The Governess Club: Bonnie (7 page)

Stephen didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. He pulled out the much-creased letter he always carried in his coat’s inner pocket. “Darrow wrote me less than a week before his death. I didn’t receive it until two weeks after. Read this paragraph.” He pointed.

Bonnie scanned the contents and then had to read it again. “So when Lady Darrow—”

Stephen stopped her there. “Don’t. Do not start analyzing every incident. There is no way to tell what was intentional or not. I was extremely lucky with the bridge.”

Bonnie looked down at the letter again. “And he asked for your help?”

“Yes. We knew each other for nearly twenty years.”

“Yet I hadn’t met you before two weeks ago.”

He shifted uncomfortably but remained silent. After a moment, he stood and offered her his hand. Bonnie took it, noting the calluses and the warmth. When she stood, her loosened gown gaped open and she had to clutch it from falling off.

Stephen stared. He couldn’t help it. If he was any sort of gentleman, he would divert his eyes and give her a chance to right herself. But he couldn’t stop staring. Her gown had shifted enough to reveal the swell of her bosom and edge of her cotton shift.

Dear God, and he had thought fantasizing about her ankles was provocative. Now he had an image of her exposed breasts that would linger when he closed his eyes at night. The creamy mounds glowed in the candlelight and he thought he could see the edge of dusk-colored areolas. Sweet Mary and Joseph, the urge to press his face in her cleavage rose up with a near violent need, to learn the scent of her, to taste her breasts and pillow his head on them as he slept.

“Could you retie my laces, please?”

Her soft voice jerked Stephen back to attention. In his distraction, Miss Hodges had turned her back to him and was waiting patiently for him to fix what he had undone. He swallowed against the tightness in his throat and reached for her laces; he had to flex his fingers to stop trembling.

“Who else knows about this?” Miss Hodges asked when she was able to face him again.

Stephen moved to the door but did not open it. He forced his eyes to stay on her face. “No one.”

Her brows raised. “No one? Not Mr. Renard?”

“No. Darrow said he did not know who to trust. I see no reason to trust a man I do not know.”

She paused in front of him, completely unaware of his struggle to keep his eyes above her chin. “Yet, you trust me,” she said softly. “Should I be honored?”

He tilted his head and placed his hand on the doorknob. “You have proven yourself.”

A faint blush covered her cheeks and she smiled to his chest. Stephen opened the door for her. “Thank you,” she said. “Good night.” She dropped a curtsey and was gone, leaving Stephen alone with visions in his head and a lingering scent of sweetness in the air.

S
everal days later, Bonnie and Arthur entered the house in a fit of giggles from the race they were having. “Oh no, you don’t,” Bonnie cried, scooping up the boy. “You’re not going to win. I will get to the stairs first.”

Arthur shrieked and struggled in her arms until Bonnie pretended to drop him, giving him the lead again. She followed in a flurry of skirts and gasps, their rapid footsteps resounding in the manor’s large foyer. A footman caught off guard had to scamper out of the way; Burdis gracefully raised the tray of glasses over their heads and continued on as though nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Arthur reached the stairs by one stride ahead of Bonnie. She picked him up again and collapsed on the stairs, tickling him until he was gasping for breath. “How dare you beat me?” Bonnie teased, her fingers eliciting more giggles from him. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to let ladies win, you silly boy!”

Arthur sat up, wrapped his arms around her neck, and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek. He pulled away and gave her a broad grin. Bonnie smiled back at him. “Oh you, sir, are going to be a charmer when you grow up, aren’t you?”

“Miss Hodges, do you need some help?”

“Hm?” Bonnie glanced up to see Alfred, a footman who had been at Darrowgate for several years. “Excuse me?”

“Do you need help?” Alfred repeated. “With Master Arthur, miss. I can take him upstairs while you put yourself to rights.”

Alfred. A good footman, efficient and solicitous. A quiet man. Silent to the point of reticence. He had been working with her for four years and Bonnie couldn’t even say if he was originally from the area.

Send Arthur with him? Absolutely not.

Bonnie smiled and got to her feet, ensuring Arthur did the same. “No thank you, Alfred. We are fine. Do you know if Mrs. Dabbs sent up tea to the nursery yet?”

“I believe so, miss.”

“Excellent.” Bonnie took Arthur’s hand. “Let’s head up there and sneak a bit before Henry and Sir Stephen come, shall we Arthur?” He shared a conspiratorial smile with her and followed Bonnie up the stairs.

Good heavens, she hoped Sir Stephen would clean up this mess quickly. It was exhausting being so suspicious of everyone. All the time. Exhausting. Yes, it needed repeating, even in the privacy of her mind.

“Are you hungry?” she asked Arthur as she helped him take off his coat and hat. The late October day, even with the sun shining as it was, still had called for warmer clothes. She took her own cloak off and hung it up in the nursery closet. Arthur made a dash for the tea tray. “Oh no, young man, stop right there.”

Arthur stopped and looked at her.

Bonnie arched her brows. “Are you supposed to leave your coat and hat on the floor?”

With a dramatic sigh, Arthur turned back and stomped slowly to where he had dropped them. Bonnie nodded with approval and made her way to the tea tray. “Mmm, biscuits.”

S
tephen watched as Henry once again correctly put a saddle on Harold. “Excellent work, Henry.”

“Thank you sir. I won’t mistake it again.”

Stephen smiled. “Start taking it off now,” he instructed. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you will never fall again. Accidents happen. They can make you a better rider, if you choose to learn from them.” He moved to lift the saddle off of Harold; Henry’s shoulder was still too pained to do heavy lifting.

“I believe Miss Hodges will be holding tea for us,” Stephen said.

Henry smiled. “You don’t know her very well. If Mrs. Dabbs has put biscuits on the tray, it would take an armed guard to keep her from them.”

“Then let’s go keep her from eating them all.”

They entered the manor and left their coats with Alfred. They were halfway up the main stairs when an unholy wailing reverberated through the walls, halting them in their steps.

“That’s Arthur,” Henry said, worry in his face and voice.

Stephen sprinted up the stairs, leaving Henry to follow. What could have happened? And where was Miss Hodges and why wasn’t she quieting Arthur?

Stephen burst through the open nursery door. He immediately saw the tea tray set up on the table, but what caught his attention was Miss Hodges on the floor, clutching her middle and moaning, tears flowing down her face. Arthur sat beside her, continuing his horrible howl, his face wet.

There was a half-eaten biscuit on the floor beside her.

Stephen didn’t hesitate. He knelt down beside her. “Miss Hodges,” he said over the noise. “Miss Hodges!”

“It hurts so much,” she moaned.

“Where?”

“My stomach.”

“Right, you’re not going to like me for this. Henry, get the chamber pot.” The boy rushed to do so and Stephen pulled her onto her knees, supporting her around the waist. With his free hand, he forced open her mouth and stuck his fingers in to the back of her throat.

She choked and gagged; Stephen felt it around his fingers. When her throat convulsed, he bent her over so she could be sick into the pot. Arthur howled even louder.

Stephen repeated the process.

Henry looked sick himself. “Disgusting!” he exclaimed.

Stephen shot him a look. “Take care of Arthur. Quiet him.”

“Yes sir. Is she going to be sick again?”

“No, please,” she begged.

“We must.” He put action to words and held her as once more she emptied the contents of her stomach..

“Enough,” she pleaded. “There’s nothing left.”

“That’s the point,” he replied. He supported her as Miss Hodges slumped against him, drained of energy.

Miss Hodges weakly raised her head and looked at him. Her bonny hazel eyes were a mixture of pain and misery. It tore his insides. “The boys . . .” she whispered.

“Are fine,” he replied.

Relief momentarily dispelled the pain and misery before her eyelids fluttered. Her eyes rolled back into her head and her head slumped against his shoulder as she fell unconscious.

Stephen held her close and eyed the biscuit on the floor. He glanced back at the door where several maids and footmen stood watching. “Clean this up,” he instructed the servants. While they were distracted with following his orders, he scooped up the biscuit from the floor and snatched two more from the plate and pocketed them.

He stood, taking Miss Hodges with him and lifted her into his arms. He strode out of the nursery, holding her limp body close.

S
he had regained consciousness briefly but was sleeping now. The doctor had said she was going to be fine. He had wanted to bleed the poison from her, but Stephen had been adamant, so the compromise was laudanum to help her sleep.

Stephen squinted against the sun reflecting off the lake. A few ducks remained, having grown fat and used to being fed by the members of the household. He tossed some more crumbs onto the water, waiting for them to stop resisting temptation.

Henry and Arthur were with her, once again refusing to leave her side. Newly hired servants were whispering of leaving, according to Renard. The air of distrust was growing, the more superstitious muttering of curses.

Stephen had interrogated Mrs. Dabbs. Renard had been in the kitchen when he arrived, holding the middle-aged woman as she cried, kissing her on the forehead in unmistakable intimate comfort.

Renard had refused to leave. “We were keeping it quiet, sir,” he said. “I see no point in doing so now. Mrs. Dabbs and I have been stepping out for some months now. We intend to marry.”

“I will save my good wishes for a more appropriate time,” Stephen replied.

“Sylvester—Mr. Renard was with me while I was making the biscuits.” Her eyes swam with tears. “I swear I didn’t do anything to them. I baked them just as the masters like. I would never harm them.”

Renard had confirmed that. “I didn’t see her or anyone put anything unusual in the biscuits.”

Stephen threw more crumbs on the water, the ducks losing their initial shyness and enjoying the food.

Questioning the maid who carried the tray had resulted in nothing as well. All Stephen had was another crying female on his hands and no information.

Stephen watched the ducks eat. One began to cough, followed by the others. Some tried to fly, to escape what they sensed as danger, but could not get off the water. Sounds he had never heard before came from their convulsing bodies. The whole process took less than two minutes before the first duck died. He remained dispassionate as the rest succumbed. There was no doubt in his mind.

Poison.

B
onnie grimaced. Every bone in her body ached. Her eyelids were heavy, her mouth bitter and dry like it was full of cotton and she couldn’t move her left arm and hip. She could hear breathing. Was it hers? No, there were several types of breaths.

She tried to open her eyes. All she saw was darkness in that brief moment. Had she gone blind? No, another attempt to open her eyes caught the faint light of a nearly depleted candle.

She tried to sit up, but still couldn’t move her left side. Bonnie finally managed to keep her eyes open and shifted her head to look down. The movement sent shards of lightning through her head and she let out a moan.

There was movement to the side of the bed. “Miss Hodges?” The deep voice came to her.

“I can’t move my left side,” she whispered.

“That would be Arthur weighin’ you down.” The Scottish accent was more pronounced than usual.

“My mouth is fuzzy.”

“Have some water.” His large hand slipped behind her head, his warm, calloused fingers cradling it gently and brought a glass to her lips. She winced at the movement but relished the clean feeling in her mouth. She drank more, feeling more refreshed with every swallow.

“Better?” he asked.

Bonnie nodded. “Henry?”

“In the trundle bed. He’s asleep.”

“How are they?”

He sighed. “Upset. But fine.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t recall?” Bonnie shook her head. “The biscuit you ate had been poisoned. Several of them, if not the entire batch. Mrs. Dabbs has rid the kitchen of all her baking supplies as a precaution.”

God help her, she almost died. Again. She squeezed her eyes shut, but couldn’t stop the tears. They leaked out and streaked down her cheeks, leaving hot, heavy trails.

“Och, dinna cry, lass.” His thumbs brushed away the tears.

She couldn’t help it. It had always been a failing of hers to laugh at inappropriate moments. The giggles bubbled up and escaped with her helpless to do anything to stop them.

“Now lass, I promise ye, I will find this bastard and see tha’ he niver hurts ye or the bairns agin.”

His speech made her laugh even harder.

“Lass, are ye well?”

Bonnie waved her hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry,” she gasped.

“Och lass, niver apologize fer bein’ scarrit. ’Taint a weakness.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then wha’ ’tis it? I’ll do whate’er ye ask of me.”

She gained control of herself and looked at him. He looked tired and haggard, dark whiskers shadowing his jawline. His dark hair, usually well kept, was scattered and mussed, falling over his brow and around his ears. Bonnie’s fingers ached to run through his hair, to learn the texture of it.

She smiled at him. “Did you know that your accent becomes more obvious when you’re upset?”