Chapter Seven
Northumberland—Two Weeks Later
V erda dragged her gaze from the window and the horrendous weather bombarding the carriage—that had turned a week’s journey into eleven days—to her maid, Lizzie. The poor girl had been released from the Krupt household three years ago due to lack of funds. Then reinstated once Papa had had it in his head for Verda to set her cap for Rathbourne. She hadn’t been about to travel to Northumberland alone with Mr. Oshea. Not if she wished to remain unmarried, of which she definitely so wished. In desperation and for propriety’s sake, Verda had negotiated for Lizzie to accompany her.
Lizzie clutched the leather strap, wincing at each rut the carriage hit. It would be a miracle if a wheel, or worse, an axel, didn’t snap in half and leave them stranded or perished in God-knew-where.
“I expect you’re regretting your decision in this little jaunt.” Verda clung to another strap as another bump in the road jarred her entire body.
“N-No, m-miss.” The poor woman’s teeth were chattering. “Mr. Oshea was quite g-generous.”
He was that. Of course, now her maid was in Mr. Oshea’s employ. Verda thought of the ultimatum Mr. Oshea had issued two weeks ago that she’d stood wholeheartedly behind. Her father now had a live-in manservant to oversee Papa’s activities. His debts settled and a decree of no more excess gambling. Or drinking. Or any of the other vices he might harbor, of which she was likely, and gladly, unaware. She wasn’t certain how Mr. Oshea had managed Papa, but she decided his docile behavior would suffice and was grateful for the guilt it had alleviated.
She glanced out at the dark clouds as they barreled toward the cold North Sea—destination Alnmouth—to a residence dubbed Stonemare. Such a name brought to mind a drafty castle straight out of the late Middle Ages. Stone walls, stone floors, no privies, rushes and straw tossed about to warm the floors and absorb disgusting malodors.
Moments later, a large, imposing structure loomed out of the murky sky that would have done The Castle of Otranto every sort of justice, though Verda had never cracked the book herself. Her imagination had taken flight from the spell of the horrid novel craze many of her acquaintances from school had fallen under after devouring Mrs. Radcliffe’s words. Verda suspected having lived through the terror of being stranded with her dead mother at eight years old had cured her of any desire to relive that horror, fictitious or no, mattered not.
A knock sounded from above and the trapdoor opened. “Never fear, ladies,” Mr. Oshea shouted over a howling wind that had Verda grasping for the neck of her cloak to fend off the icy air. “We’re within a stone’s throw now.” Then he laughed—at his awful pun, she supposed—and slapped the trapdoor shut. There was an ominous feel to the silence that followed.
“Will we be safe, ye think, miss?”
Verda’s gaze went to Lizzie’s face. It was a mere shadow.
She shored up her nerves, raising her chin and steeling her spine. “Of course, we will, Lizzie. Mr. Oshea would never put us in danger.” She spoke in her haughtiest tone that revealed only the slightest tremor. “I am here for his nephew and you are here for me. Mr. Oshea promised us so, remember?”
Lizzie’s teeth chattered again. Or perhaps they’d never quit.
“Furthermore, you shall reside in an adjoining room to mine.” Hopefully. Verda grabbed Lizzie’s free hand. “I know it’s an odd situation, dear, but we shall persevere together.”
“Yes, miss. Thank ye, miss,” she whispered.
The coach turned up a large, sweeping drive to an imposing portico of an ancient castle. All that was missing was gargoyles on either side of the entrance. A tall, cadaverous-looking man with longish, stringy, gray hair appeared and despite the hovering clouds, he acted in no hurry. In fact, the slight limp she detected was almost indiscernible. As if he sensed her watching, his gaze flicked to and held hers. She stifled a gasp at the soulless eyes and spectral hollows in his cheeks.
The door slammed back, startling her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Mr. Oshea.”
He glanced behind him then turned back, smiling. “No, you’re not seeing a ghoul. That’s Baldric, our stablemaster. He’s been at Stonemare for as long as I can recall.” He assisted her and Lizzie from the coach. “Hurry now,” he said. “It looks to be a magnificent storm brewing.”
Though her heart pounded hard enough to rival the oncoming gale, Verda wasted no time. The wind ripped at her skirts, nearly whisking her away. She grabbed Lizzie’s hand and they dashed through an open door just as the heavens unleashed buckets of tears. She glanced over her shoulder to see poor Mr. Oshea being doused by the onslaught. Still, the man did not rush forward for cover. He assisted the footmen in handling the baggage and carrying two of the smaller cases.
“Hello.” The voice was small. A child’s.
Verda spun around. A young boy greeted her. His arms cradled a doll swaddled in blankets. The sight took her aback. “Oh, hello. Master Oshea, I presume?”
“Noah,” he confirmed.
She’d never been around children much, and to see a boy holding a doll seemed quite unusual. She moved forward. “May I see your toy?”
His eyes narrowed on her and he stepped back. “No, thank you. He is not a toy. He’s my Julius.”
Not a toy ?
A squeak emitted from it. “He’s hungry,” he said. He hugged the tiny being to his thin chest.
“Blast it, Master Noah! Bring that child back right this minute.”
Verda’s gaze shot to the landing at the top of a grandiose staircase framed by elaborately carved balustrades, from which a large-bosomed woman glared down at them, her beefy hands fisted at her hips.
Without another word or glance back, the boy, Noah, went up the stairs and handed off the child.
“Was that really a baby, ma’am?” Lizzie’s voice filtered in, but Verda didn’t take her eyes from the landing above, though neither Noah nor the woman were still in sight.
“I don’t see how it couldn’t be.” Verda blinked then slowly circled, taking in their surroundings.
The walls, not of stone, lived up to every dark thought she imagined existed in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. There was indeed a draft that blasted from the open doors. The cold air did not dispel the taint of mustiness or the earthy scent of stone and old wood. It reminded her a bit of home, actually, and teased her with a bit of ironic humor. Old tapestries hung throughout, depicting hunting scenes, florals and landscapes with water and bridges, and lastly, a joust straight out of the medieval era. Even without touching them, Verda could see the quality was phenomenal.
If the floors were stone, she couldn’t tell from the Persian rug she stood upon, though it was worn in places. Flames flickered in sconces along the wall but didn’t blow out.
The entryway instantly grew chaotic as Mr. Oshea entered and stomped mud from his boots. A harried housekeeper appeared, righting her white mobcap. “Ye must be the new governess for Master Noah. ’E’ll be excited to meet ye.”
Verda gave a small smile but didn’t bother informing her that she’d met the young master already and he hadn’t appeared in the least eager for his upcoming lessons. Perhaps she was wrong, but as she’d warned Mr. Oshea, she knew nothing of children.
“Come along. I’ll show ye to yer rooms. Don’ know where Mr. Winfield is at present. We run a skeleton crew ’ere, miss.”
“Mr. Winfield?”
“The butler, miss. Useless bastard,” she muttered under her breath, though not low enough to keep Verda from making out every word.
She met Lizzie’s startled eyes. Verda gave a small shake of her head. “Of course. I’d like my maid to reside nearby, if it’s no trouble,” Verda told her.
The older woman stopped and peered over her shoulder at them. “I see. Well, changes things a bit.” Then she grinned an almost toothless smile. “O’course, o’course. No problem a’tall.” She turned and continued up the stairs.
Relief spilled through Verda as she and Lizzie continued following the robust woman on up.
“I’ll have your bags sent up in nothing flat,” Mr. Oshea called out from below.
At the sound of his cheerful countenance, Verda nearly tripped, but Lizzie gripped her arm, saving her from a mortifying fate.
“I’m Mrs. Knagg,” the woman said, apparently oblivious to any mishap. “I reckon Master Noah will be anxious to get back t’his studies. Never seen a child so enthralled with learnin’, that be the truth.”
Mrs. Knagg took them up past the first floor to the family rooms on the second floor and down a long hall, through a gallery, to another wing. East, possibly.
She opened a door to a bedchamber fit for a… a queen, if it had been cleaned and readied. “Here ye are, miss. I’ll send one o’the footmen to light the fire for ye.” She smiled, exposing a missing tooth.
“But, this is… is much too… grand…”
“Tis the only one with a sittin’ room and chamber for yer maid. Ye’ll settle in nicely. We ain’t so particular in these parts, miss. ’Spect his lordship will want t’visit with ye on the morrow. Dinner’s at seven in the small dinin’ room.”
“Er, Mrs. Knagg. Will there be someone to guide me to the small dining room? And what of Lizzie’s dinner?”
Mrs. Knagg glanced over her shoulder with another grin. “O’course, miss. One o’the maids’ll call fer ye.” Her eyes went over Lizzie. “Servants’ stairs are down the hall. They lead straight to the kitchens. Ye can’t miss ’em.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Knagg.”
After the housekeeper’s departure, Verda went to the hearth. There was a flint and striking stone on the mantle. She lowered to her knees and, aiming the flint toward the kindling, she struck. The sparks flew onto the kindling on the first strike. She leaned in and blew. Seconds later, a small flame caught hold.
“I’m always amazed at your abilities, miss,” Lizzie said, shaking her head.
Verda grinned. She’d never explained her reasoning for learning such a skill, and she didn’t now, either. She toured her “suite” and was pleased to find a small sitting room and even a room for Lizzie. The wardrobe was large with more pegs than Verda required.
There was a knock. More like a pounding.
“Enter,” she said.
“Miss Fairclough.” Mr. Oshea came in carrying hers and Lizzie’s smaller bags, followed by a footman hoisting Verda’s trunk on his shoulders. “I understand Mrs. Knagg offered you different accommodations than those originally prepared for you.”
“My maid—”
He set down their bags then waved out his hand. “No need to explain. My apologies on not considering beforehand.”
The footman appeared in the door and she quickly stepped back. “Goodness.”
He unloaded her trunk then strode to the hearth. “The fire’s lit,” he said, tilting his head and looking confused.
“Thank you, Fletcher.” Mr. Oshea rubbed his hands together as if he hadn’t heard the man. Then he frowned. “It shouldn’t take long to warm things up. I must admit, this wing of the castle is not typically occupied.”
“Which makes it perfect to have my maid nearby.” Her heart hammered against her ribs. They did not appear to be starting off on a good footing. “Besides,” she rationalized… a little heatedly. “I have need of her assistance and you did promise.” She didn’t care to explain in front of Lizzie or the footman that with Lizzie’s presence, there was an added protection in the event Lord Pender stumbled in—inadvertently, of course.
Mr. Oshea inclined his head and let her explanation stand.
Verda ignored him and glanced about then realized she stood amidst her bedchamber with an unmarried man. It was suddenly, definitely warm now. “Perhaps we should adjourn to the sitting room.”
A grin fleeted his features that was almost wolfish. Perhaps it was the gloom invading the room from the windows. “I shall take my leave.” He moved to the door. “I’ll arrange for you to meet with Noah tomorrow morning. He’ll be very excited.”
“Actually, I’ve already made the acquaintance of Master Noah. I must say, he did not appear thrilled. And while we are about the subject of meeting the household, Mrs. Knagg has informed me that Lord Pender also wishes to meet with me in the morning.”
“Mrs. Knagg is a busybody. We shall speak at dinner, which is at seven.”
The door latched softly, drawing a smirk from her. After a second, it shifted into a full-blown smile, then she shook her head and followed Lizzie to inspect the rest of the lovely, unprepared suite.
*
The castle’s dining chamber held the oldest piece of furniture in the keep: a scarred, wooden table with carved legs and clawed feet. Grand portraits that could stand a thorough cleaning glared down at him. There was a miniscule number of servants despite the estate’s holdings. In the event they needed additional staff, Mrs. Knagg hired extras from Alnmouth, which was rarely the case. The situation suited Sander fine, though the reasons behind that were irritating at best—the villagers believed Stonemare haunted. Lady Pender’s recent demise only added to its eerie notoriety.
Sander took his place at the far end of the table opposite Damien’s chair. His brother hadn’t yet appeared, but then neither had Miss Fairclough. With a sigh, he slipped the fob from his waistcoat and opened it. Seven-oh-two. Shutting it with a snap, he dropped it back in its allotted pocket then picked up his wine. He set it to his lips as the doors swung wide and Fletcher appeared. The footman stepped aside, allowing Miss Fairclough to enter.
The magnificent countenance of her bearing stole the breath from Sander’s chest with a formidable assault to his sternum. Without a single touch of the wine, his glass landed hard on the table, though he managed to rise slowly, calmly to his feet. He inclined his head. “Miss Fairclough.”
“Mr. Oshea.”
“You look”— ravishing, delectable, captivating— “very nice.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at the table. “Where is Lord Pender?”
“I haven’t seen him as of yet.” He shrugged. “That is not entirely out of the ordinary for him.” Likely, he was passed out in his chamber from too much spirits, but Sander didn’t say so aloud. He strolled to the new governess and held out his arm. “Fletcher, move Miss Fairclough’s setting to my right, please. There’s no need for us to shout at one another halfway across the room.”
She laid her hand on his and he led her to the table. “I’m not sure this is at all proper,” she said, frowning.
“Here in Northumberland, we are on the edges of society. Practically Scotland. And everyone knows the Scots are savages.”
“I sincerely hope you are joking,” she said as primly as a governess should sound.
“I believe you shall make an excellent governess,” he teased.
She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s my tendency to instruct those around me to do my bidding.”
“Sounds ominous.” And interesting.
“The bane of Papa’s existence, I assure you.”
The meal was the most memorable in Sander’s memory. He could barely keep his eyes from the brilliance of that hair. Her gown was not that of a proper governess, either, he was thrilled to note. The green was emerald, but not silk. That would have been too much to ask.
“Will you tell me something of my charge?” she asked.
“Noah? He’s well read. A little gentleman.”
“Why does he carry an infant about? I was concerned he might drop it, er…him? Her?”
“A boy. Noah’s attached and has been very attentive. He refuses to let anyone other than the wet nurse care for him.”
“His mother perished, after all, then.” The soft sympathy of her voice caressed his skin as if it were her fingers.
“Yes. I wasn’t here at the time. Before London, I was making my annual rounds of the other Pender properties.”
“I don’t know much about—”
Sander looked her full in her blushing face. He smiled, feeling a bit ornery. “Children? So you’ve said. Let me tell you something, Miss Fairclough. There is no need to keep reminding me. I am aware of whom I hire, and I’m happy with my selection. So, you will cease acting as if I will dismiss you on the spot.” When, in fact, he wanted nothing more than to show her exactly how he wanted her.
She dropped her gaze to her plate. “Thank you for the assurances, Mr. Oshea. I hope you don’t regret your choice. I’m sure I will commit many faux pas in the days to come.”
“And I’ll forgive each and every one,” he said with a quick grin.
*
Verda stormed into her chamber, furious with herself for letting Lizzie talk her into wearing the emerald muslin. How the devil was she supposed to know what a governess wore to dinner? Her own had been dismissed when she had been but a child herself. Her vague memories yielded little helpful information. Gads, she wanted to scream.
Lizzie entered on her heels. “Oh, dear. What is it, miss? You’re upset.”
“I told you this ridiculous gown was inappropriate.” She dropped her shawl. “Help me out of it. Then I want you to stuff it in the back of the wardrobe. Better yet, toss it in the grate. We can use it as fuel.” She could barely keep her feet still long enough for Lizzie to unfasten the myriad buttons down the back. She stepped out of the infernal gown and stomped to the bed, pulling back the coverlets—and let out an abrupt screech.
Lizzie rushed over. “What is it—oh.”
Verda couldn’t speak. Not with one hand covering her mouth, and the other pointing to the center of the soft-looking sheets.
“Ah, miss, ’tis only a lizard and its offspring.”
She gasped. “But… they’re blue.”
“They won’t hurt ye, miss.” Lizzie went to the bed and, to Verda’s shock, scooped it and its three “offspring” in her hand.
“Will you put them outside?” she asked, surprised that she still stood upright and hadn’t yet fainted.
“Oh, no, miss. It’s much too cold.” Lizzie looked at the little critters, her nose wrinkled. “I suspect they’re pets. Otherwise, they’d have scattered like the wind.”
The thought nearly buckled Verda’s knees. “I can’t sleep in that bed.” She gripped the table to steady herself. “You’ll sleep in here. I’ll take your bed.”
“But—”
“No but s. I absolutely insist. Now dispense with… with…” She waved out her hand.
“Of course, miss.”