Nina Coombs Pykare (7 page)

In the girls’ room a small fire had been left burning on the hearth and in its glow she could just make out the shapes of the furniture. She hurried to their bed, fumbled to light the candle on the bedside table, and pulled aside the curtains.

Constance sat bolt upright in the bed, clutching the covers to her chest, eyes wide in her frightened face. But she was silent. The screams were coming from Henrietta who lay, eyes closed, tossing from side to side, and still screaming.

Edwina leaned over to grab her by the shoulders. “Henrietta! Wake up!”

The child didn’t respond and she repeated, “Henrietta! Wake up! You’re all right now.”

Finally Henrietta opened her eyes. When she saw Edwina, she burst into tears. Edwina gathered the child in her arms, holding her shaking body close. “There now, Henrietta. Don’t cry. It’s all right. It was only a bad dream.”

Sobbing too hard to speak, Henrietta shook her head. She sobbed a little longer. And when she calmed down enough to talk, she said, “No! No! It wasn’t a dream. I saw Mama.”

Edwina kept her expression calm. Henrietta needed reassurance. “You were sleeping, dear. You had a bad dream. That’s all it was.”

Stubbornly the child shook her head. “No. It wasn’t a dream. I tell you—I saw Mama. She was wearing her white robe and she kept calling me. She said she wanted me to come to her. But she wouldn’t tell me where I was to go.”

Edwina smoothed the hair back from the child’s tear-stained face. “Now, Henrietta. We often dream of those we love. Especially just after they’re gone.”

Henrietta pulled away, her eyes looking bruised and agonized, and stared into Edwina’s face. “No. I tell you I saw Mama.”

Constance scrambled from under the covers, her trembling arms encircling Edwina’s waist. “I’m scared,” Constance whimpered. “Why did Henrietta scream like that? She scared me.”

Henrietta wiped at her cheeks. “Mama was calling me, but I couldn’t get to her. I tried, but something kept stopping me. That’s when I screamed. I wanted to go, to be with her.”

Edwina patted Henrietta’s arm. “In this dream where did your Mama want you to come?”

Henrietta seemed puzzled. “I don’t know. She just kept calling me.”

“I see.” Edwina forced herself to remain calm. She was determined to manage this. “Well, as I said, we often dream about those we love.”

“But it was so real,” Henrietta cried, tears standing in her eyes. “She kept calling to me. And I couldn’t go.”

“Dreams are like that,” Edwina explained. “We’ll talk about it again. For now you must go back to sleep. We have a great deal to do tomorrow.”

Constance obediently returned to her place under the covers and Edwina helped Henrietta lie back down. Then, she patted her shoulder and stood up. “I shall be in my room and the doors are open, so I can hear if you call. Go to sleep now. Think of the pleasant times we shall have together, the three of us.”

“Could we have an outing?” Constance asked, her little face lighting with anticipation. “By the sea? We used to go there.”

Edwina nodded. “Yes, that sounds like a fine idea. I’ll speak to your father about it.”

In an instant the sparkle left the child’s eyes and her face fell into sorrowful lines. “Then we won’t get to go. Papa is angry with us. He’ll say we can’t go. I know he will. He’s so angry with us.”

“What makes you believe he’s angry with you?” Edwina asked in surprise. The earl hadn’t said anything about being angry when they talked. But then he really hadn’t told her much about the girls. Evidently he hadn’t thought much about them.

“He won’t see us,” Constance replied with childish simplicity. “He never comes to the nursery or plays with us like he used to. He and Mama used to ...” Her small face contorted as she tried not to give way to tears.

“Don’t worry about it,” Edwina said. “Perhaps I can persuade him to change his mind.”

Henrietta looked dubious, but Constance actually smiled. “Oh, really?” she cried. “Oh, Miss Pierce, that would be so wonderful.”

“But now you must sleep. Goodnight, girls.”

“Goodnight, Miss Pierce.”

Edwina made her way back through the darkness to her room, conscious of a rising tide of anger. What the earl was doing to his daughters was unspeakable. He probably didn’t even know or care that the girls held themselves to blame.

But she knew, she knew the pain of being ignored by a father. She knew the hurt. Her father hadn’t loved her, not the least little bit. He’d had space in his life only for the pursuit of a title. When she was no use to him in achieving that, he ignored her. She had survived his unloving treatment, but these girls were not going to suffer as she had. Not as long as she was here to do something about it. The earl was going to live up to his responsibilities as a father or she would know the reasons why!

There were no more sounds from the nursery, though she lay awake long into the night, unable to sleep, while she pondered ways and means to help these poor girls. The first thing she had to do was bring the earl back into their daily routine. He’d simply have to do his duty as a father. Other men had lost beloved wives. Other men had then gone on taking care of their children, loving them and letting them know it. They had not ignored their responsibilities to wallow in grief.

She had no trouble coming to this conclusion. It was not visions of Henrietta’s ghostly mama walking the parapets that kept Edwina uneasy in her bed for so long. After all, children had susceptible imaginations. Living in this castle one could easily be driven to such imaginings. Look at Lady Catherine herself. Edwina frowned. She didn’t like to think on the possibility that the mother’s nervous affliction might have been passed on to her elder daughter.

But the matter that engaged most of Edwina’s thoughts and kept her awake for long hours was how to get the earl to see his daughters again. She had already remonstrated with him on the subject, and to no avail. She was, after all, an employee in the castle, and one he hadn’t even desired to hire. He could dismiss her at any time, and with a single word.

Lady Leonore would like to get rid of her, that much Edwina knew for certain. The viscount, though he might be sorry to lose someone upon whom to practice his manly charms, would probably not raise a finger to help her. No, she must tread quite carefully in this matter, quite carefully indeed. If she didn’t, she would soon find herself beyond the castle walls, without a position, and once again facing the specter of starvation.

Still, she felt a deep sense of responsibility to these children. She had known a mother’s love, she knew how precious it could be. She was determined that the earl’s daughters should not be denied the love that was every child’s right. They didn’t have their mother, but they would have their governess. And their father. She would see to it that they had their father.

Finally, toward dawn, she fell into a restless slumber.

* * * *

It seemed that Edwina had hardly shut her eyes when Simpson’s knock on the door roused her. “I’m awake,” she called, her voice groggy. “We’ll have breakfast in the schoolroom as soon as it’s ready.”

“Yes, miss.” Simpson’s harsh voice held a note of resignation. What was so hard about breakfast? Then Edwina realized, Simpson had only Wiggins to help her.

“Mrs. Simpson?” Edwina swung out of bed and went to open the door.

Halfway down the hall, the housekeeper turned and looked back. “Yes, miss? You be wanting something more?”

“I have changed my mind. We’ll eat in the breakfast room this morning.”

Simpson shook her gray head. “Can’t, miss. It be shut up. Tighter ‘n tight.”

“Then in the dining hall.”

Simpson stared, her eyes wide. “The dining hall? But

miss ...”

“Have you any help in the kitchen?” Edwina asked. “Anyone but Wiggins to help you carry?”

“No, miss. No one in the kitchen ‘cepting Cook. She don’t do no serving. Ain’t no one as’ll work here now. Lady Leonore’s dresser be an old woman, not afeared of no curse. Cook neither. But no girls from the village’ll come near.”

Edwina nodded. Matters were just as she’d suspected. “Then there’s no point in you having to carry our breakfast all the way up to the nursery. It’s much easier for us to come down.”

Simpson made a face. “That do be nice of you, miss, but hisself ain’t gonna like it. Not one little bit. He give his orders, you know. The children is to eat in the nursery.”

Edwina smiled. “That’s my problem, Simpson. I’ll attend to it.”

Simpson’s expression said plainly that she didn’t believe this new governess could handle his lordship, but the old woman kept silent and shuffled off, shaking her head.

As the housekeeper disappeared down the hall, Edwina’s smile faded. She’d put a good face on it for Simpson, but she wasn’t as confident as she pretended. Still, the problem must be solved. It was far better to do difficult things immediately rather than to put them off. If life had taught her nothing else, it had taught her that.

She turned back into her room, to her battered valise. She’d been too tired last night even to hang up her few gowns. But there was little point in worrying about such things now. She took out the first gown she came to, a dark thing of brown sarcenet, much patched and mended. She shook it out and laid it on the bed. She hung up the rest, put away her few personal belongings, washed, combed her hair back into its chignon, and slipped the brown gown over her head.

Briskly she moved off toward the girls’ room. On their first day together there were many things to be done. She wanted to get to know the girls well, to discover what each of them liked, how each of them thought. She intended to give them a better, happier life than the one they were having. That was the one thing she was certain of.

“Good morning,” she said, making her voice cheerful. “We must not waste any time getting dressed this morning. Mrs. Simpson will soon have breakfast ready for us in the dining hall.”

“In the dining hall?” Constance’s pale face lit with enthusiasm. “You mean we’re going downstairs?”

“Yes,” Edwina said. “Our legs are much younger than hers. So we shall do the walking instead of requiring it of her.”

Constance threw back the covers and began to search through her wardrobe for clothes. But Henrietta remained in bed. “We do not go downstairs,” she said, almost defiantly.

Edwina stopped halfway to help Constance. “How else can you get outside then?”

“We do not go downstairs.” Henrietta said in a dull monotone. “We do not go outside.”

but hisself ain’t gonna like it. Not one little bit. He give his orders, you know. The children is to eat in the nursery.”

Edwina smiled. “That’s my problem, Simpson. I’ll attend to it.”

Simpson’s expression said plainly that she didn’t believe this new governess could handle his lordship, but the old woman kept silent and shuffled off, shaking her head.

As the housekeeper disappeared down the hall, Edwina’s smile faded. She’d put a good face on it for Simpson, but she wasn’t as confident as she pretended. Still, the problem must be solved. And it was better to do difficult things immediately than to put them off. If life had taught her nothing else, it had taught her that.

She turned back into her room, to her battered valise. She’d been too tired last night even to hang up her few gowns. But there was little point in worrying about such things now. She took out the first gown she came to--a dark thing of brown sarcenet, much patched and mended. She shook it out and laid it on the bed. She hung up the rest, put away her few personal belongings, washed, combed her hair back into its chignon, and slipped the brown gown over her head.

Briskly she moved off toward the girls’ room. On their first day together there were many things to be done. She wanted to get to know the girls well, to discover what each of them liked, how each of them thought. She intended to give them a better, happier life. That was the one thing she was certain of.

“Good morning,” she said, making her voice cheerful. “We must not waste any time getting dressed this morning. Mrs. Simpson will soon have breakfast ready for us in the dining hall.”

“In the dining hall?” Constance’s pale face lit with enthusiasm. “You mean we’re going downstairs?”

“Yes,” Edwina said. “Our legs are much younger than hers. So we shall do the walking instead of requiring it of her.”

Constance threw back the covers and began to search through her wardrobe for clothes. But Henrietta remained in bed. “We do not go downstairs,” she said.

Edwina stopped halfway to help Constance. “How else can you get outside then?”

“We do not go downstairs,” Henrietta said in a dull monotone. “We do not go outside.”

Chapter Eight

Hardly able to believe her ears, Edwina stared at the somber-faced child. “You mean to say you never go downstairs?”

Her face still wooden, Henrietta nodded. “That’s right.”

“But why not?”

“Aunt Leonore said we should not. She said it’s too painful for Papa to see us.”

Too painful! Again Edwina felt a rush of anger. What was being done to these children was wicked! It was a wonder they hadn’t already sickened and died. Why, they were no better than prisoners in this gloomy old castle.

She drew herself up. “From now on we will breakfast in the dining hall. After breakfast we’ll go for a walk outside.”

“Outside!” Constance paused with a stocking half on and looked up at Edwina in wonder. “Really, Miss Pierce? We’ll go outside?”

“Yes.” Edwina made her tone firm. Cold and distracted as the earl was, she couldn’t imagine that he meant to impose such rigorous restrictions as these on his children. This sounded like something Lady Leonore would suggest—to keep them out of her way. The earl was lost in grief, perhaps he hadn’t thought about what he was doing. Surely he hadn’t thought about it.

“Henrietta, come on,” Constance cried, hurrying into her clothes. “Don’t be so slow! I want to go! Just think about it! Outside!”

Henrietta shook her head, her face stern. “I don’t think we should.”

Edwina nodded. “Very well, Henrietta. If you wish to go without your meals, that’s your concern. Constance and I intend to go downstairs and eat our breakfasts.”