Chapter Nine
T he gray day with its bracing wind enthralled Verda. Though eerie, a state of things she routinely avoided, there was something about the crash of the waves against the rocks below. There was a stark beauty to such barren land. Snow covered parts of the moor while it had melted away and left tiny waterfall rivulets in other places. She could have been the only person in the world.
“Hullo.”
Verda swung around, nearly losing her footing on an icy patch, and found herself facing an older man who likely hadn’t seen a bath in two years with scraggly, gray-streaked locks and an overgrown beard. He held a long, crooked walking stick.
She took a careful step back. “Um, hello.”
“Ain’t ne’er seen ye afore. Who are ye?”
“I’m Verda Fairclough. Governess to Master Noah.”
He grunted then narrowed rheumy eyes on her. “More liken a mistress to his papa, I’ll wager.” He shook his head at some long-lost memory trying to break through. “Man ne’er could keep that pikestaff o’is in ’is pantaloons.”
Verda straightened to her obnoxious height, towering over him. “I am no man’s mistress, sir.” Then curiosity got the better of her. “Pikestaff? What do you mean?”
“Babes running about the moors all willy-nilly.” He banged his stick on the ground.
His mistresses? More than one? “Um, who might you be, sir?”
He tugged on his beard. “They call me ‘Cracked Colbert.’” He gave an elaborate bow that threatened his balance but for his hold on his staff. “Ye can call me ‘Cracked.’” He let out a harsh, raspy laugh.
“I’ll do no such thing, Mr. Colbert.” She dipped a shallow curtsy. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Ain’t ne’er been called ‘mister’ afore, miss. Pleased to make yer ’quaintence.” His gaze surveyed the landscape. “Wot ye doing out ’ere alone? ’Tis dangerous.”
“It can hardly be dangerous, sir. There’s no one here but the two of us.”
He chuckled and it sent a chill snaking up her spine. “Quite shur that’s wot the old earl thought all those years back.”
Her brows beetled. “The old earl? Lord Pender? I met him not three weeks ago in London.”
He gave out a hiss of impatience. “The papa. Found frozen t’death not far from where yer standin’.”
Verda gasped. “His father? Was found…”
“If’n ye ask me, He was led astray. Poisoned an’ left t’die. Townsfolk believe the place is haunted by his spirit.”
Well, that explained the lack of adequate number of servants, she supposed. Verda released a long breath that fogged the air and culminated into an unladylike snort. “Haunted? That doesn’t sound likely, sir.”
“’Tis true, missy. There’s trouble a’brewin’ at that there castle, mind. Gots t’run now. Makin’ me rounds. I’d get on back t’London if’n I was ye. Fast as ye can. Nothin’ at Stonemare but bad blood.” He ambled away, his voice carrying on the cold wind. “Nothin’ but bad blood. But ain’t no one been askin’ me…”
Verda stood watching, listening to Mr. Colbert’s nonsensical words until long after he’d disappeared from sight. The cold air seeped through her coat to her bones. Shivering, she turned back toward the castle and nearly bumped into the spectral—er, oh, dear , his name failed her. Then, “Oh, Mr. Baldric, you startled me.”
“Jes Baldric, miss. I ain’t no ‘mister.’ Best stay away from ole Colbert.” His voice was as gruff as his appearance and gritted over her cold skin like sanded paper. With the dark clouds overhead, all she could make out was his moving mouth. A moving mouth in a face so dark, it faded into the blackening sky. “He ain’t stable. Some say he killed the old master.”
“W-What?”
But he didn’t answer. He was already sauntering away with that hitch she’d noticed before, his stringy, gray hair flying in the sudden gusts.
Verda ran for the castle and stumbled right into Mr. Oshea.
“I wondered if you’d gotten lost,” he said, without a trace of his previous charm. His hands warmed her upper arms through her cloak.
She swallowed hard, looking in the direction of the stablemaster. But he’d disappeared with the wind.
“I-I can hardly get lost with the tower looming over the land, c-can I?” Her usually firm voice came out breathless and faded in the wake of Baldric.
A plop of icy rain hit her nose.
“Blast it.” His hand slid down and gripped hers. “Hurry. There’s another storm brewing and there’s no shelter for miles but the castle.” He yanked her into a run.
She didn’t hesitate. She picked up her skirts and ran.
Once inside the foyer, she handed off her cloak and gloves to the aging butler, Mr. Winfield, as no footman seemed about. She shivered.
Mr. Oshea’s austere demeanor hadn’t abated one iota. “Your lessons with Noah shall be conducted in the library.”
She rubbed her hands over her arms, choosing to ignore the unexpected grimness. “Why not the schoolroom?”
“If Noah is determined to have the infant along, the library is a much better option. For one thing, it’s warmer. This damnable castle is nothing short of a medieval hovel standing long after its allotted time. It’s a wonder it hasn’t crumbled into a pile of sand. I don’t know why Damien is determined to house Noah and his new son here. They would be infinitely more comfortable in London.”
Verda couldn’t agree more. Still, there was a stark beauty in the wildness of Northumberland’s vast loneliness, if she could discount the mysterious Mr. Colbert’s and Baldric’s sudden appearances.
Mrs. Knagg greeted them with her gap-toothed smile. “Reckon ye’ll be wantin’ some tea.”
“That would be lovely,” Verda told her.
“I’ll have chocolate prepared too, for the boy. And scones. He likes Cook’s scones.” She disappeared toward the back of the house. “Come, I’ll show you to the library. There is a fire where you can warm yourself.”
Verda pushed Mr. Oshea’s odd change of mood from her mind. “That sounds lovely.” She entered the library, excitement swirling through her at the notion of earning her own money.
The library was as dark as the rest of the castle, but there was a familiarity with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that warmed her throughout. The heavily covered windows and blazing fire helped too. She took one of the lanterns and perused the books. The number was astounding. Papa’s and her collection had dwindled. Paying one’s debts took precedence.
She ran a fingertip along the spines of Homer, Shakespeare, agriculture, poetry, and, ah—she tugged out a book, then smiled. The Sceptical Chymist .
“Good afternoon, Miss Fairclough.”
Verda glanced over her shoulder and her stomach dipped slightly at the basket he held with two hands. “Hello, Master Noah.”
He’d closed the door behind him. “I-I owe you an apology.”
“Oh?”
“It was me. I put the lizards in your bed, ma’am. I thought you were here to take away my Julius.”
“Take him away?” Shock rippled through Verda. What in heavens did he think she’d do with an infant? “And you don’t believe that any longer?”
“No, ma’am.”
She studied him for a long time; suspected it was something more, but it was enough that he’d owned up to his actions, and she’d settle for that. “Then the subject is closed,” she said briskly. She held up the book. “I found The Sceptical Chymist .” She lowered her arm and met him in the middle of the room. “I see you’ve brought company. May I have the pleasure of an introduction?”
Noah set the basket down, reached in and lifted an extremely small baby. His eyes were open and his tiny fingers were curled into a fist. One he was attempting to draw to his mouth, but he was stayed by Noah’s hold on him. “My Julius, this is Miss Fairclough. She is here to teach us chemistry.”
“How nice to meet you, sir. I understand you have a very attentive brother.”
Julius emitted a soft coo.
“You can hold him if you like,” Noah told her.
Verda quickly straightened. “Thank you, Noah. Another time, perhaps. Shall we get started?”
*
Sander leaned back in this chair behind his brother’s desk, steepling his fingers and eyeing the broad wet nurse standing before him. He tilted his head. “Is there some reason you feed the infant in front of the child?”
Her raucous belly laugh bounded against the walls.
“I wasn’t aware I said something humorous, Mrs. Lyall.”
She cleared her throat but couldn’t disguise the mirth in her eyes. “It’s like this, ye see. The infant is hungry and the child refuses to leave him in me care.”
Sander let out a long sigh. He leaned forward and set his forearms against the hardwood edge of the desk, then met her eyes—pointedly. “Do you believe it appropriate for a child to witness… witness—” Good God, this was mortifying.
“Me tit in the babe’s ’ungry mouth?” She gave him a smug smile. “We all started out that a way, Mr. Oshea. Even ye, I reckon.”
She had him there.
With an impatient snort, she said, “Lookee, sir, the babe was hungry, an’ I was hired to feed ’im. If’n ye don’t want the boy there, keep ’im outta the nursery.”
“I could let you go without wages,” he threatened.
“That ye could. But the babe’s a sickly one and I’m one o’ the few wet nurses in the region.” She shook her massive head, sending her mobcap wiggling precariously. “I doubt ’e’ll make it through ’is first year.” She narrowed accusing eyes on him. “Ain’t no one showed the slightest care for ’im but that boy.”
Another excellent point.
“But if’n ye can keep ’im outta o’ the nursery,” she went on, “’tis yer business, not mine.”
“All right,” he relented. “Thank you for your time. I’ll see what I can do.”
Her laugh bellowed once again. “Don’t mind me none. Master Noah is an entertainin’ fella. Wise beyond ’is years, I reckon.”
Sander excused her and sat back in his chair, swiveling it toward the black clouds lowering in the sky. Perhaps Miss Fairclough could offer a suggestion regarding Noah’s unusual fascination with the baby.
Hell, Sander couldn’t even remember the infant’s name. Mrs. Lyall was right—no one outside of Noah had even showed the least amount of interest. He was a horrible uncle.
Sander shoved away from the desk and stalked out of the study to the library, then hesitated at the door. What did he really know of Miss Verda Fairclough?
Almost nothing. He’d hired her—correction— his cock had hired her. That’s right , he admitted. He couldn’t quite suppress the image of all that brilliant hair splayed across his pillows. She might not even be qualified to instruct Noah, who could likely instruct her . Well, that was unfair. Obviously, she was qualified since she’d taught himself and Noah that women indeed possessed brains. Still, unable to resist, he cracked the door.
Soft murmuring reached him and he let himself in.
The sight took him aback. The lady was seated at a scuffed table. Noah stood at her elbow, their heads together, each holding a piece of graphite. The biggest surprise was the abacus in the middle of the table.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with chemistry,” Noah said.
“Ah. Well, what if you calculate the measurements incorrectly for a specific formula? Why, you could blow up the entire castle!”
Noah’s eyes widened into large, black circles. “I could?”
“Yes. And that would be devastating,” she said firmly.
Sander wasn’t so sure. At least where Stonemare was concerned. He eased forward to hear more, watching, fascinated, as her fingers moved across the abacus.
“It’s quite simple, really. You begin by assigning each column a value. We shall start with something simple.” Her fingers stopped. “Do you see that?” She was watching Noah.
His brows were furrowed in fierce concentration.
“When you start, all of the beads in this top row should be in the up position, the ones in the bottom down. See?”
Noah nodded, never taking his eyes from the device.
“Now,” she went on, “the beads in the top row represent the number five and each bead in the bottom row represents the number value of one.” Miss Fairclough’s voice was soft, gentle. Never once did Sander detect condescension. Soon, she had Noah’s fingers within her own, showing him how and when to move one bead to its new position, all the while explaining the process of counting.
Within moments, the gleam of enlightenment lit Noah’s eyes.
A satisfied grin touched Miss Fairclough’s lips that had Sander tempted to send Noah on his way so Sander could devour the woman. She leaned back in her chair, setting her crossed arms on the table in a move that appeared triumphant. “Now, you try it, using the abacus.” She called out two numbers for him to add.
Noah’s fingers weren’t as nimble as Miss Fairclough’s, but he painstakingly counted out the formula she’d given him to solve.
“Excellent,” she breathed. “You have the makings of a very fine mathematician, Master Noah.” She put her hands together and softly clapped.
Sander did the same, startling the teacher and her pupil.
“Did you see me, Uncle Sander? I did it.”
“I did, indeed.”
Noah’s exuberance woke the baby and he emitted a tiny cry.
Sander struggled to recall the baby’s name, but all he could remember was Noah repeating, “my something,” and he was fairly certain “My Something” was not something one called a child.
“Oh. My Julius needs me.” Noah’s excitement didn’t wane as he hurried to the basket near the seating area before the hearth and lifted out the child, who immediately calmed.
Julius. Sander pounded the name in his brain. He watched his elder nephew, intrigued at Noah’s handling the infant as efficiently as a well-seasoned nursemaid. Noah sauntered back to the table.
Curiously, panic flashed Miss Fairclough’s expression. “That’s just fine, Noah. I think we can use a small break.” Her small smile didn’t fool Sander in the least. That baby terrified her.
Noah grinned at her. “Thank you, Miss Fairclough.” He patted the baby’s back. “I’d better see to his changing. I’ll return soon.”
Miss Fairclough rose from the table and picked up the abacus as the door shut behind his nephews. She carried it to a less-filled shelf.
“The infant frightens you?” Sander asked.
He watched her set the abacus on the bookshelf, wondering if she planned to answer him at all.
After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder. “What? No, of course not.” She turned back to the abacus and arranged it in an angled fashion. “I just don’t know much about children.” She made her way back across the library to the seating area and nudged the empty basket aside with the toe of her slipper before sitting down. “I believe this may be the third time I’ve mentioned this to you,” she said wryly.
“So you have.”
“Is it me”—Verda’s gaze settled on the basket then back up—“or does Master Noah take a more than typical interest in the baby?”
Mr. Oshea’s jaw tightened. “You are not mistaken. I find it highly unusual.”
“I wonder why,” she said softly.
Something Sander had every intention of learning himself.