Читать книгу Dangerous Lord, Innocent Governess - Christine Merrill - Страница 9

Chapter Two

The rest of the day passed in a whirl. The Duchess helped her to find more keys, made sure that her things were sent to the little room in the attic and arranged for her salary. When it was nearing supper time, she left to return to her own home, which was only a few miles away. Daphne felt her absence. It was almost as if she had made a friend of the woman, she had been so solicitous.

But now she must strike out on her own, and find the evening meal. Which led to the question—where did the governess usually eat? She struggled to think if she had ever seen one at her own family’s table, or dining with the family in the home of friends. But it was possible, even if they had been there, she would not have noticed. She doubted that they were encouraged to call attention to themselves.

She strolled down the passages of the ground-floor rooms, and found the dining room closed and dark. Wherever the Colton family ate, it was not a formal thing. But if servants were not waiting at table, then they must be below stairs, having a meal of their own. She went to the same stairway that would lead to her room if she followed it upwards to the end. She took the stairs downwards instead, and came out into a large open room with a long oak table set for supper. The servants were already gathered around it.

She came forwards and sat down at a place somewhere about the middle, offering a cheery ‘hello’ to the person next to her, who appeared to be a parlourmaid.

The room fell silent for a moment, and the housekeeper looked down the table toward her. Without a word, the woman went to the sideboard for a fresh plate, for the person Daphne must have displaced. This was handed down the table, and there was much shifting and giggling as the servants around her reorganized themselves according to their rank. It appeared that servants had a hierarchy every bit as structured as that of a fine dinner party above stairs. And Daphne had wandered in and disrupted things with her ignorance.

Once things were settled again, the housekeeper, Mrs Sims, announced, ‘Everyone, this is Miss Collins. She is the new governess that her Grace hired for the children.’

The staff nodded, as though they did not find the Duchess’s interference to be nearly so unusual as the presence of a governess at the servants’ table.

The housekeeper favoured her with another nod. ‘In the future, Miss Collins, you are welcome to eat in your room or with the children. No one here will think you are putting on airs.’ She said it rather as a command, not a request.

It rather put a crimp in her plans to gather intelligence below stairs. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sims. I was rather at a loss today as to what was expected. But I am sure this shall be all right, tonight at least. I wished to meet you all.’ She smiled around the table.

And was met by blank looks in return, and mumbled introductions, up and down the table.

‘Where did the previous governess eat?’ she asked by way of conversation.

‘Which one might you mean? There have been three since the lady of the house died. And many more before that. They all ate in the little dining room in the nursery wing.’

‘So many.’ It did not bode well for her stay here. ‘What happened to them? I mean, why did they leave?’ For the first sounded far too suspicious.

Mrs Sims frowned. ‘Of late, the children are difficult. But you will see that soon enough.’

And there was mention of the difficulties again. But in her brief meeting with them, they had not seemed like little tartars. ‘I am sure they are nothing I cannot handle,’ she lied, really having no idea how she might get on with a house full of children.

‘Then you are more stalwart than the others, and more power to you,’ said the butler, with a small laugh. ‘The first could not control them. And the second found them disturbing. The third…’ he gave a snort of disgust ‘…had problems with little Sophie. Thought the poor little mite was the very devil incarnate.’

‘Sophie?’ Having met the girl, this was more than hard to believe.

‘The master caught Miss Fisk punishing the girl. She had been forcing Sophie to kneel and pray for hours on end, until her little knees were almost raw with it. And the older children too frightened to say anything about it.’ The housekeeper shook her head in disapproval. ‘And that was the last we saw of Miss Fisk. Lord Colton turned her out of the house in the driving rain, and threw her possessions after her. He said he had no care at all for her safety or comfort, if she did not care for the comfort of his children.’

‘Served her right,’ announced the upper footman. ‘To do that to a wee one.’

‘You’ll think so, if he finds reason to turn you out, I suppose?’ asked another.

The boy smirked. ‘I don’t plan to give him reason. I have no problem with the children.’

‘Or the neighbours,’ said another, and several men at the table chuckled.

‘The neighbours?’ Daphne pricked her ears. ‘Do you mean the Duke and Duchess?’

The housekeeper glared at the men. ‘There are some things, if they cannot be mentioned in seriousness, are better not mentioned at all.’

The butler supplied, in his dry quiet voice, ‘Relations are strained between our household and the manor.’

‘But Lord Colton seemed to get on well enough with the Duchess.’

‘There is nothing strange about that, if you are implying so.’ The housekeeper sniffed. ‘The master has no designs in her direction.’

‘No,’ said one of the house maids with a giggle, ‘his troubles were all with the Duke. Her Grace wishes to pretend that nothing is wrong, of course. But she was not here for the worst of it. If she had seen the way the Duke behaved with Lady Colton…’

Now this was interesting. Daphne leaned forwards. ‘Did he…make inappropriate advances?’

A footman snickered, and then caught himself, after a glare from the butler.

But a maid laughed and said, ‘It was hard to see just who was advancing on who.’

‘Remember where your loyalties lie, Maggie,’ murmured Mrs Sims. ‘You do not work at Bellston Manor.’

Maggie snorted in response. ‘I’d be welcome enough there, if I chose to go. My sister is a chambermaid at Bellston. And she has nothing but fine words to say of his Grace and his new Duchess, now that our mistress…’ the girl crossed herself quickly before continuing ‘…is no longer there to interfere.’ She looked at Daphne, pointing with her fork. ‘When her ladyship was alive, I worked above stairs, helping the lady’s maid with the ribbons. And let me tell you, I saw plenty. Enough to know that his lordship is hardly to blame for the way things turned out in the end.’

‘Then you should know as well the reason we no longer see his Grace as a guest in the house.’ The butler was stiff with disapproval.

Daphne’s eyes widened in fascination as the conversation continued around the table.

‘It is a wonder that Lord Colton did not take his anger out in a way that would be better served,’ said a footman, ‘on the field of honour.’

‘Don’t be a ninny. One does not call out a duke, no matter the offence.’ The upper footman nodded wisely. ‘There’s rules about that. I’m sure.’

‘In any case, weren’t all the man’s fault.’

The housekeeper sniffed again, as though she wished to bring an end to the conversation.

‘Just sayin’. There are others to blame.’

The housekeeper tapped lightly on her glass with her knife. ‘We do not speak of such things at this table, or elsewhere in the house. What’s done is done and there is no point in placing blame for it.’

The table fell to uneasy silence, enjoying a meal of beef that was every bit as good as that which she had eaten at home above stairs. Daphne suspected that such meals had gone a long way in buying the loyalty of the servants, none of whom seemed to mind that the master had murdered the mistress.

One by one, the servants finished their meals and the butler excused them from the table to return to their duties. But Daphne took her time, waiting until all but the butler and housekeeper were gone. If there was information to be had, then surely they must know, for it seemed that they knew everything that went on in the house.

But before she could enquire, the housekeeper spoke first. ‘Why did you choose to eat below stairs, Miss Collins?’

‘I thought, since I am a servant, it was appropriate.’

The housekeeper gave her a look to let her know that she had tripped up yet again. ‘A servant now, perhaps. But a lady above all, who must be accustomed to a better place in the household than the servants’ table.’ Mrs Sims looked at her with disapproval. ‘And a lady with a most unfortunate tendency to gossip. It is not something we encourage in this house.’

‘I am sorry. I was only curious. If I am in possession of all the facts, I might be best able to help the children.’

The butler responded, ‘I doubt there is anyone in possession of all the facts, so your quest is quite fruitless. But I can tell you this: the less said about their mother, the better. She was a hoyden, who got what she deserved.’

Daphne let out a little gasp. ‘Surely not. The poor woman, God rest her soul.’

The housekeeper drew herself up with disapproval. ‘You think that knowing the truth will help the little ones? Then here it is, or all you need to know of it. What happened to our mistress was the result of too much carrying on. The children are lucky to be rid of her, however it happened.’

So Mrs Sims suspected something was strange about the death. But the housekeeper’s assessment was most unjust. ‘I hardly think it is fair to believe such things, when you yourself admit that no one knows all the facts in the situation. In the last house I was employed, everyone thought much the same of the only daughter. They were all most censorious, when she was guilty of the smallest breaches of etiquette. She strayed from the common paths in Vauxhall with one of her suitors. And before she knew it, she was packed off to the country in disgrace. I suspect she was no worse than Lady Colton.’

‘Do you now?’ The housekeeper shook her head. ‘Then you are most naïve. If the young girl you mention was already straying on to dark paths with young men, then I suspect it was for more tickle than slap. Perhaps the late Lady Colton would have called it innocent fun and not the death of the girl’s reputation. In fact, I am sure that my lady and the girl would have got on well together. Clarissa Colton would have approved, for the young lady you describe would have been taking a first step toward becoming what she had become: a lady with no discernible morals. It pains me to say it. But her ladyship had no sense of decency whatsoever. No respect for herself, and certainly none for her husband.’

It stung to hear such a blunt assessment of her character. For the housekeeper seemed to agree with Daphne’s parents that her trips to Vauxhall could have put her beyond the pale. And Mrs Sims had predicted Clare’s reaction to the thing well enough—she had said that there was no harm in it at all. She came to her cousin’s defence. ‘Perhaps, if I were married to Lord Colton, a man so distant, so cruel and so totally lost to gentleness, my behaviour would be much the same.’

‘If you were married to him?’ The housekeeper let out a derisive laugh. ‘Quite far above yourself, aren’t you, Miss Collins? His lordship is not good enough.’ She glanced toward the conservatory, as though she could see the master of the house through the walls separating them. Then she said softly, ‘I have worked in this house for almost forty years. I have known Lord Colton since he was a boy. And there was nothing wrong with his character before that woman got her hooks into him. A bit of youthful high spirits, perhaps. A slight tendency to excess drink, and with it, a short temper. Things that would have passed, with time. But under the influence of his wife, he grew steadily worse.’

‘So his misbehaviour is youthful high spirits. But the occasional straying of a girl will permanently damage her character.’

The housekeeper gave her a look that proved she thought her a complete fool. ‘Yes. Because, as you can see, his problems did not render him incapable of making a match.’

‘But I do not see that they have made him a good choice for a husband,’ Daphne snapped in return. ‘In my experience so far, he is a foul-tempered, reclusive man who cares so little for his children that he allows the neighbours to choose their governess.’

Mrs Sims frowned. ‘He cares more for the children than you know. And if you care for them as well, you will see to it that the boy grows up to be the man that his father is, and the girls learn to be better than their mother, and get no strange ideas about the harmlessness of straying down dark paths in Vauxhall Gardens. Good evening, Miss Collins.’

Daphne had the strange feeling that she was being held responsible for the wayward actions of her imaginary charge, and that Mrs Sims’s estimation of her skills had gone down by a wide margin.

Which made the truth seem all the stranger. What might Mrs Sims have said if Daphne’d admitted that she was the girl, and that her parents had no idea that she had elected to come to Clare’s home, instead of her dear aunt in Anglesey? She was supposed to remain there until such time as her behaviour was forgotten, her reputation restored and her head emptied of Clarissa Colton’s nonsensical advice.

She walked slowly up the stairs to her room. In retrospect, she had to admit that the outing to Vauxhall had been a mistake. She had been so blue, in the wake of Clare’s death. And her beau, Simon, had assured her that moping at home was no way to honour her cousin’s memory. But once she was alone with him in the dark, she suspected that Simon cared less for her feelings than his own. Her London social life had ended in a flurry of open-mouthed kisses, wayward hands and a slap that had brought her friends running to her aid. And then running just as fast to spread rumours of what they had interrupted.

As she looked at the three flights of stairs in front of her, she wished her parents could see what penance she had set for herself. Several weeks of hard work, with not a single ball, musicale or country outing to break the monotony. It had been exhausting just meeting the family and making arrangements for the position.

She suspected it was likely to be more difficult, once she began the duties she had been hired for. Although she knew nothing of teaching, she must begin proper lessons directly, or someone would become suspicious.

Unless there was no one who cared enough to suspect her. If the governess here normally ate with the children, in the absence of a governess, did anyone eat with them at all? It seemed unlikely that their father would come upstairs and take his meal if there were perfectly good rooms for that purpose on the ground floor. And she had been introduced to no nurses or servants who had charge over them.

It appeared that they were left to their own devices. She knew little of children, other than that she had recently been one. And in her experience, too much freedom meant an opportunity for mischief, and the fostering of wilful ideas that would make the job of governess to the Coltons a difficult one.

Her candle trembled a little as she climbed the last flight of stairs, and she regretted not investigating her sleeping quarters in daylight. With its lack of windows, the narrow stairwell would be intimidating, both day and night. She certainly hoped that the room above had some natural illumination, for to be climbing from darkness into further darkness would lead to unnecessary imaginings that would make for a difficult first night.

She opened the door, and was relieved to see a bright square of moonlight from the small window opposite her. She walked across to it, and looked up into a brilliant full moon, which seemed almost close enough to touch. The ground below was distant. The shrubs and trees casting shadows that were sharp as daylight in the white light from above, giving the whole an unworldly quality, as though a day scene were rendered in black and white. She turned and looked at the room behind her, which was lit the same way.

If she were a real teacher, she might know how great an insult she was paid by these accommodations. She was all but sleeping in the attic. Half the ceiling of the room slanted, to make the space unusable for one so tall as she. Her trunk had been pushed to that side, next to the small writing desk, which held a dried-up inkwell and the stub of a candle. On the other side there was a bed, pushed in front of a door that must lead to further attic rooms. That they’d placed furniture in front of it was the only assurance given that she would not have other servants tramping through her private space when bearing things to storage. There was no proper wardrobe, only pegs for her dresses. A small mirror hung upon the wall. And that was all. If she wished for a chair for the writing desk, she would need to steal one from another room, just as she suspected the intended chair had been stolen from hers.

She sat down upon the bed and tested the mattress. It was lumpy and narrow, and certainly not what she was used to. But if one was tired enough, one could sleep anywhere. She was already at that weird combination of exhaustion and wakefulness that one got sometimes when overtired. Enervated, but not sleepy. Perhaps a book from the library would provide the necessary soporific. The light in the room was almost bright enough to read by even without a candle, and she had no curtain to block it out.

She took up her candle again, and came back down the flights of stairs to the brightly lit ground floor, and the familiar feeling of warmth and civilisation. She found a volume that she did not think too dreary from the rather intellectual holdings of the Colton library. She wished that Clare had been alive to greet her when she arrived. Then she could stay here reading before going up the stairs to a fine guest room, secure in her place as a visitor in this house, and not an intruder.

When she turned to go back to her room, it suddenly occurred to her that two choices were open to her. She had taken the servants’ stairs to the ground. Surely, as governess, she was closer to family than serving maid, and entitled to use the main stairs? It would mean a flight in the open, postponing the stifling darkness that led to her room.

But it would also mean a trip down the nursery hall, past the children’s rooms, before she reached the stairs to her room. She suspected it was her duty to check on them, and make sure that they were all snug in bed, resting for the next day.

Her duty. If she were really the governess, her time would not be her own. She would be responsible for the watching of the children, morning and night. The needs of the family must always come before her own.

Until such time as she revealed the truth about Clare’s death. Then she need answer to no one, least of all the murderous Lord Timothy Colton. Tomorrow would be soon enough to begin the charade of watching his children. Tonight, she would have one last night of her own, no matter how mean the comforts might be.

So she went to the end of the hall and opened the door to the servants’ stairs. The stairwell was narrow, and the rise steep. The first flight was just as black as the stairway to her room. She took a firm grip on her candle, tucked the book tightly under her arm so that she could grasp the handrail for safety, and began her ascent.

She could not help the chill feeling and the shiver that went through her, alone in the dark with only her candle for company. The hall doors were shut tight on all the landings, cutting the regular pathway of the servants off from the rest of the house, as though they were mice in the walls, and not a part of the household at all.

She started as she heard a door above her open, and someone else beginning a descent. The person was beyond the bend in the stairs, so she could not yet see who it was. It was ridiculous to worry, but she was suddenly taken with the notion that when she arrived at the next landing, there would be no one on the stairs above her. The ghostly footsteps would walk through her, with only a passing feeling of icy air.

What a foolish notion. More likely, it would be a footman on his way to the kitchen, or someone else sent on an errand. She would round the next corner and find nothing unusual. But she could not resist calling a hoarse ‘hello?’ into the darkness.

The space around her got suddenly darker, as though a candle around the corner, barely able to cut the gloom of the stairwell, had been extinguished.

Did the person above her mean to keep their identity a secret? There was no point in it, for she would come upon them with her own candle in just a few more steps.

But the footsteps had stopped as well.

She could feel her own steps falter at the realisation, before plucking up her nerves and continuing her climb. She rounded the bend in the stairs and kept climbing, eyes averted, before working up the nerve to look up at the silhouette of a man, looming on the flight above her. He was not moving, just waiting in stillness for her to pass him.

This was not normal behaviour, was it? For though it might make sense to wait while another passed, it made no sense at all to do so in silence. It turned a chance meeting into a threatening situation. Or perhaps it was only her imagination. She proceeded up the stairs, hand on the rail and eyes focused on the shadowy face of the man in front of her, watching the features sharpen in focus with each step she took.

Then she gasped. ‘Lord Colton.’

‘Miss Collins.’ He did not move. And although she had not thought him a particularly large man, he seemed to fill the stairwell in front of her, blocking her progress. ‘What a surprise to find you creeping about the house so late at night.’

His tone was insulting, and she caught herself before responding in kind, remembering that he was her employer, not her equal. ‘Merely coming back from the library with a book for my room. It is sometimes difficult to sleep in a strange place.’

‘And since you are educated, you sought solace in a book.’ In the flickering candlelight, his smile looked like a sneer.

She nodded.

‘Very well. But you had best be careful on your way. Stairs can be dangerous.’

What did he mean by that? Was it a threat? And why threaten her, for he hardly knew her? What was he doing on the servants’ stairs at all? He had even less reason to be there than her.

She glared back at him, not caring what he might think. ‘I assure you, my lord, I am most careful when it comes to stairs. And since lightning does not strike twice in the same place, a second fall in this house would be a most unusual circumstance indeed.’ And then, without waiting for dismissal, she released the handrail that they were both holding, and went to pass him and continue her ascent.

There was not enough space to go around without brushing against him, and she steeled herself for the moment when their bodies would touch.

And suddenly he reached out to steady her, his hand on her waist. The touch was like a jolt of electricity, cutting through the fear she felt of him. For a moment, she was sure that he was debating whether to embrace her, or give the downward shove that would cause another fatal accident.

Then the moment passed, and he was helping her to find the handrail and go on her way. She continued up the stairs, hurrying her pace, all the time aware that his downward steps did not resume.

Tim waited on the stairs, frozen in place, listening to her progress. She must be in the small room in the attic, for he could hear her, passing the second-floor landing and continuing upwards. It was a lonely spot at the back of the house, far away from prying eyes and ears. No one would know if he turned and followed her.

But he did not want that, did he? For only a moment before…

He hurried down the stairs to the ground floor, shutting himself up in the study and reaching for the brandy decanter. One drink would not matter, surely. Just to steady his nerves. He poured, and drank eagerly, praying for the numbness that would come with the first sip.

For a moment, when he had heard her call out, he had been convinced it was Clare. Although he had not noticed it at the time of introduction, there was a similarity in tone, just as there was in colouring. And her voice had startled him so that the trembling of his hand had put out the candle. He’d stood, rooted to the spot, hearing those approaching footsteps, waiting for the figure that would round the corner: the vengeful spirit of his wife.

And he had not been disappointed. There were her accusing green eyes staring up at him, as though daring him to run. He had all but given up the main staircase. For that had been where he expected to see her, when she finally came for him. But the sight of her approaching on the back stairs had been totally unexpected and utterly terrifying. When he realised that it was a mistake of the light and his overwrought nerves, his response had been a jumble of emotions. Anger at being so foolish. And suspicion of her behaviour, which had been quite ordinary and probably an appropriate match to the strangeness of his.

And then, there had been that hint of desire, as he’d stood close enough to feel the warmth of her body and smell her scent. Longing that a touch might lead to something more than a chance meeting on the stairs.

He looked down in to the half-full glass of brandy, momentarily surprised to find it in his hand. Then he smiled and set it aside. He gave a nervous, involuntary chuckle, and ran a hand over his eyes in embarrassment. It did not say much for the state of his nerves if he could manage to work himself into such a state over nothing. There were no ghosts on the front stairs, or the back. Although she was most attractive, the governess’s resemblance to Clare was superficial, at best.

The cause of all his problems was a penchant for brandy and redheads. Once he learned to leave them both alone, the remainder of his life would go easier. And he sank back into the chair, and laid his head on the desk to rest, too weak from the realisation to take either set of stairs to his room.