The Governess Club: Bonnie (3 page)

The face staring back at him was covered in flour; his eyes appeared to be the only feature visible on his face. The same went for his hair. His attempt at smoothing it had only served to spread the flour more thoroughly on one side. Looking down at his clothing—what used to be black—Stephen could see that even the slightest movement created small puffs of flour clouds.

He looked back at Bonnie, still in the throes of her amusement. Tears were now streaming down her red face. A bubble grew in him. It could not be suppressed, but continued up and a sharp bark of laughter escaped him.

Bonnie’s laughter was cut short at the sound. She stared at him, her chest heaving. What she saw on his face—at least what she could see of his face—triggered another fit of laughter. A deep chuckle came from him, joining in with the merriment. Soon, Stephen’s laughter was uproarious. A part of him felt guilty at his behavior, but a larger part of him couldn’t help but feel relieved.

Their laughter calmed to breathless giggles and chuckles. Stephen sat down again, his body relaxed and Bonnie wiped her face free of tears. After a moment of silence, Bonnie got up and retrieved a cloth to wipe up the spilled tea. “Neither of the boys slept for two days after the accident.”

Stephen looked at her. Something about her face made him want to offer comfort, but for the life of him, he could not think of how.

With a final sigh, Bonnie gave him a curtsey. “I must return to the boys. Good evening, sir.”

The return to formality triggered an automatic reaction in Stephen. He straightened in his chair and gave her a nod of dismissal. She was, after all, just a governess.

B
onnie jerked upright into a sitting position, her chest heaving. Shreds of the nightmare still clung to her, the screams of horses and humans twisting in her mind, the sight of a collapsing bridge looming. Struggling to breathe, Bonnie untangled the covers from her legs and lurched up, heading for the window.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, using the cold reality to push back the nightmare. Slowly the image and sounds receded and her mind settled.

Moving away from the window, Bonnie turned and stood by the bed, watching the boys sleep. When it had become clear that they would not sleep alone or anywhere she was not, she moved them to the guest room with the largest bed and had a trundle bed brought in for herself. Once the boys calmed, they would return to their own chambers, but for now all were content with the arrangement.

With a weary sigh, she looked back at the small trundle bed. It held no allure for her; it offered no protection from the recurring nightmare. But dawn was still hours away and she could neither remain awake nor leave her charges for another room.

Without another thought, she eased herself over into the space between the two boys and pulled the cover over all three of them. Within moments, both had sought out her warmth and snuggled into her sides. Taking comfort from the weight of their small bodies, Bonnie drifted back into dreamless sleep.

S
tephen grimaced against the bitterness of his second cup of coffee. He had not slept well the night before, jumping at every possible creak and groan the house made. Strange how different the place felt without George and Roslyn. Even the bed had felt less comfortable and the fire had lacked warmth. At least the food had not suffered. He gulped down the remains of the coffee and pushed away his empty plate. He had work to do.

He strode into the hall, calling for Burdis. “Have my horse saddled,” he instructed the butler when he appeared.

“Sir,” Burdis began.

“I’ll be down momentarily,” Stephen continued, making his way to the stairs. “I expect to be out for most of the morning.”

“But—” Burdis tried again.

“I have little time to waste, Burdis,” Stephen said.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Stephen halted on the stairs. He turned to look at Burdis, not recognizing the new voice, but something tugged at his memory as he looked at the visitor. He stood in the drawing room doors, his hands behind his back and his eyes made owlish by a pair of spectacles. His gaze met Stephen’s briefly before dropping respectfully into a bow.

Stephen studied the stranger as he made his way back down the stairs. He took in the man’s stature, so tall and thin as to be likened to a flagpole. There were not many people Stephen had to tilt his head to look at, but this man clearly belonged in that category.

“Sir Stephen, it is a great relief to know you have arrived. Mr. Sylvester Renard at your service.” The tall man straightened out of his bow.

The memory returned with that thought—George’s man of business, Mr. Renard. Older than Stephen, Renard’s dark hair had become liberally streaked with gray. His clothing struck Stephen as odd; while well-made and conservative, they were the exact brown of the walls, giving the impression of blending in. It seemed to take the idea of being an invisible servant to a new level. When Stephen did get a good look at the man of business, he thought a stiff Scottish wind would blow him over, he was so thin.

Stephen nodded his greeting. “I was unaware of the situation prior to my arrival yesterday. If I had known, I would not have delayed.”

“Yes, of course.” Renard adjusted his spectacles. “It was an unfortunate tragedy to lose Viscount and Viscountess Darrow in one fell swoop like that. I remain, however, at your service.”

Stephen cocked his eyebrow. “Is any tragedy fortunate?” he queried.

Renard blinked. “Of course not, sir.”

Stephen turned to the butler. “My horse, Burdis.”

Renard interrupted. “If I may be so bold, the delay in your arrival has left a great deal that requires attention. Perhaps now is not a good time to leave?”

Stephen looked at the door. He had intended to ride over to where the old bridge had been, to examine it for any hint of anything suspicious. Time and inclement weather being factors, the probability of him discovering any such thing was already low; the thought of delaying even more did not sit well with him.

Yet Renard was also correct. Though he doubted an hour or two’s delay would change the mountain of paperwork much, Stephen recognized the atmosphere clinging to the manor. It wasn’t just mourning spoiling the mood, but resentment. As much as he wanted to discover more regarding his friends’ deaths, he knew that George and Roslyn would want him to focus on caring for their sons. Doing so would honor their memories.

“Burdis, I will be going for a ride after luncheon. Be sure to have my horse readied then.”

S
tephen reined in his horse, Emperor, to study the river from a vantage point. A new stone bridge had been built a short distance upstream, but remnants of the destroyed wooden structure littered the riverbed. Around the area, trees had turned color and the grass had begun to wither; birds still flew through the air, not yet worried about the coming winter. Stephen had left his hat at home in light of the stiff October breeze and, feeling his ears and cheeks turning red, he momentarily regretted he had not worn a scarf.

Shifting in the saddle, he took in the surrounding land. Open fields hugged Darrowgate, copses of trees interspersed beatifically. Across the river, crops had been harvested; in other fields, cattle grazed. Beyond that, Stephen could clearly see the steeple of the town church and the thatched roofs of neighboring buildings.

Emperor tossed his head impatiently. Making a soothing cluck, he urged the horse into a walk down the hill towards the river. Coming up to the trees that lined the bank, Stephen dismounted and tethered Emperor in a spot where he could fill his greedy stomach with grass.

When he reached the water’s edge, Stephen stopped. Staring at the wreckage that used to be the wooden bridge, he was acutely aware that he was staring at the site of his friends’ deaths.

Images from the story Miss Hodges had told him flashed through his mind—the waving parents, the shuddering bridge before it collapsed, the falling planks and horses, the coach splintering, George’s neck snapping and Roslyn—God, Roslyn lying in that mangled coach, her blood pouring out of her body. How had she survived long enough for anyone to come and see her still breathing?

Nausea roiled in his stomach and bile forced its way up his throat. Heaving, Stephen bent over a nearby bush and lost the contents of his stomach. Minutes later, he crouched down at the water’s edge and splashed the cold water on his face.

From where he crouched, Stephen turned his gaze down the river away from ruined bridge. He could make out an area ideal for swimming; a small stretch of sandy bank surrounded by a few larger, flat rocks. Indeed, an excellent place for a governess to take her charges for a cooling swim on a hot summer day.

Stephen straightened and made his way along the bank to the swimming area. A well-worn path weaved through the bush, connecting the small beach to the hill beyond and Darrowgate. The bridge was 200 feet upstream; not only would the governess and the boys have a good view of the collapse, the blood from the incident would have flowed right by them.

No wonder they barely spoke.

Tearing his gaze from the bridge, he focused on the water, trying to imagine the trio enjoying their swim, with no inkling or threat of danger. The boys in the water, laughing and splashing each other, showing off their swimming skills to their laughing governess.

Stephen looked at the closest flat rock, the thought of the laughing governess in his mind. She had said she preferred dangling her feet instead of swimming.

His mind’s eye put Miss Hodges on the rock, much as she had been the previous night. The look on her face after seeing his own flour-covered face. Her smile had been so wide it had been difficult to see anything else about her. He knew her eyes and hair were certain colors, but he was damned if he could name them—eyes were some light shade and the hair was brown, that he knew for certain.

And her laugh—it was the last thing he had expected from her. He was in a difficult situation—not quite master but regarded as such until Henry’s majority. For a servant, even a governess, to laugh as she had was entirely unpredictable.

He shouldn’t think too much about how that unexpected laughter had settled in his gut.

The image of Miss Hodges sitting on the rock rose again in his mind. The sun would have warmed the rock beneath her hands and she would have looked down at the clear water. She would laugh at the boys’ antics, even kick water in their direction if they ventured too close. Her stockings would be folded into her shoes to keep them from blowing away in the breeze.

Good Lord, he could almost see it. The stockings protected in the nearby shoes, her naked feet dangling in the water, her skirts raised to keep them from getting wet, exposing her trim ankles. The clear water would do nothing to hide either her feet or her ankles and Stephen found himself staring unabashedly at something that wasn’t even there. He stared at the empty water, imagining exactly what Miss Hodges’ ankles would look like. They would be trim, they would be bonny, they would—

Thankfully, a passing cart made enough noise to break him out of this ridiculously schoolboy moment. Inhaling deeply through his nose, Stephen left the swimming area and made his way back for a closer look at the ruins.

D
earest Claire,

I have to admit, I am not surprised that Mr. Knightly insisted so strongly on a short engagement. Did he actually show you the special license with the vicar standing right there? And over breakfast? I am gratified to know that you stood firm and insisted on waiting for morning lessons to be completed before any vows were spoken.

I do hope that wedded bliss and the happiness of the recently wed softens your reaction to what I am about to say. I know I promised to come to Ridgestone once the guardian arrived, but I must beg the Governess Club’s patience. Sir Stephen Montgomery arrived eight days ago, yet I still do not feel the situation frees me to leave.

I know it is not my place to say so, but I am worried about his ability to be an adequate guardian to the children. Since his arrival, he has shown little to no interest in the boys, unless they find themselves standing before him, which is rare. Sir Stephen spends his time either in the study, mainly with Mr. Renard, or on his horse, riding the estate. The only indications that the guardian has taken control of the household is the increase of servants and the paying of wages owed. I have already deposited my belated percentage into the joint account.

Claire, he is so remote. Stern, silent, and awkward, so unlike the guardian I expected Viscount Darrow to appoint. Wouldn’t he want someone more like himself? They had been friends since school, but I cannot see it. I have seen him laugh only once. On his first day here, he returned from a ride with a piece of the ruined bridge; it remains in the study. The following day he met with Mr. Burdis for nearly two hours. When the butler left the study, he looked as though he had withstood an interrogation at the Tower of London.

Based on this, I cannot leave. I cannot leave Henry and Arthur with a distant stranger. This goes beyond duty and I am sure you can relate. I care for Henry and Arthur. And I am all they have right now. I must remain. My conscience and my affection demand it.

Please do not be angry with me. My intentions to come to Ridgestone remain unaltered, just the timeline in which I see myself joining you. I know Sara will understand, but I am counting on your level head to keep Louisa calm. She is bound to react poorly. Appeal to her compassion; what woman would leave children in such a situation?

I do expect this letter to reach you before you leave for your wedding trip to Scotland, so I wish you a happy and safe journey. Sir Stephen is from Scotland; did I mention that? His brogue is not very thick, but it is there, so I suspect he is from somewhere in the Lowlands. But I digress. If this letter happens to reach you after your trip, I hope you had a memorable time and either way, I look forward to hearing all about it.