Nina Coombs Pykare (4 page)

“The earl spoke of Lady Catherine’s sister,” she said, wishing to change the subject and divert her thoughts from this painful truth. “Does she live at the castle, too?”

“Ah yes. The frosty Leonore.”

She cast the viscount a puzzled look. “Frosty? I don’t understand.”

“Lady Leonore was the reigning beauty of her Season,” the viscount explained, “the chill blonde kind of beauty. No fire, you see. Though plenty of ice. For some reason she turned down every offer of marriage, there were many, of course, and finally chose to come to this godforsaken place with her sister.” He sighed affectedly. “She has little use for me, I’m afraid. My guess is that she’s after bigger fish. Though I must say that in London I have no trouble with the fair sex. One and all they appreciate my charm.”

He smiled as though endeavoring to convince Edwina, an unnecessary effort since she’d recognized him for a rake the moment she laid eyes on him. He sighed affectedly again. “But then there’s no accounting for the taste of women, is there?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, milord. I have little knowledge of ladies and their ways.” She was careful to keep from smiling back at him. The viscount was charming, all right, far too charming. She’d have to keep him at a distance. That was the only safe way to proceed.

She was still trying to think how this might best be accomplished, when the carriage drew up to the front of the castle. “I expect you’re anxious to meet your charges,” the viscount said cheerfully. “So run along in. I’ll have your valise sent round to your room. Smithers’ll will do it.”

So the valet would have to fetch the governess’s valise after all. Edwina stifled a smile. “That’s most kind of you, milord,” she said. “So was the ride.”

The viscount patted her hand, a familiarity that did not bode well for the future. “Run along now and tuck the little ones in,” he said. “We dine late at the castle. His lordship has no care one way or the other, but Lady Leonore and I still prefer the fashionable hour. We’ll meet again at dinner.”

Dinner. The word had a pleasant sound, a very pleasant sound. “Yes, milord.” She accepted his help down the steps and made her way into the castle through the door that Wiggins stood holding for her. True to his word, he’d been waiting to let her in.

“I see you be finding the viscount,” he said, giving her a smile and nodding to the viscount behind her.

“Yes, Wiggins. He came upon me on the road and offered me a ride to the castle.”

A sudden prickling of the hair on the back of her neck made her turn. In the shadows down near the library door, stood the earl. It was too dark there for her to see his face, but she had the definite impression that he was watching her, listening to their conversation. She had no idea why that should make her uneasy, should make her stomach want to flutter. Maybe it was just because it was empty. That must be it.

She turned to the viscount again. “Thank you for the ride, milord. I appreciate it.”

The viscount shrugged. “It was entirely my pleasure, I assure you.”

She nodded and turned to Wiggins. “I should like to be shown to the nursery now.”

Wiggins scratched his pate. “Aye, miss. It be up the stairs, to the right, at the very end of the hall. Mrs. Simpson’ll have the girls abed by now, I ‘spect.”

She turned to Wiggins. “The viscount said he’d have his valet bring up my valise. I’ll see to my things later. After I’ve been to the children.”

“Yes, miss.”

She looked again down the hall. But the earl was nowhere in sight.

* * * *

Inside the library, Charles sank back into his chair by the hearth. Forming a steeple with his hands, he stared through it into the flames. That new governess had proved most disturbing. After he sent her to find Wiggins, he didn’t expect to think of her again, but her face kept intruding into his thoughts. Until finally he’d summoned Wiggins to find out if she was settled in, hoping then to forget about her, to get her out of his mind.

But Wiggins told him she was gone, walking back to the village to get her valise, and Charles cursed. The old butler’s bald pate turned pinker than usual, and Charles dismissed him with a curt, ‘That’ll be all.’

Still, getting rid of Wiggins hadn’t erased the image of that determined girl struggling along the muddy road with a heavy valise. So Charles had still been unable to get her out of his mind. He cursed again, louder. He didn’t like having his thoughts disturbed like this. Since Catherine’s death he’d paid only the barest attention to the duties of running the estate or caring about those around him. He preferred to spend his time thinking of Catherine and their lost love.

Sometimes whole minutes went by in which he felt she was still alive, that any minute she would come hurrying through the door, her sweet face alight with love, her voice full of laughter.

But not once that afternoon had he been able to lose himself in the joys of the past. Instead he waited, ears on the alert for the sound of the safe return of a young woman who meant nothing to him. The moment he heard sounds in the hall, he couldn’t resist moving to the door, going out to see for himself that she was indeed, really back safe.

There she stood, the front of her gown spotted with mud, her faded straw bonnet drooping over one eye, thanking Crawford for the ride back to the castle. Good, she hadn’t had to walk the whole way to the village and back. But for some reason, he wished it had been someone else, not Crawford, who’d picked her up. Oh well, she was back, and safe. Now he could forget about her.

* * * *

At the top of the stairs, Edwina turned right. At last she would get to see her charges. As she hurried along, her damp muddied cloak flapping around her ankles, she took off her soggy straw bonnet and swung it by the tying scarf. Her clothes were a mess, but they would have to wait.

She pushed open the nursery door. The room was dimly lit, too dimly. She’d have to order more candles. Maybe it was the gloom, but the very air seemed charged with sadness.

Simpson turned from the bed. “Here she be now,” she said. “Here be Miss Pierce, your new governess.”

“Good evening, girls.” Edwina advanced to the bed where two pale faces stared at her from beneath white nightcaps. “You must be Henrietta,” she said to the larger girl, smiling down at them. “And you’re Constance.”

The younger girl broke into a hesitant smile, but the older one’s blank expression didn’t change. Still, Edwina kept on smiling. She was new to them, that was all. “It’s all right, girls. I know it’s your bedtime. You go to sleep now and in the morning we’ll get better acquainted.”

“Are you really going to stay?” Constance asked curiously. “The others didn’t. They ran away.”

“I am not going to leave,” Edwina said firmly. “I am going to be here for a long time. You may be quite sure of it.”

“You mean you aren’t afraid of our mama?” the little one asked.

“Of course not,” Edwina replied. “Now go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The little girl seemed quite satisfied with Edwina’s answers and snuggled down under the covers, but Henrietta remained in the same position, staring fixedly at nothing.

“Good night, Henrietta,” Edwina said, and, signaling Simpson to follow, she left the room.

Outside the door, she faced the old housekeeper. “What was Constance talking about in there? Why should I be afraid of Lady Catherine? The woman is dead.”

Simpson cackled. “Maybe so, miss. But they do say she come back. A ghost, she be. They say there’s those as hears her calling, or sees her walking along the parapet at night. Her all dressed in white. Just floating along.”

“Nonsense,” Edwina replied crisply. She had enough problems in this place, without worrying about the supernatural. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Simpson rolled her eyes heavenward. “Very well, miss. But I collect that don’t matter none to no ghost. You believe er not believe, it don’t matter. Iffen she want to haunt you, she will.” And having delivered these words of wisdom, Simpson nodded again and shuffled away, mumbling under her breath.

Edwina moved on down the hall, past the door to the schoolroom, to the door that led to the chamber that was to be her own. With a sigh, she pushed it open. She was bone weary and the last thing she wanted to think about was ghosts. Dinner was more important now. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really had enough to eat. Even the thought of food made her stomach growl in eager anticipation.

She was going to eat, really eat. Maybe the viscount had been fooling her, teasing her about this, but she meant to take him at his word and appear at the dinner table as though she were expected there. All they could do was send her to the kitchen to eat with the staff.

She dropped her cloak and straw bonnet on a chair and crossed to the cheval glass. Tucking some stray wisps of hair into her chignon, she sighed. She wouldn’t be cutting much of a figure at dinner. This gown, a pale blue muslin all bespotted with mud, was, or at least had been, her very best. Of course, it didn’t matter what she wore. She was a governess, not some reigning beauty. She brushed what mud she could from her gown, washed her face and hands, and made her way downstairs to dinner.

Chapter Four

Inside the library, Charles sank back into his chair by the hearth. Forming a steeple with his hands, he stared through it into the flames. That new governess had proved most disturbing. After he sent her to find Wiggins, he didn’t expect to think of her again, but her face kept intruding into his thoughts. Until finally he’d summoned Wiggins to find out if she was settled in, hoping then to forget about her, to get her out of his mind.

But Wiggins told him she was gone, walking back to the village to get her valise, and Charles cursed. The old butler’s bald pate turned pinker than usual, and Charles dismissed him with a curt, ‘That’ll be all.’

Still, getting rid of Wiggins hadn’t erased the image of that determined girl struggling along the muddy road with a heavy valise. So Charles had still been unable to get her out of his mind. He cursed again, louder. He didn’t like having his thoughts disturbed like this. Since Catherine’s death he’d paid only the barest attention to the duties of running the estate or caring about those around him. He preferred to spend his time thinking of Catherine and their lost love.

Sometimes whole minutes went by in which he felt she was still alive, that any minute she would come hurrying through the door, her sweet face alight with love, her voice full of laughter.

But not once that afternoon had he been able to lose himself in the joys of the past. Instead he waited, ears on the alert for the sound of the safe return of a young woman who meant nothing to him. And the moment he heard sounds in the hall, he couldn’t resist moving to the door, going out to see for himself that she was indeed, really back safe.

And there she stood, the front of her gown spotted with mud, her faded straw bonnet drooping over one eye, thanking Crawford for the ride back to the castle. Good, she hadn’t had to walk the whole way to the village and back. But for some reason, he wished it had been someone else, not Crawford, who’d picked her up. Oh well, she was back, and safe. Now he could forget about her.

* * * *

At the top of the stairs, Edwina turned right. At last she would get to see her charges. As she hurried along, her damp muddied cloak flapping around her ankles, she took off her soggy straw bonnet and swung it by the tying scarf. Her clothes were a mess, but they would have to wait.

She pushed open the nursery door. The room was dimly lit, too dimly. She’d have to order more candles. Maybe it was the gloom, but the very air seemed charged with sadness.

Simpson turned from the bed. “Here she be now,” she said. “Here be Miss Pierce, your new governess.”

“Good evening, girls.” Edwina advanced to the bed where two pale faces stared at her from beneath white nightcaps. “You must be Henrietta,” she said to the larger girl, smiling down at them. “And you’re Constance.”

The younger girl broke into a hesitant smile, but the older one’s blank expression didn’t change. Still, Edwina kept on smiling. She was new to them, that was all. “It’s all right, girls. I know it’s your bedtime. You go to sleep now and in the morning we’ll get better acquainted.”

“Are you really going to stay?” Constance asked curiously. “The others didn’t. They ran away.”

“I am not going to leave,” Edwina said firmly. “I am going to be here for a long time. You may be quite sure of it.”

“You mean you aren’t afraid of our mama?” the little one asked.

“Of course not,” Edwina replied. “Now go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The little girl seemed quite satisfied with Edwina’s answers and snuggled down under the covers, but Henrietta remained in the same position, staring fixedly at nothing.

“Good night, Henrietta,” Edwina said, and signaling Simpson to follow, she left the room.

Outside the door, she faced the old housekeeper. “What was Constance talking about in there? Why should I be afraid of Lady Catherine? The woman is dead.”

Simpson cackled. “Maybe so, miss. But they do say she come back. A ghost, she be. They say there’s those as hears her calling—or sees her walking along the parapet at night. Her all dressed in white. Just floating along.”

“Nonsense,” Edwina replied crisply. She had enough problems in this place, without worrying about the supernatural. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Simpson rolled her eyes heavenward. “Very well, miss. But I collect that don’t matter none to no ghost. You believe er not believe, it don’t matter. Iffen she want to haunt you, she will.” And having delivered these words of wisdom, Simpson nodded again and shuffled away, mumbling under her breath.

Edwina moved on down the hall, past the door to the schoolroom, to the door that led to the chamber that was to be her own. With a sigh, she pushed it open. She was bone weary and the last thing she wanted to think about was ghosts. Dinner was more important now. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really had enough to eat. Even the thought of food made her stomach growl in eager anticipation.