Corey McFadden (7 page)

* * * *

Giles sat at his desk and stared out at the sea from the large window in his office. He had chosen the room for its vista, and it was the one room in the house where the draperies were never closed. His arm pained him a great deal and he cursed his foul luck. He had known the lead mines were dangerous, but he would have no worker face any danger he himself would not face. Thus when the recent rains had caused a mud slide, he had insisted on being first to go down into the pit, to ascertain the safety for his crew. It had been sheer bad fortune that the ground above had chosen that moment to shift again, sending a loaded cart down on top of him. He supposed he was lucky he had seen it in time to throw up an arm to ward off the worst of the impact. Had it struck his head, he would have been killed. As it was, his arm had borne the brunt, sustaining a severe gash which ripped through coat, shirt, and flesh to expose the bone below. He had been cleaned up and bandaged on the spot, but there had been no physician on site and the foreman had begged him to consider that such a deep wound would surely fester if not properly treated. Hence Giles had headed for Penrith, where the local surgeon had clucked and tsked and generally allowed as how Giles would die or lose the arm if he weren’t very careful.

Giles had refused the laudanum offered, preferring pain to a sleepy, stupid feeling. But the constant severe pain racked him now, and he had slept very little last night, making his temper short. Thank God Eleanor was off at one of her debaucheries. At least he could be spared dueling with her during what he hoped would be an extremely short convalescence.

He was bored and restless with his enforced inactivity. He spent as little time as possible in this house. It was a cold, uninviting place, purchased at the behest of Lady Eleanor when he had accepted this meaningless title, so that they could live “as befitted their proper station.” Proper station, indeed! He had more respect for his foreman and the men who worked under him than he did for any of the useless peacocks and popinjays who paraded around here whenever Eleanor was “in residence.”

He turned to the diagram on his desk and tried to concentrate on the intricacies of the effect of gravity on water flow and the various measurements and engineering tactics he’d need to improve the transportation system from Dufton. Usually he could lose himself in the purity of numbers. Mathematics and physics, he thought to himself, not for the first time, were so incorruptible, so predictable. But today the pain gnawed at him, ate into his disciplined concentration. He swung around in his chair, gritting his teeth against the hot stab of agony that tore through his shoulder at the sudden movement. He stared with dull eyes at the sea. It should be such a beautiful sight, with the afternoon sun and the brilliant blue of the sky reflecting off the calm water. But no matter where he tried to find beauty or tranquility in this cursed house, he felt the taint of darkness and disquiet.

Behind him, through the closed door, came a sound so unusual he strained to place it. Yes, there it was again, unmistakably the sound of a child’s giggle, followed by the shuffle of little footsteps and a rich, melodic laugh he had not heard before. As he turned toward the sound, another stab of pain shot through his shoulder. With a grimace, he rose from his desk. Might as well see the woman now and make sure she had a decent attitude toward the children. He had nothing to do while he waited for Hawton anyway.

Striding to the door, he flung it open, surprising the three figures who stopped in a frozen tableau at the sight of him. The hallway was dark except for the light of a lone candle, but the sun from the window behind him spilled its bright light across the woman and her two small charges. Giles had time to note the look of apprehension in her eyes before she bent her head down, pulling both children to her, her arms clasped tightly around them.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “You must be Miss— I’m sorry, I cannot remember?...” He trailed off, waiting for her to supply her name.

The young woman released her hold on the children just long enough to make a small curtsey, then, drawing in a deep breath, she said, “Carpenter. I am Miss Carpenter, the new governess, sir.” Her voice trembled just a bit.

“I am Sir Giles Chapman, Miss Carpenter. I am the children’s uncle.”

Now the flash of alarm in her eyes was unmistakable. She dropped into a real curtsey and then stood. “How do you do, sir?” she greeted him, and he noticed that her face had suffused red. “Children, say ‘how do you do’ to your uncle.” She pushed them each forward a trifle. He heard the faintest of greetings from the girl and nothing at all from Tom, but the girl at least had dropped a proper curtsey.

Sir Giles lounged against the door frame, perusing the young woman as she stood, her face now in the sunlight. His breath caught in his throat. Damnation! Dark hair, warm brown eyes, a prettily shaped, soft, pink mouth. She was the very image of his wife, the lovely Violet, fair of face and foul of heart, kindred spirit to her best friend, Eleanor. Dead these last five years. Even that look of trembling innocence was the same.

“You are young,” he said coldly. He had been expecting someone a bit older, more seasoned, considering the blistering letter he had sent to Mrs. Sneed regarding the unsuitability and flightiness of the two young women she had sent previously. This one was young by the looks of her, too young, perhaps, to bring discipline and order to small children.

“I—I am twenty-two, Sir Giles,” she stammered in response.

“You don’t look that old.”

Miss Carpenter said nothing, probably aware that he had not meant this as a compliment. Just then, the baize-covered door to the back quarters opened and one of the housemaids stepped into the hall, stopping suddenly and blinking in confusion as her eyes went to Sir Giles, then back to Miss Carpenter.

“It’s all right, Annie,” the governess said softly. “Sir Giles, if you will excuse us, the children usually have their baths and supper at this time.”

“Certainly, Miss Carpenter,” he said. He was aware that he had intimidated the girl. Although she was making every effort to master her fear, her hands betrayed her as she clutched the children still in her trembling, white-knuckled grasp. It would not bode well for her tenure here if she were frightened of her own shadow. It wasn’t her fault that she looked like the faithless Violet, he thought. Still, he knew what sort of scheming could lie behind soft brown eyes. He’d been taken in once before and never again. He turned to the young maid. “Annie, is it?” he asked. “You may take the children, and keep to your normal schedule.”

Annie bobbed a hasty little curtsey and collected the children, ushering them through the door, which shut with a whisk behind them.

He turned back to the governess who stood uncertainly, obviously awaiting orders from him. Perhaps he had been overly austere with her. He attempted a smile and too late recalled how it would appear as he felt his face twist down into the ugly, scarred sneer. Damn, he was so long between smiles that sometimes he forgot what Eleanor had done to his face.

The young woman's eyes widened but she otherwise showed no sign she was frightened by his deformity.

“Perhaps you could join me for a glass of sherry before your own supper, Miss Carpenter?” he asked, angered at himself that he still cared how hideous he looked. He might as well get to her
bona fides
at once. If she were to prove unsuitable, it would be best to find it out sooner rather than later.

“Why, of course, sir,” she answered, obviously unable to manage a small smile, looking a bit blank and befuddled.

“You may join me in the drawing room in an hour, Miss Carpenter,” he said.

With a curt bow, he turned and stepped back into his office. He closed the door, leaving the girl standing in the hallway, sorry now that he had invited further dealings with her. He would do better to turn his attention to the management of the estate and leave the domestic issues to the housekeeper.

* * * *

Joanna drew in a deep, shaky breath, aware that her heart was pounding. At the decided click of the door, she ventured for the stairs and then ran for her own room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Drat! Drat! Drat! Sir Giles! He was supposed to be away. Always! And now he had caught them traipsing rather loudly through the hall. Of all the rotten luck! She sank into her one comfortable chair and stared with desultory eyes out the window, trying to calm her racing heart.

Throwing open the draperies yesterday morning, she had been pleased to discover that her room, facing east, looked out over a rolling green landscape with hills a hazy purple in the distance. Though her heart delighted in the crashing, mad sea to the west, she was glad of a retreat to the serenity of the fells, where she could sit behind a closed door, in a bright, pleasant room, and shut out the nameless fears that assailed her in this dark house.

She drew a deep breath and let it out with a great sigh, struggling to stop her trembling. The man had appeared from nowhere, from the dark of the rear hall, towering over her and the children, who gave not a sign of welcome. And he had barely glanced at them!

Annoyance rose in her. This was the brute of a man who had allowed these children to languish in the dark these last few months. Nor had there been any welcome in his cold eyes for her.

What was wrong with his face? As the faint light of the candle in the hall had fallen over him, she'd had to stifle a small gasp, taking in the twist to his mouth where an ugly scar slashed across it, and the large white sling that held his left arm immobile. Neither peculiarity soothed her nerves.

Well, surely there was nothing to be afraid of! She’d had a lovely day with the children today and yesterday. They had thawed visibly, to the point where she had actually gotten spontaneous laughter from both of them, and then that man had loomed out of the dark and frozen them up again.

And now she had to deal with the ogre of a master. Sherry? With him? What could he possibly want of her? She had been given to understand in no uncertain terms by both Mr. Hawton and Mrs. Davies that neither Sir Giles nor Lady Eleanor wanted anything to do with her or the children. At least, she reasoned to herself, he cannot be planning to give me the sack. He wouldn’t do that over a glass of sherry, would he? Unless he was the kind of man who enjoyed that sort of thing, a slow, painful, sociable torture. This house was making her fanciful to the point of absurdity! She giggled to herself and sprang from her chair. There was nothing wrong with this post that a few lamps and candles wouldn’t fix.

Opening her armoire, she surveyed her meager attire. There wasn’t actually much point in staring, since she knew she had only one dress presentable enough to wear. At least she would not be dining with him. She pulled out the one good gown and frowned over it. It was a dark green silk which she’d worn to one of Squire’s very rare soirees. How long ago had that been? At least four years, she figured, recalling having to argue with Papa that, at eighteen, she was old enough to attend an evening with the adults. She smiled to herself, remembering what a crashing bore it had proved to be, with not a soul there under forty, if that young. She gave the dress a shake. It was well-made and well-mended and also probably hopelessly out of style, but as she had never cared much about the latest mode, she couldn’t worry now about offending the fashion sense of Sir Giles Chapman. She laid the dress out on the bed and was relieved to see that the wrinkles from her long journey had smoothed out. She had almost an hour before she had to join Sir Giles. Too bad, because she was already starving and her supper would be rock hard and cold by the time she got to it. Well, she could have a nice rest and maybe send off a note to Mistress Gertie, then gird herself for the glass of sherry with the dark and brooding master.

* * * *

An hour later, hair patted into place and cheeks glowing pink from an icy cold rinse, a seemingly calm and collected Joanna presented herself to an unoccupied drawing room. With a start she realized that the room was bright with light. All the candles in the sconces around the walls were lit, and a candelabrum glowed with all its many candles blazing away. Let there be light, indeed! It was amazing the fears that could be banished by the letting in of a little light.

Looking about her, she was surprised at the glittering beauty of the room. It was sumptuous both in size and decor. It was filled with furniture, scattered about in cozy groupings. An enormous, thick carpet, woven in many muted colors and intricate patterns, covered much of the floor. Everywhere were signs of opulence and great wealth. There were a number of tables, small and large, each elaborately carved and polished to a mirror finish. There were chairs, a good many, and several divans and small settees, all upholstered in rich, colorful satins and brocades. Each grouping seemed to carry its own pattern and color scheme, but the effect, far from being discordant, blended harmoniously, the color groupings flowing from one to another in a pleasing concordance. And while Joanna couldn’t tell rococo from baroque, her artist’s eye registered the quality and the punctilious attention to detail.

She heard the door open softly and turned quickly, tension seizing her again. Sir Giles stood in the doorway staring at her. She moved forward hastily, unnerved by his scrutiny. He looked as though he might be smiling, but his mouth twisted down into a sardonic grimace. Taking some courage from the fact that his eyes were not cold, Joanna gave him a small curtsey and stood waiting, a bit uncomfortable as to what she should do next.

Giles moved into the room. “Good evening, Miss Carpenter,” he said. “Please have a seat and I’ll pour you a taste of sherry.”

She chose a plush, elaborately upholstered settee, and fussed unnecessarily with the folds of her dress while he poured her a sherry from a crystal decanter, and for himself a brandy.

Turning her head to face Sir Giles, she practically bumped her nose on the painstakingly sculpted manhood of a rather large, terribly well-endowed statue of Apollo that stood on the small table next to her settee. Drawing back in alarm, she stole a quick glance at Sir Giles to see if he had noticed. Behind him, his back to her, she caught sight of the enormous painting that dominated the wall between two long windows. She fought to strangle the gasp that rose in her throat.