Winter Wonderland (11 page)

“Sorry, my dear. Too much excitement. Mrs. Velacott, this of course is my wife, Delia Traherne. And while I'm at it, I may as well make the others known to you. Standing behind Mrs. Traherne is my brother Harry. Next to him is his betrothed, Lady Isabel Folley. To my left, here, is my sister-in-law, Lady Honoria and, beside her, her husband, my eldest brother, Lawrence, the Earl of Shallcross. Finally, hiding behind them like a violet among the leaves, is their guest, Miss Olivia Ponsonby. Come out, Livy, and say hello to Mrs. Velacott, our new governess.”

Miranda made her bow to his lordship and his lady, and then bowed to all the rest of them, trying hard to remember which name matched each face. She knew Barnaby and Terence, of course, and she would not mistake her new mistress, Mrs. Delia Traherne, whose ruddy, full cheeks and warm brown eyes made her seem friendly and open-hearted. The others would also be recognizable if she picked a distinctive characteristic for each as an identification. The Earl, for example, was the easiest to remember, for he had a remarkable head of wild white hair. She guessed him to be about fifty years old, but his hair made him look more like Barnaby's father than his brother. His wife, Honoria, a plump, pleasant-looking matron, had given a first impression of gentle warmth, but she was now staring at Miranda with the strangest kind of intensity. Miranda would have liked to ask the lady why, but she had to concentrate on the others if she was to identify them properly. Lady Honoria's guest, Olivia, was the youngest of the circle, certainly not more than twenty-two, and very lovely to look upon, with softly waving golden hair, soft skin and soft, frightened blue eyes. Harry, Barnaby's second brother, tall and robust, was quite like Terence in appearance. And his betrothed, Lady Isabel, was a dark-haired, proud woman with a stiff, regal bearing.
Yes
, Miranda assured herself,
I think I can remember all their names
.

The introductions made, Delia turned to her newly-arrived brother-in-law. “Barnaby, my love, you must be exhausted. Give your coat to Cummings, and let's all go to the drawing room and have tea. Mrs. Velacott, why don't you take the boys upstairs and get acquainted? I'll have tea sent up to you.”

Miranda blinked for a moment, finding it necessary to adjust to a completely new way of behaving in society.
I am not a guest
, she reminded herself.
I'm a servant. I must learn to act the part
. “Yes, ma'am,” she said, making a little bow. Then she turned to George and Maury. “Come, boys. You must show me the way. And Jamie,” she added, reaching up for him, “do you think your ‘Unca Barney' can spare you for a while?”

Barnaby, an expression of aghast surprise passing over his face, handed the reluctant child over. It seemed to Miranda that the man felt just as startled at seeing her in the role of servant as she did. She could feel his eyes on her all the way up the stairs.

When the children and their new governess disappeared, the other guests began to move toward the drawing room. Harry pulled Barnaby out of his trance and urged him across the hall. “Come on, boy, we want to hear about your adventures. Terence is frightening little Livy with the claim that the highwayman held a gun to your head. Is that true?”

The Earl and Honoria were the last to leave the hall. Both had remained staring up the stairway in a stunned silence. “Funny, Honoria,” the Earl muttered, his brow knit, “but I could swear I've seen that woman before.”

Honoria fixed him with a disgusted frown. “Don't you recognize her? That's Miranda Pardew!”

“What?” The Earl eyed his wife askance. “No!
Is
it? You don't mean the chit who made mincemeat of Barnaby all those years ago, do you?”

“The very same. Dash it all, Lawrence, what is she
doing
here? Governess, indeed! Her name's Velacott, isn't it? Shouldn't it be
Lady
Velacott? You don't suppose that idiot, Sir Rodney, has impoverished himself, do you?”

“How the devil would I know if he had?” the Earl responded curtly. “I don't keep up with town gossip. Haven't for years!”

“Well, I don't like it. I don't want that vixen interfering in our lives. I have such high hopes of this holiday. Livy is an angel, and Barnaby's bound to see it if he gets half a chance.”

“Perhaps he'll see it, and perhaps he won't. But I don't see what Miranda Pardew has to do with it.”

“I just don't like her being here, that's all. At this very critical time, too. I've a very bad feeling about this.”

“Bad feeling or not, we'd better go in to tea before they come looking for us. Do you intend to say anything to Barnaby about the Pardew chit?”

“Tell him who she is, is that what you mean?” Honoria's pleasant face tightened into worried thoughtfulness. “No, I don't think so. If he hasn't recognized her, why should we stir the waters? Let's not say a word until we must. If God is kind, perhaps we won't have to.”

“I imagine God has more important matters on His mind,” her husband muttered, taking her arm.

They walked slowly toward the drawing room, Honoria emitting a sigh with every step. “That deuced Pardew woman!” she muttered under her breath. “She's a
curse
. What have I ever done to deserve it?”

Ten

Delia Traherne bit her lip worriedly as she mounted the stairway to the third floor where the children and the servants had their rooms. Now that her guests were dressing for dinner, she had time to interview the new governess, but she was not looking forward to the exchange. She had no talent for interviewing and instructing servants in general, and this interview in particular, she feared, would be an ordeal.

Delia was an unaffected, sensible woman who was content with her lot in life. She had a good-natured, lusty husband, three healthy sons and a comfortable if not luxurious life, and that was quite good enough for her. She did not mind the slightly run-down house, the shabby furnishings, the not-quite-adequate staff. Not afraid of hard work, she did not require servants to do things she could perfectly well do for herself. And one of the things she'd done for herself was raise her sons. If she hadn't been laid low with a severe case of pleurisy last fall, she never would have advertised for a governess. Now that she was better, she was beginning to wonder if she'd been hasty.

What had brought on these misgivings was her feeling that Mrs. Velacott in person did not appear as satisfactory a candidate as she'd seemed in her letter. There was something about her that was too … too—well, there was no other word she could think of—elegant.

But, Delia told herself, the woman had only been there for an afternoon. It was much too soon to make a judgment. She would not have been quite so uneasy if it hadn't been for two peculiar occurrences: a conversation she'd had with Honoria, and a remark made by Barnaby.

The first instance had occurred over tea. Honoria had taken her aside and, with the air of a conspirator, had whispered, “Did your new governess have any references?”

“References?” The question had given Delia her first twinge of discomfort. “No,” she'd answered, “but that's not surprising. This is her very first position.”

“I suppose it's all right, then,” Honoria had murmured. “One has to start somewhere.” Then she'd stirred her tea abstractedly. “Velacott,” she'd added, half to herself. “I've heard that name. I once met a Sir Rodney Velacott, I believe. Do you think she might be related to him?”

“I have no idea,” Delia had responded, “but I can ask her.”

Honoria's eyes had lifted with a distinct look of alarm. “No, no, don't ask her. It's not … not at all important.”

The second instance had occurred shortly afterward. Barnaby had stopped her on the stairs. “Don't you think, Delia,” he'd remarked, “that a five-year-old is too young for a governess?”

“Too young?” she'd echoed stupidly.

“The older boys can handle a governess, I think, but don't you think Jamie would do better with his mother than with a … a stranger? When I was his age, I know I'd have preferred to have my mother guide me through my lessons.”

Delia had believed, at the time, that she understood his motive. She'd patted his arm fondly, remembering how young he'd been when he'd lost his own mother. “Don't worry about Jamie,” she'd reassured him. “He hasn't lost me. I'll always be there.”

But now she needed reassurance herself. It was a worrisome coincidence that two people had already expressed concern about the new governess, and she'd only been there three hours!

She found Mrs. Velacott in the schoolroom with the boys. Jamie had taken her hand and, in his diffident manner, was showing her his toy soldiers. (He had hundreds of them, for all the Traherne brothers had contributed their own childhood treasures to the collection.) George and Maury, who had outgrown toy soldiers, were seated at the table, drawing. “Look, Mama,” Maury said proudly as she entered, “we're making a map of the house for Mrs. Velacott, so she can find her way about!”

“What a very good idea,” his mother said. “Did you boys think of it yourselves?”

“Well, Maury was trying to describe how the passageways connect,” George explained, “and it occurred to me that a map might be clearer. I'm doing the first floor, and he's doing the second.”

“An' I'm showing her my thojerth,” Jamie said with his pronounced lisp. “
All
of them.”

“Heavens!” his mother laughed, ruffling his hair. “Surely not every one! But you must give Mrs. Velacott to me for a while, Jamie boy, for I want to show her her bedroom. Do you think you can play with your ‘thojerth' by yourself?”

“I'll keep an eye on him,” George said importantly. “You ladies can go along.”

Delia led Miranda a short distance down the hall. “Jamie's room is just next to yours, and the other two are across the hall,” she explained as she opened the door.

“Yes, I know,” Miranda said. “George already drew the sketch of the third floor for me.”

“How very clever of him,” Delia said proudly as Miranda stepped over the threshold and looked about her new abode. It was a small room (much smaller than the writing room Belle Velacott had offered her in the London house), with a low ceiling and a single dormer window. The furnishings were drab and spartan: a narrow bed, a dressing table and chair, a commode and a highboy—nothing as fine as a Queen Anne four-poster or a Sheraton inlaid-tile desk. But the bed had been freshly made, some Christmas greens had been set in a vase and the window cleaned to a sparkle in preparation for her arrival—all signs that Mrs. Traherne had tried to make her feel welcome. That was more than could be said for Belle Velacott.

“I hope this is satisfactory, Mrs. Velacott,” Delia said, following her in.

“Yes, quite. But do call me Miranda. Mrs. Velacott is so very formal.”

“Thank you, I'd like that. But only when we're private, of course. It wouldn't do for the children to hear such an informal address.” She looked about her with some dissatisfaction. “I know this room isn't very spacious, but it's the only room near the boys. If you wish, we can go through some of the unused rooms downstairs after the holidays, and you can choose some pictures for the walls. And perhaps we can find a table to fit in the dormer, for you to use as a writing desk.”

“That is very kind of you,” Miranda murmured, trying hard to forget the luxurious surroundings of her past.

“Please sit down, Miranda,” Delia said, indicating the bed. She herself perched on the dressing-table chair. “I'm sure there are many things we must ask each other.”

“Yes, I suppose there are.”

“For instance, do you understand your exact duties?”

“I think so. You outlined them in your last letter. Lessons in the morning, outdoor activity in the afternoon, weather permitting. George must be prepared for his entrance to school next year; I'm to tutor him in history, French and basic calculation. Maury must be helped with penmanship and spelling. And Jamie is to work on conquering his lisp and to start reading.”

“Yes, that's it. And a bit of instruction in drawing would not be amiss, and some guidance in social deportment. I think, from this quick observation of you, that none of this will be beyond your capabilities.”

“Thank you.” She peered at Mrs. Traherne keenly. “But there is something else, isn't there?”

“Yes.” There was an awkward pause. Delia's hands, resting in her lap, clenched. “To be honest, Miranda, although your letter was the most impressive of all I received, in person I find you …” She hesitated, not knowing quite how to go on.

Miranda looked up in alarm. “I am not what you expected? I have disappointed you, is that it? What is it, Mrs. Traherne? Am I too old?”

“Old? Oh, dear, no. What a ridiculous thought! You can't be much beyond twenty-five!”

“I am twenty-nine,” Miranda admitted.

“I would not have found you too old at
forty-nine
, my dear. I myself am past forty but not yet too old to instruct my boys.”

“Then what is it? Something improper in my appearance—?”

“You have a most appealing appearance, I assure you. But there
is
something about you that seems … well, unsuited to the position.”

“Unsuited? How?”

“It's hard for me to put my finger on it. I'm not very good with words. But you look so … so … distinctive, and your carriage is so very proud … and even the gown you're wearing—it's quite well cut and of a very fine poplin, is it not?” She looked across at her new employee with a frank, direct gaze. “You're not running away from something, are you, Miranda? Using my household as a place to hide away from some problem in your life?
Playing
at being a governess, perhaps?”

Miranda's heart began to pound fearfully in her breast. What was Mrs. Traherne getting at? “My gown is four years old, ma'am, made for me in better days. I admit that I've seen better days. Does that disqualify me?”