An Unlikely Governess Page 3

  Her plans made, she dismissed her visitor with the single-mindedness of the starving. For long moments he seemed content to watch her eat, neither saying anything or moving so her entire concentration was on what she consumed.

  Never had a meal tasted as good. Nor had she ever been as grateful for anything in her life.

  “My son says you came to Castle Crannoch looking for employment.”

  She glanced at him.

  “Yes.”

  “In what capacity, if I may ask?”

  “Anything. I’m a hard worker. What I don’t know, I can learn. I’m diligent, and focused.”

  He held up his hand as if to halt her recitation of virtues.

  “You’ve met my nephew, have you not?”

  “I have.”

  “From your expression, I can only imagine you found him ill-mannered and rude.”

  She remained silent.

  “He is a singularly unlikable child, and it is my duty to rear him after the death of his parents.” He glanced down at his covered legs. “The same accident, you see, managed to alter the lives of more than one person.”

  “I think he would benefit from a tutor,” she said. There, a tactful way of stating the obvious. Perhaps if the tutor also had a small whip, that would even further benefit the Duke of Brechin.

  “I have employed three tutors so far. None of them have stayed more than a month. He has tormented them in some fashion, left a frog in one’s bed, told tales on another, and threatened the third with a bow and arrow, I believe, a present from my son. I can’t decide if the world is becoming a softer place, or if I simply had the misfortune to employ three very frightened young men.”

  She stared at him, wondering why he was telling her this.

  “I am in need of someone to instill some discipline into the brat. A governess, if you will. You, Miss Sinclair, are obviously in need of a livelihood.”

  “What makes you think I could do a better job than three tutors?”

  He ignored her question. “In return, I will offer you a very handsome salary, to be paid in advance per quarter, a generous allowance for new books and the like for our young duke, and as much food as you choose to consume. I do warn you, however, there are numerous stairs at Castle Crannoch. If you begin to waddle, it will be difficult for you to master them.”

  Was he jesting? He must be, because he was smiling at her. But as far as becoming the Duke of Brechin’s governess, that was a ludicrous idea. She stared down at the tray. Perhaps even more unbelievable was the idea of returning to the cottage with no money, no food, and no prospects, and expecting to survive the winter.

  She sat back against the pillow. “You have not asked my qualifications, sir.”

  “Your speech indicates you have been educated, Miss Sinclair. You have the manners of a gentlewoman, even as hungry as you are. You know about the king, and speak of your father’s correspondence. You have come down late in the world, I suspect.”

  She nodded, biting back the temptation to tell him of the past three months. Burdens shared do not necessarily become burdens lightened.

  “You also speak French.”

  She looked at him, surprised.

  “Gaston relayed as much to me. Robert has a penchant for speaking in nothing but French from time to time, as if to incessantly remind me his mother was French. Neither my wife nor I speak it. Gaston does, but it is problematic to have a servant attend dinner for the sole purpose of translation.”

  “Doesn’t your son speak French?”

  “My son does not live here.”

  Why was she disappointed? She’d been in Devlen Gordon’s company for less than an hour, not enough time to acquire any feelings about the man at all.

  “Well, Miss Sinclair?”

  She looked at the tray, at the piece of toast remaining in her hand, and thought of the long trek down the winding road, then five miles more to her cottage.

  “I have none of my belongings with me.”

  “Gaston will drive you where you need to go.”

  She took the last bite of toast and savored it as completely as she had the first.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll take the position.”

  Governess to a hellion. Still, it was a better life than the one she’d lived all these many months. That’s what she told herself as Cameron Gordon smiled, then wheeled himself out the door.

  Chapter 4

  The family dining room faced east, and the view was of the sea in the distance now radiantly gold as the sun rose in the sky. As usual, his father sat at the head of the table, facing the view as if he commanded the land and all within it. As Robert’s guardian, he did.

  As always when he came to Castle Crannoch, Devlen marveled that generations of his family had coveted the place. This part of Scotland was a wild, open land harkening back to a time when they’d all painted themselves blue and fought the Romans. For some reason, there had always been strife among the Gordons for control of this castle, this acreage. Only during the last century had they become civilized, saving warfare for conflicts outside the family. Yet in the last generation, envy had risen again, to divide brother from brother.

  As stark and arresting as Castle Crannoch was, Devlen preferred the civilization of Edinburgh, Paris, or London. He had homes and business interests in all three and could immerse himself in the activities of his businesses, or find some way of amusing himself. Not like his visits to the castle.

  Devlen had rarely been to Castle Crannoch before his uncle’s death. As a child he’d visited once when he was ten and due to be shipped off to school. His uncle hadn’t married yet, and had given the impression of being a confirmed bachelor, a fact that had no doubt pleased his father. Little did Cameron know that ten years later, his brother would surprise everyone by marrying a young French countess who obviously adored her much older husband.

  “There have always been men of adventure in the Gordon clan,” his uncle had said on that day nearly twenty years ago. “What will you do with your life, Devlen?”

  “I will be a wealthy man. I will own ships and buildings and shops. I’ll be able to buy anything I want and never have to go away to school again if I don’t wish.”

  His uncle had laughed. “I hope you do, my boy, I hope you do. The Gordon family could always use rich men.”

  Devlen had gone back to school, but he’d also acquired both wealth and power.

  “Well, have you offered your proposition to Miss Sinclair?” he asked now. “More importantly, has she accepted?”

  “I have done so, yes, my son. I’m pleased to say Miss Sinclair has accepted our little offer.”

  “Do not include me in your plan, Father. The less I have to do with your machinations, the happier I am.” He moved toward the sideboard and selected his breakfast.

  He returned to the table and sat at the opposite end of it, facing his father.

  The Gordons weren’t prolific breeders. He was an only child, while his father was one of two children. His uncle, in turn, had only one son. If they’d had more off-spring, no doubt there would have been less rancor in the family.

  “Does she know of the attempts on Robert’s life?”

  His father made a gesture in the air with his hand as if he brushed away the question. “The ramblings of an hysterical child. You know Robert is prone to imagining things. He has constant nightmares.”

  “I would have nightmares as well if I thought my uncle was trying to kill me.”

  All pretense of eating was forgotten. The two men stared at each other, Devlen’s eyes the exact shade of his father’s, his hair the same. His appearance was similar, but his nature was drastically different. While he couldn’t give a flying farthing about being duke, his father lusted after the title.

  Would he harm Robert in order to acquire it, however? That was a possibility, and one he’d not been able to discount. It was the reason he was here, after all, when it would have been more advantageous to be at the launch of his new ship. Or even accompanying
Felicia to Paris. Anything but staring down the man he called sire, but who felt, even now, like a stranger.

  “How can you think such a thing of me, son?”

  “You only use that word when you’re trying to charm me. Or confound others, Father.”

  Cameron’s smile was part mockery, part amusement. “While you do the same. I’ve often thought we should just call each other by our given names and dispense with labels.”

  “Shall I tell you what I’d call you?”

  Cameron laughed. “Do I look the fool? I can assure you, son,” he said, accentuating the word, “that if I’d wanted the boy to come to harm, he wouldn’t be alive now. And there would be no one to tell the tale.”

  “No witnesses? Just a frightened little boy who insists on sending me messages?”

  “How did he ever manage to do that? Is that why you’re here so soon after your last visit?”

  “Does it matter? I’m here. How do you account for his most recent accident, Father?”

  “Do not take such a tone with me, Devlen. You may command your businesses. You don’t command me.”

  “Someone should. Why don’t you spend your time in grateful appreciation for the life you have, Father, rather than in bitter contemplation of that which you cannot change?”

  “My brother’s death?”

  “Your nephew’s survival.”

  If his father could have stood, he would have. If he could have stormed from the room, he would have done that as well. Forced as he was to remain seated and in place, he fisted his hands on the edge of the table and stared at Devlen.

  “I find it difficult to believe you would listen to the ramblings of an hysterical child,” he said finally.

  “Do you?”

  Devlen studied his plate. In matters of food, his father never scrimped. None of the economies that showed throughout the rest of the estate were visible in the kitchen. But he had lost his appetite. His breakfast forgotten, Devlen sampled his coffee.

  “I didn’t harm the child.”

  Devlen didn’t comment.

  “Would it please you if I gave you my word?”

  “It wouldn’t matter one way or the other.”

  “You’ve grown into a cynic, Devlen.”

  He sat back and surveyed his father. Something was wrong at Castle Crannoch. It was unnatural for a child to be so afraid, an emotion Robert ably tucked beneath his less-than-pleasant behavior. Miss Sinclair would have her hands full.

  “Is it cynical to know one’s adversaries? You have a habit of twisting the truth to serve your purposes. You always have.”

  “Am I an adversary? Interesting.”

  “What else would you call our relationship?” From the moment he was old enough to understand, Devlen knew his father didn’t care for him. He was an encumbrance, a nuisance, an irritant. All Cameron’s interests were directed toward the shipbuilding empire his brother had given him to manage, and the ever-present need to demonstrate to his older brother that he was capable of doing so. Cameron was caught in a paradox—needing his brother’s approval and despising the necessity for it at the same time.

  “I’m surprised you offered the position to Miss Sinclair. She seems an unlikely choice.”

  “Why would you say that? I think Providence delivered her to our doorstep. The woman needs an occupation, and I have a position.”

  Devlen didn’t answer, didn’t comment what he truly thought. Beatrice Sinclair looked too fragile for Castle Crannoch. In addition, there was sadness just beneath her bravado, something essentially courageous that made him feel oddly protective.

  Now wasn’t that an unusual thought for him to have?

  Breakfast forsaken, Devlen stood and left the room, uncaring that his father wore a small and secretive smile. There were some things he didn’t want to know.

  Beatrice had been so afraid and so hungry in the last few weeks that the sudden absence of both sensations was almost heady. As she ate, she hummed a tune, an oddity witnessed by one curious bird settling on the edge of her window.

  “Hello, little bird. Have you come to beg some scraps?”

  He trilled a short song at her and flew away, no doubt annoyed because she wasn’t sharing.

  The knock on the door startled her. Beatrice stood, walked to the door, and opened it cautiously, holding the borrowed dressing gown closed tight at her throat.

  “Mademoiselle? It is I, Gaston,” the man said in the French of Paris.

  She peeked through the opening to find the giant standing in front of the door, one beefy hand clutching her dress. “The maid, she ironed it for you.”

  Beatrice extended her hand and retrieved her dress. The maid had evidently mended the garment as well. The tear on the lace at the neck had been repaired, and a button had been replaced.

  “Thank you, Gaston.”

  “Of a certainty, mademoiselle. Whenever you’re ready to go fetch your belongings, I await you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “All you need to do is pull on the bell rope beside the bed, mademoiselle. Or, if you prefer, I can wait for you.”

  “I’m not quite finished with breakfast.”

  “Then I await your summons.”

  She closed the door, feeling a little bemused. No one had ever waited on her before.

  After she finished eating, she dressed, smoothing her hands over the threadbare material of her dress. The maid had ironed it beautifully. The wool felt almost new, the smell emerging from the fabric something reminiscent of lavender. A simple thing really, but it brought tears to her eyes.

  After she dressed, Beatrice found a brush sitting on a silver tray and used it to smooth her shortened hair. She, herself, had been ill with the same cholera that had taken her parents, and she’d been subjected to same treatments as the other survivors—their hair had been cut and they’d been purged, twin indignities she’d been too ill to protest.

  The square mirror in front of her was trimmed in gold. The reflection revealed a woman too old for her years, perhaps. There was a look in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, a bone-deep sadness, an enormous sorrow that didn’t fade even when she practiced smiling.

  The epidemic that had swept through Kilbridden Village had taken a member of every family. Some, like hers, had been doubly struck. Both her mother and father had died, three days after the first victim had succumbed. The swiftness of the disease had stunned her.

  Not only her parents were gone, but also Beatrice’s dreams, her hopes, and the simple, peaceful life she’d known.

  There were those who might say she’d put herself in this predicament by being too choosy. She might have had her own home, own family. She’d received an offer of marriage but not, however, from the person she expected.

  Jeremy MacLeod was a handsome young man who’d been her friend since she was twelve, their relationship changing to a form of awkwardness, and then interest as they’d both aged. He was kind, possessing a gentle temperament, and had a bright way of looking at the world. He was ambitious, filled with plans about the mill he’d inherited from his father. If he had one flaw, it was that he deferred too much to his mother. As the last surviving child of three, he was her baby. She was fiercely protective of him, and he allowed it.

  After her parents died, Beatrice had expected Jeremy to come to her cottage and explain, in that earnest tone of his, why they should marry. Instead, he’d stayed away as if she were still contagious.

  The only offer of marriage had come, surprisingly, from the young minister who had taken the place of the Reverend Matthew Hanson. She’d known him for all of three days when he’d proposed.

  “The people here at Kilbridden Village speak highly of you, Beatrice.”

  “That is very kind of them.”

  “They also say that you’re a very sensible woman.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re no longer a girl, however.”

  She’d only glanced at him, wondering if he would correctly interpret her a
nnoyance. He didn’t.

  “But you’re not too old to be a helpmate.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I have two children.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m a widower. Did you not know?”

  She shook her head.

  “My children will be joining me as soon as I’m settled. They need a mother, and I need a wife.”

  Hardly a flattering proposal, but he’d looked shocked when she refused.

  She’d been too foolish, perhaps, in turning her back on his offer. Now she was alone in the world and forced to find her own way in it, a circumstance the minister had predicted.

  “My offer will not stand open for long, Beatrice. In fact, I doubt you’ll receive another like mine.”

  Bride—even the word sounded odd. She’d long since given up the thought of being a bride. She’d never felt desperate or even despondent about her single state. She’d been pleased to assist her father with his work.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to marry. She had, like other girls, her own chest of linens. Over the years, she and her mother had embroidered a dozen napkins with thistles and roses. There always seemed to be enough time to consider marriage, even if there were a paucity of candidates for husband.

  She’d occupied herself with one task after another, and if she were occasionally lonely and longing to be a wife or mother, she assuaged her yearnings by minding her friend Sally’s children. There were times when she’d confided in Sally that she might not ever be married, given the lack of men of her age in the village.

  “Then he shall have to come from somewhere else,” Sally had said, imminently practical. “You’ll fall in love with him as he’s riding through the village on his white horse.”

  “The only white horses in Kilbridden Village are used for plowing,” Beatrice had said, and the two of them had laughed together.

  Beatrice pulled on the bell rope and waited at the door, wondering if she should be at the entrance to Castle Crannoch instead. She was not, after all, a guest, but little more than a servant. A toady to the irritating young duke.

  There was no choice. She had to take the position. Either that or return to the frigid cottage and starve silently to death. She wouldn’t last the winter.