Chapter Eleven
It was past midnight. Neil knew he ought to be asleep, but he also knew—without even setting his head upon the pillow—that sleep would not come.
The house was silent at last. Lord Farendale and his daughter had kept the servants running about with a host of tasks until late, while Lady Farendale sat motionless in a corner, silent as a statue.
Dinner had passed without incident, full of trivial chatter and fashionable gossip. Aunt Harriet had dominated the conversation, much to Lord Farendale’s visible annoyance, while Neil himself had spoken little. He had no wish to recall the meal and hoped that future ones might prove less tedious.
He knew, in his heart, they would not.
How long did the Fairfaxes intend to stay?
Lady Constance, having recovered her composure since their introduction, had spent the entire evening attempting—and failing—to catch his attention.
Aunt Harriet was determined that Emma should soon join them for dinner, and Lady Constance had declared, with conspicuous enthusiasm, that she adored children.
Neil was not deceived as to the object of that remark.
Lady Constance was undeniably pretty and possessed all the polished manners expected of a young woman of fashion.
She had even asked, most graciously, whether there might be a pianoforte or harp she could play after dinner, and looked crestfallen to be told no.
Aunt Harriet had shot Neil a long, pointed glance at that, clearly recalling Catherine’s pianoforte.
He had ignored her. He could not picture Lady Constance seated at that instrument; all he saw were Miss Winter’s slender fingers upon the keys. It was not Lady Constance’s fault—but he wished, fervently, that she would leave him be.
Now that they were all abed, he could at last return to work. A small pile of correspondence awaited his attention, along with a note from Simon, delivered during dinner.
Neil, the note read, we have been invited to a card party at Lord Pemberton’s London house. I know it’s a long journey, but it would be a good chance to refresh our connections and gather intelligence. Think about it and let me know. Yours, Simon.
He would have to go. Too long away from London, and one ceased to exist in the eyes of the world. He could not afford to vanish. Groaning, he pushed the note aside and pressed his hands over his face.
“Uncle?”
He started. The single candle upon his desk flickered wildly, throwing deep shadows about the study.
Emma stood in the doorway—barefoot, pale, and dishevelled, like a little ghost in her nightgown. Her braid had half-unravelled, her eyes were enormous and dark with sleep. She shivered. Neil realised with a pang that she must have crossed the stone floors of the Great Hall barefoot to reach him.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he exclaimed, rising swiftly. “You should have been asleep hours ago, Emma.”
She bit her lip. “I had a nightmare.”
He sighed. Jenny usually slept in the adjoining room for this very reason. What on earth was he meant to do?
“You should have woken your nursemaid,” he said gently.
“I didn’t want to wake her.”
With another sigh, he gathered her up. “Very well, let us get you back to bed. What was the nightmare about?”
Her cold little hands looped around his neck as she buried her face against his shoulder.
“There was something under the bed. A horrid thing with warts and tentacles.”
“Tenacles, you say?”
She nodded furiously. “Slimy ones. They tried to grab me when I got up. There were spiders, too.”
“Ah,” Neil murmured, “I see. Well, you know the truth about monsters under the bed, don’t you?”
He carried her up the stairs, his footsteps muffled on the carpet.
“You’re taking me back to bed,” Emma said suddenly, her voice small. “I don’t want to go back to bed.”
“You must, Emma.”
She began to wriggle in earnest, and Neil—utterly at a loss—tightened his hold just enough to keep from dropping her. “Hush, now. You’ll wake the whole house—”
He nudged the nursery door open with his foot. The child wriggled free, tumbling to the floor in a heap.
“Emma!” Neil hissed. “You’ll wake—”
A light flared from the adjoining room. A moment later, the door opened.
It was not Jenny who appeared in the doorway, but Miss Winter.
Her hair was unbound, falling loosely around her shoulders, and her thin robe hung hastily tied over her nightdress. In one hand, she held a candlestick like a weapon, though she dropped it the instant she saw him.
“Your Grace,” she gasped. “I thought—goodness, I thought it was an intruder.”
She pulled her robe a little more securely around her shoulders. Neil swallowed, finding that his throat was dry.
“Emma crept down to my study,” he managed. “I was bringing her back. Where is Jenny?”
Miss Winter flushed. “Jenny’s parents are unwell. She often spends the night with them, so I stay here when she’s away.” She hesitated, then added, “I hope I haven’t done wrong in not mentioning it.”
“There’s no harm in it,” he said at once. “Though Emma seems determined not to go back to bed.”
“There’s a monster!” Emma wailed.
Miss Winter smiled faintly and knelt beside the child, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Then I shall look under the bed myself, and stay until you’re asleep.”
The reassurance seemed to calm her, and Emma climbed obediently back beneath the covers. Neil lit a candle and placed it beside the bed, feeling rather pleased with himself—until Miss Winter frowned.
“We’ll need to blow out the candle before we leave her,” she whispered.
“Why? Won’t the light comfort her?”
“It would,” she conceded, “But Emma tosses and turns in her sleep. If she knocks over the candle, it might set fire to the curtains, or even to her bedclothes.”
That thought chilled Neil’s blood. He bit his lip, shaking his head.
“Of course, of course. I can’t think why I didn’t realise that.”
Miss Winter looked up at him, lips gently pursed. She was crouched beside the bed where Emma lay restlessly, the child’s small fingers twisting the bedclothes between them.
This is the moment she tells me she can manage alone, he thought grimly. A polite dismissal. I am quite unnecessary—even here, in my own house, even to comfort my own niece.
“Do sit down, your Grace,” Miss Winter said softly, patting the end of the bed where Emma’s feet lay. “We shall put Miss Emma to sleep together.”
He hadn’t expected that. Neil blinked, missing a beat. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” she said with a small laugh. “I can never manage it half so well as Jenny.”
“When Jenny’s here,” Emma murmured sleepily, “the monster never comes. She frightens it away.” She paused, glancing up at her uncle. “Uncle, you were going to say something about the monster earlier. You asked me if I knew the truth about monsters under the bed—and spiders.”
“This does sound intriguing,” Miss Winter remarked, her lips curving.
Emma sighed. “He’s only going to tell me that they don’t exist, and so I shouldn’t be afraid.”
“Ah, but that isn’t what I meant to say at all,” Neil said gravely. “There are monsters under the bed.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Under my bed?”
He nodded solemnly. “Indeed. But do you know why they’re there?”
“To eat me?”
“If that were so,” he said softly, “they would have done it long ago. You’re seven years old, and they’ve had plenty of nights to do their worst. But they haven’t. Do you know why?”
She shook her head, eyes round.
“Because they’re not there to eat you, my dear—they’re there to protect you. If ever something wicked crept near, they’d dart out quick as a flash and gobble it up.”
Emma gasped. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Neil said, smiling. “So you see, you’re quite safe.”
“But what about you, and Jenny, and Maggie?”
Neil blinked. “Who’s Maggie?”
Emma giggled. “Miss Winter, of course. Jenny calls her Maggie.”
Miss Winter coloured slightly. “Jenny and I are friends,” she said. “It seemed simpler to use our given names.”
He nodded. “Your name is Margaret, is it not?”
“It is,” she said with a small smile. “But I haven’t been Margaret in a long while.”
“It suits you,” he murmured.
Neil was not sure what had possessed him to say such a thing.
It was entirely too intimate a comment to make, but then, the entire situation was too intimate.
Here they were, sitting entirely too close in a darkened nursery, after the rest of the house had gone to bed.
Maggie’s hand rested by Emma’s side, on top of the blankets.
If he reached out, just a few inches, his fingers would brush hers.
At once, the memory of her warm, supple hand in his came crashing back, and Neil found his chest constricting around his lungs, as if it were trying to choke him.
Miss Winter—Maggie—glanced up at him. In the flickering candlelight, her eyes seemed darker and more intent, fixed on him with a silent question.
If only he knew what the question was.
“You seem to be doing very well here,” he said hoarsely. “Emma is quite devoted to you.”
“She’s such a sweet child,” Maggie murmured. “So easy to love.”
Neil swallowed. “I think she should learn the pianoforte. You may make the arrangements. You’ll find the only instrument is in Catherine’s morning room.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you certain, your Grace?”
“Yes. It’s time. And—you may have noticed—we have guests in the house. Emma will dine with us now and then. I should like you to join us, if you’re willing.”
Her gaze fixed on him, steady and unreadable. “Of course,” she said softly.
“Good. I shall look forward to it.”
He gave a stiff nod and almost fled the room.