What a Lady Demands (5 page)

“Good heavens,” Cecelia said faintly. There wasn’t much more she could say in the face of such a tragic tale, even if it was overly late to call on divine intervention.

Mrs. Carstairs nodded. “Hasn’t been the same since. His lordship, neither. He fair well worshipped the ground his wife walked on, he did. A body has to wonder if he’d have rather lost the child and kept his wife.”

“And where was Lord Lindenhurst while all this was happening?” Heaven help her, she suspected, but she may as well know the entire truth.

“What with his leg plaguing him, he couldn’t walk so far. He had to wait for a horse to be saddled. By the time he got to the pond, it was too late.”

Dear Miss Crump,

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Cecelia Sanford, and I am Master Jeremy Blakewell’s latest governess. In my short experience with the boy, I have noted his keen interest in military tactics, and he has informed me that you taught him about such things. It seemed prudent for me to contact you to ask if you had any other notions of what might capture the child’s fancy. The knowledge strikes me as vital if I am to perform my duties to the satisfaction of Lord Lindenhurst.

Absently, Cecelia rubbed the feather end of her quill against her cheek, while she considered the wisdom of asking Miss Crump what she knew of the boy’s stumbling, both the literal and his difficulty recalling certain words. If the governess had spent even a day in the boy’s company, she must have noted them, but had she been employed here long enough to inquire about their origin? And might those inquiries, rather than her failure to educate Jeremy, have led to her dismissal?

No, Cecelia had best not say anything, at least for now. If she absolutely must approach Lindenhurst for his frank on her letter, he might insist on reading it. If she could pass the point where correspondence between her and Miss Crump became routine, she might slip in a hint or two in a missive.

“What are you doing?” Jeremy’s question broke in on her musings.

She suppressed a smile. She’d returned to the nursery and set herself up to write this note at the small table while the boy continued to ignore her. Or pretended to. Once more, she’d bet the child’s natural curiosity would prod him until he approached. Seemingly, her wager had paid off.

“I’m writing a letter to Miss Crump. Perhaps you’d like me to include a few lines of your own.”

He tilted his head and looked at her from the corner of his eye.
There’s a trick here somewhere, but I can’t quite work out what it is.
The expression was plain on his face as if he’d spoken the words aloud. Once again, curiosity won the battle with his natural suspicion of all things educational. “What do you mean?”

“If you’d like to say something to Miss Crump, you can tell me the words, and I’ll write them down for you.” She tickled his cheek with the feather, eliciting a giggle. “I have the feeling you liked Miss Crump, didn’t you?”

He shrugged, the movement too casual to be genuine. “She was all right.”

Cecelia closed her hand about the quill before she dropped it altogether and touched his jaw. He’d gone through so many governesses, he no longer knew whom to trust. He barely had the chance to get to know one governess before someone else replaced her. Had any of them had time to win him over? And his own father—the one person left who might show the boy some affection—remained distant. No wonder Jeremy was reluctant to form attachments.

Heavens, what a horrid situation. Mrs. Carstairs’s story had left her with a firm picture in her mind. The snow-covered grounds, the pond, a jagged hole in the ice, and a pale-faced toddler lying insensible next to his mother. Servants scurrying about, trying desperately to revive the pair of them. Lindenhurst riding up on his chestnut gelding, too late.

She shook the image away, the better to concentrate on her charge as he was now. She couldn’t touch him yet. The sort of wariness that arose from having one’s trust violated was a familiar companion. Once Jeremy decided she was safe, he’d come to her. Until then, she must maintain her distance.

“Perhaps if you write to her, she’ll reply. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Another shrug. “Maybe.” But a small gleam in his eye betrayed the eagerness he tried to hide behind a façade of indifference. “I don’t know how to write, though.”

He added that last almost cautiously as if he’d finally realized the trick.

“I won’t make you learn if you don’t want to, although it might be easier in the long run. Someday I might be too busy to transcribe a letter for you. But that’s up to you to decide. For now I can write whatever you want.” To prove the point, she dipped her quill in the pot of ink.

He stared at the words she’d written across the top of the page in a neat hand. “You already have something there.”

“Well, yes, those are my words, but if you like, we can start a new letter that’s all your own.” She pulled out a second sheet of the precious paper. Well she knew how costly such heavy stock was, but Lindenhurst could dashed well eat the expense if he insisted on his son gaining a proper education. “When we start a letter, we write
dear
and then add the name of the person we’re addressing, like this.”

She spelled out
Dear Miss Crump
at the top of the page. With his eyes, Jeremy followed every loop and swirl of her pen. Good. If she could capture his curiosity, she might convince him to try it himself.

“Miss Barton says it’s like a picture,” he said.

“It’s even more like a code.” Gracious, where had that inspiration come from? If she could turn this into a game, she might hook him. “We’re writing down secret information that will help his majesty’s troops. Now, what would you like to say?”

“I have a new governess now. Her name is Miss Sanford. She wants me to do lessons, too, but I’d rather pretend we’re finding out the French army’s secrets. So she’s having me write this…message. No, that’s not the right word.”

“I believe they call them communiqués.”

“Yes, that’s it. Com…communiqué.” The new term rolled hesitantly off his tongue. “But we must be very careful what we say, because if the other side…in-inter—”

“Intercepts. And where did you learn such a word?”

“Miss Crump told me. If the other side intercepts this, we’re all in deep, deep trouble.”

He opened his mouth, clearly about to rattle on, but she laid a hand on his arm. “Now, let me catch up. You’ve said quite a lot, and I can’t write so quickly.”

He watched as she formed the last words on the page.

“Was there anything else?”

“No, I reckon not.”

“Since this is an official communiqué, that’s just fine. In regular letters, people tend to ask after the recipient’s health and such things.”

“I guess you could add that.”

“How about I add it in my message, and we’ll send them together?” She set the quill aside. “Now, the last step is signing your name. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful surprise for Miss Crump if you learned to do that yourself?”

She held her breath while waiting for his response, half expecting him to knock over the ink bottle and claim she’d tricked him, after all. But he stared at her for the space of a blink or two, and she held in a smile. She had him.

“Here, I’ll show you.” She took up the quill and printed the letters of his name on the page, while spelling them out. He followed the flowing ink with his gaze as avidly as if she really were teaching him a secret code.

“It doesn’t look the same,” he protested.

“For now, I’m using print letters. They’re easier to start with. Once you’ve learned to write this way, you can move on to a more complicated code.” She was definitely going to have to check Lindenhurst’s library and see if he happened to own any books on ciphers. If she could make learning his letters a step to knowing a real code, so much the better. And if Lindenhurst owned no such books, she’d simply have to ask him to obtain some.

“Do you think you can copy that?” she asked when she was finished.

A crease formed between his brows. “I don’t know. Miss Bowman made me try. So did Miss Ramsey. I could never get it right.”

“Why don’t we practice?” She pushed the page aside. “We could try the shapes using our fingers first.” She moved to one side of the chair, leaving just enough room for him to take a seat. Then she picked up his hand, and moved it in the form of the letters, repeating each one.

After a few repetitions, she pulled out the last sheet of vellum, inwardly thankful she’d made no blots on the pages she intended to post, and stood. “Now, let’s try it with the quill. You sit in my spot, and I’ll guide your hand the first time. Then you can try it on your own.”

She leaned over him and placed her hand over his. Beneath her fingers, his hand trembled, whether from excitement or nerves, she didn’t know.
Please.
She sent up a silent prayer.
Let it be excitement.

If she could reach Jeremy, she could succeed as a governess. She could prove to Alexander when he discovered her here that she was an adult and responsible and able to deal properly with small children. That she might be ready to take on a life of her own accord, and perhaps even confront marriage and motherhood at last.

If anyone would have her.

Once more, she spelled out each of the letters as they formed on the page, rumpled certainly, but not bad at all for a first attempt.

“Now you try without me,” she said when they were done.

Brow furrowed in concentration, Jeremy gripped the quill. His mouth worked as he traced the first curve of the
J.
Then a pause before he moved on to form a jagged
e,
overly large and out of line. By the time he painstakingly reached the
y,
his hand shook so much the tail resembled a bolt of lightning.

“It doesn’t look right,” he wailed.

“That was only your first try.” She laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “You should have seen me when I first tried to write my name. It came out far worse.”

He swiveled his head until he looked her in the eye. “How do you write your name?”

“Like this.” She took the quill from him and carefully spelled out Cecelia Sanford.

“Why do you have two different letters when your first name and last name start with the same sound?”

Goodness, and wasn’t that an astute observation? If Jeremy hadn’t learned to read yet, the fault certainly did not lie in any lack of intelligence. “To make matters more complicated, I suppose. You ought to be happy your name doesn’t do that. Come now, let’s try again.”

He took the quill, dipped it in the ink, and obeyed.

“See, you’re improving already.” He wasn’t really, but she felt it best to encourage him. “Keep on and when you’re good enough, you can write your name on the letter for Miss Crump, and won’t she be proud?”

He smiled at that and applied himself all the harder. “Jeremy, Jeremy,” he muttered under his breath as he spelled his name out over and over.

Before she knew it, the door to the nursery opened. Cecelia raised her gaze from the ranks of shaky
Jeremys
scrawled one beneath the next to find Mrs. Carstairs on the threshold.

The housekeeper glanced at the paper, but if Jeremy’s progress made an impression, she did not let it show. “His lordship will be expecting you at supper this evening.”

“Good heavens.” Without thinking, Cecelia raised a hand to pat her hair into place. An old habit more than anything. “I was hardly expecting a supper invitation.”

“It’s Tuesday,” the housekeeper added.

Cecelia blinked. “Well, that explains everything. At any rate, I don’t think I’ve anything appropriate to wear.”

“This is not a formal supper.” Mrs. Carstairs eyed Cecelia’s muslin day dress, still wrinkled from their abandoned constitutional this morning. “What you’ve got on is just fine.”

“But what about Jeremy?” As governess, she’d expected to oversee his meals.

“One of the maids will bring a tray as usual.” One had yesterday, in fact, but Cecelia had assumed that deviation was part of her settling in. “They know the routine. Now come along. His lordship doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“No, of course not,” she replied faintly. And here she’d hoped to take advantage of the meal to learn a bit more about her charge. At least she’d discover if he liked his greens or not. “Jeremy, if you’d like to keep practicing on your own, you may.”

He nodded, a brief jerk of his head that allowed him to keep concentrating on his letters, but that movement showed on the page as a blot in the middle of an
m.
Pursing her lips, Cecelia followed Mrs. Carstairs from the room.

Heavens, Lord Lindenhurst went about matters strangely. Cecelia could never once recall her governess being required to take a meal with her parents. They’d always eaten together in the nursery as a mannerly little family of their own, she and Jane and Alexander and Miss Knightley.

The housekeeper trooped down two staircases, winding along ever-widening passages toward the receiving rooms. But Mrs. Carstairs bypassed the dining room. Cecelia remembered formal meals taken in the dark-paneled space, as a guest of her brother’s friend.

Instead, the housekeeper came to a halt in front of Lindenhurst’s study.

Lindenhurst himself sat behind his desk. A tray before him bore a plate heaped with roast beef, potatoes, and vegetables. A crystal glass of rich red wine stood near his right hand, its fragile stem awaiting his fingers. Several of the staff lined the wall opposite the desk, each man holding himself stiff, hands behind his back—like soldiers on guard—and not one of them seemed to have any means of partaking of the meal. Indeed, other than Lindenhurst’s plate, no other food appeared to be in the offing.

Mrs. Carstairs filed in behind Cecelia and took the spot next to the butler. Lindenhurst looked up, and with a glare and a curt nod, Cecelia slipped to the end of the line.

Silence reigned while Lindenhurst cut into his meat. He dipped a bite into a rich-looking sauce and forked it into his mouth. The food’s rich aroma tantalized Cecelia’s nostrils and reminded her she hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. The cup of tea in Mrs. Carstairs’s rooms hardly counted.

Lindenhurst swallowed his mouthful. “Smithers.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler snapped himself straighter, hands at his sides, truly a soldier at attention. “I’ve taken inventory of the silver, and it’s been polished for the week. I’ve given orders to the first footman to remove the carpets in the morning room for cleaning and…”

As Smithers continued his report, Cecelia kept her gaze riveted on that plate of food, shadowing every last forkful to Lindenhurst’s mouth, watching the movement of his jaw as he chewed, tracking the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed a mouthful of wine. Fluffy potatoes dripped with butter. The carrots swam in a sauce flavored with orange, if the scent reaching her nose was any indication.