. "Oho, does she now? Even though Miss Emmeline, at the tender age of seventeen, has already broken three betrothals?"

"It is not so bad as all that...." Christina gave in with a giggle. "Oh, very well,
not
Emmeline Ross. But there are many pretty ladies in the neighborhood. Not all of them are silly jilts. I know you say you will not marry again...."

"Precisely. No lady would want a crusty widower, all set in his ways."

"Pah! You like to pretend you are ancient, when you are but thirty." Her words were stout, but her pretty face spoke of her fifteen-year-old conviction that thirty was surely near death. "You are handsome and rich. You have a fine house and a finer sister. And Mother says Amelia needs a mama."

Michael's grin faded.
That
was an argument it was becoming harder to dismiss. Amelia was getting older. She would soon be seven, and she needed a lady's influence—a lady with more energy than her grandmother and who was not a young aunt who would marry and leave their household. "Soon she'll have a governess. This Mrs. Brown."

"Oh, yes. Mrs. Brown." Christina's face took on that stubborn cast. She stepped away from him, fists planted on her hips. As she opened her mouth, Michael held up his hand to stop her predictable words.

"I know," he said firmly. "You don't want a governess."

Christina shook her head. "I just want to continue my own studies in botany," she said strongly. "That's all I care about. I'm making such progress!"

Michael remembered the rows of plants and dirt samples lined up in Christina's chamber, the bunches of herbs drying on racks. They covered up the dainty dressing table and escritoire their mother purchased for her, and unusual smells were always escaping beneath the door.

Much to their mother's everlasting chagrin.

"I realize that, Tina. Of course I do," he answered. "But how do you know that Mrs. Brown knows nothing of botany? She could be of a very scientific turn of mind."

Christina opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again. Obviously, this was something she hadn't thought of. "Really? Hm. Maybe she would know of Italian plants I haven't heard of."

"You'll never know if you don't give her a chance," he said cajolingly. "Come, Tina. She will be here at Thorn Hill anyway. You could just give her the
opportunity
to help you. If you don't like her—well, then we can discuss it further."

Christina considered this, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth. Finally, she nodded. "Very well. I will talk to this Mrs. Brown when she arrives and determine if she has a brain in her head."

"That is all I ask. Now you should run along and change your gown. Mother will be waiting for you to go to the church with her, and I have work to do."

Christina groaned. "The church! With Mother and Lady Ross. Oh, don't remind me!" She spun around and hurried to the door, her hair already springing free of the confining ribbon. But she turned back before leaving, her brow furrowed in sudden worry. "Michael, if your leg is truly paining you, perhaps you shouldn't ride out today."

Michael gave her a reassuring smile. "I'm fine. Don't worry, Tina. All is well here."

"I
do
try not to worry. But—well, sometimes I just cannot help it! Be careful today."

"And you. The petals of the lilies at church can be quite dangerous when threatened, I hear."

"So I understand. But not half as dangerous as the staring eyes of the curate!"

Chapter 2

You wanted to be as far from Venice as you could get. Well, here you are. The ends of the world,
Katerina, now called Kate, thought, leaning forward to peer through the post chaise window.

From her chamber in her mother's palazzo, Kate had been able to see the wide space of the canal, crowded with gondolas and people, rich with laughter, shouts, chatter, and the teeming, sweet-sick smell of the water. She could see close-packed houses of pastel pinks and yellows and oranges, with window boxes planted with brilliant red geraniums. Even the view from the tiny room she had inhabited in London was full of life, street vendors hawking roasted almonds and hot cider, people arguing and shouting, children and dogs running about.

Here, at the end of the world, she saw—gray. Gray sky, a pale pearl hanging low and menacing over a gray landscape. Kate had never seen such a landscape before, never even imagined it. It rolled endlessly to either side of the road, a rough expanse of a strange greenish gray. There were very few trees, especially after the rich vegetation of the south. It appeared flat, but as Kate peered closer she saw the texture of scrubby growth. In the distance, shrouded in a fog of yet more gray, loomed menacing hills.

The moor.
That was what the lady at the agency had called this place. "It's a lonely spot, no doubt about it," she had said as she studied the paper listing Kate's scant qualifications. "This has been a difficult position to fill, even though the family is willing to pay a very generous salary. If you're certain you want the place, Mrs. Brown, you must go and see what you can make of it."

Kate's coins were few by then, and even a tiny room and a diet of bread and tea cost something. She had found no luck thus far in her search for employment—she had no letters of reference. And long afternoons of sitting alone in her meager lodgings, reading and studying, would get her nowhere.

So that was how she found herself in this jolting post chaise, barreling down a lonely, empty road. She was alone now—all the other passengers had disembarked at Leeds. Alone with the gray and her thoughts.

Thoughts of how this windswept place would be a perfect spot to hide in.

And of how she was becoming rather gray herself. Kate laughed as she peered down at her attire. Her new gown and pelisse were pale gray, much like the sky, and constructed of sturdy, unadorned lightweight wool. Her paisley shawl and plain bonnet were dark blue trimmed with gray ribbons, but her kid gloves were the prettiest of sunset pinks. She had not entirely abandoned her old self on that beach. Surely a kernel of Katerina Bruni still lurked under the gray wool, peeking out in those gloves.

Kate leaned back against the hard seat and opened her secondhand leather valise to find the agency's letter. It was tucked inside the pages of a book of poetry, and had been read so many times the edges were worn. Kate knew all the words neatly scripted there, but she still wanted to see it. The letter reassured her that she was not just adrift on this sea of a moor—she truly had a destination.

Thorn Hill, the estate of Mr. Michael Lindley, near the village of Suddley. A country gentleman, the younger brother of an earl, in need of a governess for his sister and daughter, girls of fifteen and six years of age respectively. Kate wondered what this Mr. Lindley would be like. He was a widower, just as she ostensibly was a widow. The letter didn't say his age, but he could not be
very
old, not with such a small daughter.

Kate had not known many "country gentlemen," not English ones anyway. Her late admirer, Sir Julian Kirkwood, had sometimes told her about his English estates, but she had the distinct sense he had rarely visited them, preferring London and the Continent. The same for her mother's Edward, the grand Duke of Salton, who had enjoyed the sensual joys of Venice—and Lucrezia Bruni—over English landowner duties.

It seemed this Mr. Lindley lived on his property all year around. A sudden rush of cold doubt assailed her, making her stomach queasy. How would she ever fit into such a household? She with her strange Italian ways, her, er,
colorful
past. But she had to try. Try her very hardest. This was her chance for an entirely new life, for getting to know her true self.

Her thoughts were rudely interrupted by a sharp jolt of the post chaise. The driver shouted out hoarsely, and the vehicle tilted precipitously, sending Kate slamming into its hard wall. She screamed at a sharp stab of pain in her shoulder, and her bonnet tilted over her eyes, blinding her.

For an instant, in the sudden darkness, she remembered the pitching yacht throwing her into the cold water, her mother slipping away from her. She took a deep gulp of air against the hot rush of tears. "San Marco!" she cried, pushing back her bonnet and struggling to sit up. She caught at the leather strap to pull herself against the tilt of the coach. Her shoulder throbbed, and she rubbed at it tentatively. It didn't seem to be broken or dislocated, luckily. But her valise was overturned, all her meager possessions scattered about.

As she reached down to gather up her books, her clothes and hairbrush and miraculously unbroken bottle of rose water, she heard the coachman's voice.

"Miss!" he called. "Are you all right in there?"

Kate stuffed her nightdress into the valise and snapped it shut, hugging it against her. "I'm fine! What has happened?"

The door was wrenched open, and hands reached in to lift her out. Once her shaking feet felt solid earth again, she spun around to survey the wreck. One of the coach's wheels was lodged in a ditch, dug deep in the mud.

"One of those blasted sheep ran out in the road!" The driver was practically spitting with the force of his ire. He swept his battered hat off his head and used it to point at the flock of dingy white woolly creatures grazing atop a hillock. "Spooked the horses like, and made them run off into the ditch."

Kate glanced uncertainly at the sheep. They regarded her with placid dark eyes, as if they were innocents who could never have caused such havoc in all their blameless days. She was very glad they were at a safe distance—she had never been around farm animals in Venice, and wasn't at all sure they could be trusted. "What can we do?" she asked the driver.

"Eh, well, not much we
can
do, miss. It won't be moved. I'll have to ride into the village and fetch help." Even as he spoke, he stepped up to the team of horses and began to unhitch one.

Kate watched him, confused. And, she had to admit, a little frightened. "Am I to stay here alone, then?" she cried, bitter panic welling up in her throat.
Alone.
Such a horrid word.

"Not for long, miss. Suddley is only a few miles off. I'll be back in a trice. Or you could ride one of the other horses. 'Twould have to be bareback, though." The man swept her a long, lascivious glance as if he pictured her naked legs already.

That expression was like cold water on her panic, and she stepped back, giving him her iciest glare. She worked so hard at appearing to be a respectable lady! If this rough post chaise driver could begin to see through her charade, surely everyone else could, too.

Then her new life would be over before it began.

This fear had plagued her ever since she arrived on English shores. But now she had a more practical worry, as well.

"I have never ridden a horse," she said.

The lascivious look turned immediately to one of shock. "What, never?"

She shook her head. All her life, water had carried her everywhere she needed to go. There was no need of big, smelly,
scary
horses.

"Oh. That
is
a pity. You won't get far around here without horses." The man swung himself up onto the fearsome beast's broad back and turned back onto the road. "Never fear, though, miss! I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

Kate could hardly believe that this man, rude as he was, would actually leave her here
alone!
She watched in utter astonishment as he galloped off down the lane, waving his hat at her in farewell.

"But wait!" she cried, that freezing panic coming back over her. Her words were snatched away by the wind.

The coachman turned a corner on the road and was gone. Kate was completely alone. Alone—except for the sheep. And the horses.

Clutching her heavy valise against her like a lifeline, Kate gave the clustered sheep a wary glance. They completely ignored her, just went on chewing up the turf. Somewhat reassured, she made her way up the slope of a little hillock and sat down on a large, flat rock to wait. She placed the valise carefully at her feet.

To wait for
what
here? She was not sure. A sheep attack? A rainstorm? The earth to cave in?

Well, she decided, as long as she was waiting for catastrophe, she might as well take stock of her surroundings.

It
was
a lonely country, no doubt about that. There was no sign of life as far as the horizons stretched, and no sound save the faint tinkling of the sheep's bells and the constant whistling of the wind. Never in her life had she felt so alone, not even when she woke up on that beach to find her old life swept away. Yet there was a beauty to this land, too, which she had never known before. She had thought it all gray, but that wasn't true. There was also green, and yellow, white, pale pink, blackest black. It all undulated like a velvety patchwork counterpane in that wind, an entire world unto itself.