A Woman Scorned (54 page)

“Well, that rather settles it then, doesn’t it?
I
certainly shan’t be marrying her, so that’s that. Best put her on the next mail coach to London.”

“Yes, my lord. And the . . . the corpse?”

Elbows propped upon the desk, Grayson heaved a weary sigh and dropped his head into his palms. “Just send for the priest, Milford. I can do no more for my father. He is in God’s hands now, not mine. And I do not envy God the task.”

Allowing a glint of a challenge to light her eyes, Helene de Severs lifted her chin and stared confidently across the burnished mahogany desk, studying the elderly gentleman who leaned back in his chair with such a condescending indolence. Outside the open window, the clatter of passing carriages and the rumble of drays in Threadneedle Street mingled with the strident cries of a morning costermonger as he made his way toward Bishopsgate and the old city walls.

By comparison, the bustling London traffic in the street below made the heavy, protracted silence inside the oakpaneled office seem all the more discordant. Finally, the elderly solicitor leaned forward again, splaying his long, thin fingers upon his burnished desktop, as if perhaps he had decided to rise and escort his young visitor to the door.

Instead, the old man cleared his throat sonorously and began to tap one spindly finger as if to emphasize his warning. “Miss de Severs, you really must understand the full circumstance of this position,” he explained, his thick white brows pulled gravely together. “I am afraid Lord Treyhern’s child is, er, rather . . . how shall I put it?
Peculiar
.”

Already remarkably rigid in her chair, Helene de Severs nonetheless managed to draw herself up another inch or two. She was a tall woman, not easily cowed, so the motion was usually effective. “I do beg your pardon,” she said archly. “You say the child is
what—?
”

“Peculiar. As in abnormal,” the solicitor returned coldly.

Helene suppressed her rising ire. “I am accustomed to challenging assignments, Mr. Brightsmith,” she said with a tight, uncomfortable smile. “I collect that the difficult nature of this assignment is precisely why I am here today, is it not? But
peculiar
and
abnormal
seem rather harsh words for any child.”

The solicitor shrugged. “In point of fact, I am given to understand that the girl may be hopelessly dim-witted. We simply do not know, and indeed, there may be little that you can do. But apparently, Lord Treyhern remains . . . hopeful. He wishes to engage someone with special experience to work with the child.”

Helene held both her breath and her tongue for a long moment. Life in London had been abysmally dull since her return from abroad. Moreover, another three months of this indolence would severely press her meager savings. She needed this post rather desperately, and not just for the money. She needed to remain in England just now. But most of all, Helene needed the challenge, for try as she might, she had found that she could not be happy without her work.

Nonetheless, she most assuredly would not obtain the position by angering Lord Treyhern’s rather unenlightened solicitor. She was trained to educate children, Helene reminded herself, not pompous old men. So resolved, Helene tossed her neatly gloved hand dismissively, then bestowed upon old Mr. Brightsmith her most charming smile. It was a look, Helene knew, which could soften the most hardened of men, for she had seen her late mother use it often, and to merciless advantage.

“My dear Mr. Brightsmith, I have every confidence that I can be of help to his lordship,” said Helene. “Pray tell me all that you know of this child, and give me the benefit of any insight you may have. No doubt a man of your experience can be of help in such a difficult situation.”

The solicitor seemed mollified. He shuffled through a few papers on his desk, then drew out a long sheet of foolscap. “Well, Ariane is aged six and a half years. She resides in Gloucestershire with her widowed father, Lord Treyhern, who has directed me to find a highly qualified governess. A teacher with some experience in the training of difficult pupils.” He faltered a little. “I fear, Miss de Severs, that I know little more than that.”

“And her disorder . . . ?”

“Her disorder?” The solicitor shot Helene an indeterminate look. “Well, the child cannot speak! She is mute!”

Her ire flashed again, and Helene forgot to simper. “Mute?” she archly replied. “Do you mean, sir, that she cannot speak? Or that she will not speak?”

The old man bristled a bit. “Indeed, Miss de Severs, is there some difference which escapes me? It is simple enough: the child cannot talk.”

There was often a great deal of difference, but Helene would not trouble herself to cast pearls before swine. Instead, she slumped back against her chair, unaware until that moment of how intently she had been leaning forward. “I see,” she said softly. “But has the child never spoken? Not even when she was younger?”

At this, the grizzled brows shot up in obvious amazement. “Why, er—yes! Exactly so! The child did begin to jabber on a bit when she was a toddling babe. But she no longer seems capable.”

“Ah!” murmured Helene knowingly. “I have studied a few such cases.”

“Have you indeed?” The old solicitor looked fleetingly impressed, then no doubt recollecting that she was a mere female, quickly squashed it. “The child looks well enough. I can tell you that much, for I have seen her myself. But she appears a bit . . .
wild
about the eyes.”

Helene decided to shift the topic. “And will you tell me what happened to her, Mr. Brightsmith?” she asked rather sharply. Then, seeing the haughty glare on the solicitor’s face, she dropped her eyes deferentially. “You see, sir, I cannot very well help the child without some understanding of her circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” he answered vaguely.

“Indeed. You asked me here today because I have had some experience with children who have, as you say,
difficulties
. Moreover, I have read and studied many such cases. And in my opinion, such abrupt losses of speech, or similar aberrations in what have previously appeared to be normally developing children, are often precipitated by some sort of accident or crisis.” Momentarily absorbed in thought. Helene furrowed her brows. “It could, of course, be an intercranial tumor bearing pressure on something . . . or perhaps there was a blow to the head? And occasionally some emotional trauma associated with childhood development, such as—”

“Thank you, Miss de Severs!” interjected Mr. Brightsmith, his thin hand extended, palm out, as if to forestall her extemporary lecture. “Rest assured, the child has sustained no injury. Moreover, I am already convinced of your qualifications for this post. As you must know, the letter from Baroness von Graffen is glowing, as are your earlier references.”

Helene had been interviewed often enough to know when the dice had finished tumbling. “You are too kind, sir,” she said graciously, then settled back to wait.

As if he had read her mind, the old solicitor slid open a drawer, then pushed a sealed letter across the glossy desk. “I must say, Miss de Severs, you do come rather dear for—for a governess, or for whatever it is you are.”

“Indeed, a governess,” echoed Helene compliantly.

“Yes, well. Against my judgement, his lordship has agreed to your extraordinary salary demands of sixty pounds per annum, half payable in advance. However, I shall require your signature here”—he paused to thrust forward another document—“to signify your intent to remain in Lord Treyhern’s employ for the duration. Your total commitment to this assignment is critical to him. He has had some difficulty retaining staff, and he wishes for some consistency in his daughter’s life.”

“Ah! That is both wise and fair.” Helene scribbled her signature, and with a little prayer of thanks, picked up the envelope. This desperately needed advance was more than enough to repair her ancient cottage and keep her old nanny supplied with coal for the coming winter.

“Moreover, if it eases your mind at all, Mr. Brightsmith,” she added, tucking the envelope into her reticule, “I am perhaps just a little more than a governess. His lordship shall have no cause to regret my employment.” Inwardly, Helene prayed this was true. She hardly knew enough about her new pupil to be confident.

“A bold claim, Miss de Severs,” Mr. Brightsmith replied, as he took up his quill and began to scratch out what looked like an address.

Helene smiled again. “I have always thought Virgil said it best, Mr. Brightsmith,” she answered crisply. “
Fortune favors the bold
. I think I have the translation aright, do I not?”

“You do indeed,” he answered dryly, sliding the paper toward her. “Your traveling directions, Miss de Severs. You are expected in Cheston-on-the-Water, Thursday a week.”

Helene felt her throat constrict. “Ch-
Cheston?
”

The solicitor’s keen eyes flicked up at her from his desk. “Is there some problem?”

“No.” Helene swallowed hard, tightly gripping the envelope which contained her money. “No! None whatsoever.”

“Excellent,” replied Mr. Brightsmith, and this time he did rise. “And Miss de Severs?”

“Yes?” she answered, glancing up a little uncertainly.

“Please take your black fripperies. Ribbons and such. His lordship’s household is in deep mourning.”

Helen nodded dumbly and, as if in a trance, walked out of Mr. Brightsmith’s office, through the reception room, and down the long flight of stairs which led to the street below. Weaving her way through the late-morning pedestrians, she braced an unsteady hand against the door of her hired carriage, oblivious to the driver, who leapt forward to assist.

Blindly, she stared down at the folded slip of paper Mr. Brightsmith had pressed into her palm.
Surely not Cheston-on- the-Water?
So very near to Chalcote
. . . It could not possibly be so, could it? A dozen years had passed. Gloucestershire was a vast county; its wolds scattered with fine estates. Moreover, Helene had never heard of the Viscount Treyhern.

As she tried to reassure herself, an empty tumbril spun past, crowding her carriage and spraying a filthy arc of water and worse across her hems. “Hey, miss! Look lively ’ere! I’ve not got all day.”

Her driver’s pleas were easily ignored as she finally flipped the paper open to scan the crabbed, sideways scrawl.
Grayson Rutledge
,
Viscount Treyhern
.
Chalcote Court
,
Cheston-on-the-Water
,
Gloucestershire
. A deep buzzing began somewhere inside Helene’s head.

“Miss? Miss! Be you ill?” The driver’s voice, urgent now, came as if from a deep, black well, and Helene was only dimly aware that he had jerked open the carriage door and was pressing her into its shadowy depths.
Grayson Rutledge
,
Viscount Treyhern
. . . the words began to whirl through her mind.

“Best get you back to Hampstead quick-like, aye?” added the driver uneasily, slamming shut the door.

The newly invested Viscount Treyhern stood at his bedroom window, absently sipping tepid coffee and pondering the state of his life, when his black traveling coach spun merrily into the long drive, returning from its errand to the nearby village of Cheston. An ancient dray, which the viscount did not recognize, rumbled along in the coach’s wake. Lord Treyhern gazed wearily across the perfectly manicured lawns of Chalcote Court, watching as the faint November daylight reflected off the moving carriage roof, and wondering what next he ought to do.

He did not care for life’s uncertainties, for he was a precise, controlling sort of man. And yet the preceding month had been a difficult one; harder, somehow, than he had expected. It had brought home to him the stark realization that while his father’s death had removed an undeniable burden from his life, it had by no means removed the only one. Indeed, following the sudden departure of her most recent—albeit incompetent—governess, Ariane had crawled ever deeper into her dark silence, and he was at a loss as to what should be done for the child.

Grayson studied the carriage now, its yellow wheels spinning inexorably closer to the front door as it trundled beneath the blazing oaks which lined the drive. And as his eyes followed its progress, Grayson began fervently to pray that it held at least a part of what his life so desperately needed right now. Oddly enough, he had the most fanciful feeling that it did, and he was not a man much given to eccentricity or prognostication.

He could hear the crunch of gravel as his coachman drew up at the bottom of the steps which led down into the sweeping circular drive. In a flash, a liveried footman trotted dutifully down to open the door, a second following to unload the luggage. Through the open carriage door, Grayson saw her arm extend gracefully; saw the flash of white skin just where her cuff met her glove. Surprisingly, both sleeve and glove were a deep, rich shade of purple, like a well-cut amethyst viewed by candlelight. Subdued, but nonetheless opulent.

At a glance, neither her attire nor her bearing looked quite like that of a governess, and yet Grayson could not have said precisely why that was so. She stepped down into the drive, her burnished black tresses swept tightly up in what Grayson always thought of as “governess hair.” But once again, on this woman the arrangement looked strangely paradoxical, particularly so when topped by a dark purple hat, trimmed with a rakishly tilted black feather.

The footmen were unloading her luggage now as she stood beside the dray, gesturing her instructions to them in a decidedly bold, Gallic way. Good God! Had the woman come to stay forever? A veritable heap of boxes and trunks seemed to be accumulating in his driveway. Grayson was taken aback; he had never known a governess to own so many things, let alone to travel with them.

Somehow, it seemed inappropriate. This was the country, and she would have little need of such fripperies and fineries, if that was what her luggage held. Indeed, what else could it be? Grayson recollected that Miss de Severs’ decidedly French name had initially given him pause when Brightsmith recommended her. Perhaps his hesitation had been justified. What Grayson had wanted was a sturdy, stoic Englishwoman, yet at the pile of baggage grew, he began to be very much afraid that was not at all what he’d got. Damn his luck to hell.