Rules for a Proper Governess (8 page)

All the air in the room seemed to leave with her.

Mr. McBride went off to work the next morning while Bertie took breakfast with the little ones in the nursery and told them the news that she was to be their governess for a little while. Andrew rejoiced loudly until Bertie had to remind him to sit down and eat the breakfast the maid had brought up on a tray.

Fancy that, maids carrying hot, tasty breakfasts to the likes of Bertie Frasier. The maid had flashed her a sideways glance, clearly wondering at her master’s senses, but she was polite as could be as she set down the tray, and friendly with Cat and Andrew.

Breakfast was tea and toast, bacon and poached eggs, with a bit of sauce in a sauceboat to go over it all. The sauceboat was heavy silver and worth a bob. If Bertie had been Andrew’s age, when she’d still thought her father walked on water, she’d have alerted him that here was a house where they used expensive dishes for everyday meals—in the nursery, no less.

But Bertie knew her father better now. She didn’t want to be like him, and she’d never, ever again steal anything from Mr. Sinclair McBride. Taking his handkerchief and coins last night had been a bit of fun, and she hadn’t been wrong—he was too easy. She’d only done it to prove a point, that he needed to be more careful.

While she and the mites breakfasted, she heard Sinclair downstairs, shouting for Macaulay, banging doors. Mr. McBride had a voice that could rattle the ceiling, and even Macaulay couldn’t match it. No wonder everyone in court bent before him like reeds in a wind. It was only when Mr. McBride stopped banging about that the emptiness came through.

Bertie found herself listening hard to him, disappointment trickling through her when the front door opened and closed, his voice receding as he got into his coach. Cat and Andrew left the table and headed for the window to watch him go. Hooves clip-clopped as the carriage went away, taking him off to another day at his chambers.

Andrew waved frantically, as though his dad could see him up there. Caitriona merely looked after the carriage, her doll firmly in the crook of her arm.

The maid returned for the tray, still polite, even with the master gone. No sitting down for a chat, no impertinence to Bertie because she wasn’t a real governess. She simply collected the breakfast things, said a thank you to Andrew when he fetched a spoon that had fallen to the floor for her, and walked out again.

“Well then,” Bertie said, rubbing her hands. “What do ya want to do now?”

“Play soldiers in the park!” Andrew shouted.

“We’re supposed to have lessons,” Caitriona said, but wistfully, as though playing soldiers was more appealing to her too.

“Tell ya what.” Bertie sat down at the cleared table, which was next to a filled bookcase. “Let’s have a story out of one of these books, then we’ll go out to the park. I’m supposed to be your governess, and your dad would be angry at me if I didn’t have you learn something, right?”

The book Bertie chose was big, heavy, and full of illustrations and tiny, cramped text. Bertie could read just fine, though she had to strain her eyes to do it with this book. The chapter Andrew wanted to hear was about a battle long, long ago in East Anglia, with a woman called Boadicea leading an army against Roman soldiers. Bertie read with interest—it was the first she’d ever heard of it.

“It’s a bit like a play, innit?” Bertie asked when they’d read the dramatic end of Boadicea. “With villains and heroes and swordfights—like in a Christmas panto.”

“A Christmas what?” Andrew asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Panto—a pantomime.” Bertie stared at their blank faces in amazement. “Haven’t you ever seen a panto? It’s a play, with fighting and mean old villains, a girl in breeches and a man dressed up as a lady, and lots of amazing tricks . . .” She trailed off as both children blinked at her, clearly having no clue what she meant.

Bertie closed the book. “I’m going to have to teach you a lot, looks like. But you’ll be teaching me in return, I wager.”

Caitriona frowned. “Teach you what?”

“How to be a proper governess. I don’t know how to be one, do I?” Bertie winked at them. “I have to rely on you completely.”

Andrew grinned. “A governess gives us heaps and heaps of cake and lets us play in the park all day.”

“I said a proper governess, Andrew, not a proper fool.” Bertie softened the words by ruffling his hair. “Now, then, can I trust you two to behave yourselves while I run off home a minute? I’ll be wanting my things.”

More puzzlement from both of them. “You can send for your things,” Cat said. “Like Miss Evans will send here for hers.”

“Send to who? I’ve only got a few friends I’d trust not to help themselves to what I have, and besides, I don’t want to put them out. I didn’t get home last night, and my dear old dad will be frantic about me and wanting his breakfast.”

“But it’s ten o’clock,” Cat said. “Our father leaves for work every day at eight.”

Bertie grinned. “That’s because your dad is a respectable barrister at a respectable office. My dad works for a builder, and sometimes there’s work, and sometimes not. Either way, he stays out all night with his friends and staggers in when he pleases. By now, he’ll be in a right state.”

The two children listened in fascination. “Take us with you,” Andrew said, his voice rising.

Bertie felt a qualm. Cat and Andrew, all brushed and combed, were like dainty cakes in a sweetshop window. Cat wore a light blue dress whose little bustle was topped with a big bow that matched the blue bow in her hair. Andrew wore knickers, a pristine white shirt, a jacket, and a little cravat. He’d already managed to rumple everything, being Andrew, but no one could mistake him for anything but a rich and pampered little boy. The street toughs where Bertie lived would eat them both alive.

“No, you stay here and read or something,” Bertie said quickly. “I won’t be long. I’ll go while you’re having your lunch.”

“We don’t have luncheon,” Cat said. “We have dinner at one o’clock.”

Bertie winked at her. “Well you enjoy your fancy dinner then, and I’ll nip home.”

Andrew’s voice went up in volume. “You shouldn’t leave us alone.”

Bertie looked at him in surprise. “You’re not alone. Goodness, you’ve got oceans of people living under this roof, haven’t you? There’s Macaulay and Mrs. Hill, Charlotte the downstairs maid, the lad Peter, a cook and the other maid who comes up here for you . . . what’s her name?”

“Aoife,” Andrew said. “She’s Irish. Mrs. Hill says we have to call her Jane, because Aoife is outlandish, but that’s her name, so it’s what I say.”

From the good-humored twinkle she’d seen in Aoife’s eye, Bertie thought she must appreciate Andrew’s candor.

“And there’s Richards, the coachman,” Cat said. “We don’t see him much, because he stays in the mews, with the groom and the gardener.”

“See?” Bertie said. “All sorts of people. You don’t really need me all the time, do you?”

“Yes, we do!” Andrew declared at the top of his voice.

“The others say we’re unruly and a handful,” Cat said without inflection. “That we’re holy terrors, and no one can do anything with us.”

“I’m a holy terror!” Andrew shouted. “That’s what Richards said when I let out the horses to run free. But it was Cat that opened the door.”

Cat took the time to press a kiss to her doll’s head, but Bertie saw the flush on her cheek.

Bertie rested her elbows on the table. “Did Richards take the back of his hand to ya?”

Andrew stopped shouting and stared, round-eyed. Cat lifted her head. “No,” she said, sounding surprised Bertie would ask.

“Dad would have torn his head off,” Andrew said. “The governess we had that week sent us to bed without supper, and Dad sacked her.”

“Good on your dad.” Even Bertie’s father had never made her go hungry as punishment, knowing what it was like to be hungry in truth. Her grandfather, dead before Bertie was born, had spent all his money on drink while his wife and son starved. “Even so, sounds like your dad spoils you a bit.”

“He gives us anything we want,” Andrew said, his voice getting louder again. “Anything, anytime we ask.”

“But he’s never home,” Cat said quietly.

Bertie thought about how late Mr. McBride had come in last night and how early he’d rushed off again this morning. “My dad stays out all the time too,” she said. “But I’ll nip home and make sure he’s fixed, and be right back here before you know it.”

Cat looked down at her doll again. “You won’t come back.”

The words were quiet, nearly drowned by Andrew bouncing in his chair and yelling again that he wanted to go with her.

Bertie leaned down to Cat until she could look her in the eye. “Now, Miss Caitriona, you put that idea right out of your head. Of course I’ll come back.”

“If you go, we’ll climb out the window and come after you,” Andrew said.

Bertie grew alarmed, realizing Andrew might do just that. “No, you won’t,” she said firmly. “I want to come back here and live with you a spell. Now, we just have to convince Aoife or Macaulay that you’ll be fine with them while I’m gone.”

“Aoife says naughty children in Ireland get dropped down a well,” Andrew said. “But she laughed when she said it, so I don’t believe her. And Macaulay gets so
mad
. Mrs. Hill doesn’t—she goes all cold and stares at me until I think a ghost has grabbed me. Except she sneaked us cakes when Miss Evans was here.”

Bertie’s respect for Mrs. Hill grew. But it sounded as though the rest of the household had grown wise to the children’s ways and wouldn’t be welcoming a chance to watch over them.

“We could stay with Aunt Eleanor,” Cat said.

Andrew jumped up on his chair, even more animated than before. “Aunt Eleanor! Say we can, Bertie. Say, say.”

Bertie regarded them warily. “Who is Aunt Eleanor?”

“She lives in Grosvenor Square,” Cat said. “She’s a duchess. She’s married to the brother of Aunt Ainsley’s husband.”

Bertie didn’t bother to follow the line of relationship—families in the East End could be extensive and convoluted. As long as you said someone was “our Mary” or “our John,” outsiders didn’t waste time figuring out exactly who was related to whom. “She a real duchess?” Bertie asked, her interest piqued.

“Uncle Hart is a duke,” Andrew said. “The Duke of Kilmorgan. A Scots duke.”

“An English duke too,” Cat corrected him. “Fourteenth duke of Kilmorgan in the Scottish line, second in the English.”

Bertie had no idea what any of this meant, but her interest grew. “I think I’d like to meet a real duchess,” she said. “I say we try that.”

The real duchess lived in a mansion not far from Mr. McBride’s house. Mrs. Hill, who’d thought taking the children to this duchess a good idea, offered to have Richards bring the coach around, but Bertie saw no reason not to walk. The December day was crisp but bright without many clouds, and the house was only a block or two away.

When Andrew pointed out the house in Grosvenor Square, however, Bertie thought it might have been wiser to roll up in some style. The place was much bigger than Mr. McBride’s house, taller and twice as wide. Its grand door was positioned between two columns, and arched windows rose up the walls to a dormer roof far above.

The door was opened by a very stiff and slender young man who didn’t grin like Peter at Mr. McBride’s house did. He knew Cat and Andrew, though, and ushered the three of them into a wide foyer.

A sweep of stairs with a carved wooden railing wound upward through a lofty hall, large windows on each landing pouring in light. Bertie craned her head to look all the way to the top of the stairs, where a painting on the ceiling showed clouds and flying creatures.

Andrew, next to her, exploded into sound. “Aunt Eleanor! We’re staying with you, so our new governess can go home and fetch her things before her dad gets into a right state!”

A door shut somewhere above them. Bertie heard light footsteps, and then a lady, so extraordinarily lovely she might have stepped from a fine painting, started down the stairs, her face alight with curiosity. Her dress rustled as she descended—its skirt had stripes of lighter and darker blue green, with a solid blue green overskirt pulled open to fall in ruffles down the back. Her shining red hair was all braids and curls, probably the latest fashion, though Bertie had no idea, and her long-sleeved bodice hugged a body of curves, not pencil thinness.