Chapter 6 #2
She lifted the cup, sipped, and made a small sound of approval. “Very good. You have steady hands. That will be useful when I have guests.” Setting the cup down, she studied him.
“The governess’s survival has caused quite a stir among the servants. Margaret thinks it’s witchcraft. Duncan believes the old gods intervened. What do you think, Mr. MacLeod?”
The question was a test. He could feel it.
“I think storms are unpredictable, madame. And fortune favors some more than others.”
“A diplomatic answer.” Her smile was sharp as a blade’s edge.
“But not what you actually think. I can see it in your eyes—you’re wondering about her.
Everyone is. A young woman survives when everyone else drowns.
She washes up on the beach without a scratch.
She asks strange questions—what day it is.
Then what year it is, where she is, as if her wits were addled. ”
Brodie kept his expression neutral. “Perhaps the shock affected her memory.”
“Perhaps.” Amber eyes held his. “Or perhaps she’s hiding something.
I’ll know soon enough. I’ll be meeting her this morning to assess whether she’s suitable for Philippe’s education.
If she’s as educated as her papers claimed, she’ll do nicely.
If not...” She shrugged. “There are other positions available.”
“Is there something ye’d like me to serve, madame?”
“The bread, I think. And some of the guava preserves.” She watched him as he moved. “Tell me, Mr. MacLeod—have you ever witnessed something you couldn’t explain? Something that defied natural law?”
The question landed like a stone in still water.
He thought of the woman on the waves during the storm. The cold touch over his heart. The black feather that was heavier than it should be.
“Sailors see many things out on the sea,” he said, placing the bread and preserves before her.
“And did you seek rational explanations, or did you accept that some things lie beyond understanding?”
“I survived them, madame. That’s all that mattered.”
“A practical answer. Good.” She spread the preserves on the bread. “The world is full of mysteries, Mr. MacLeod. Some are worth investigating. Others are best left alone.”
She took a bite, a thoughtful look on her face as she chewed.
“Today you’ll meet my son, Philippe. As I said before, he requires instruction in swordplay and hand-to-hand combat. Nothing too violent—I don’t want him injured. But he must learn to defend himself and his property. Can you teach him without breaking him?”
“I can teach him what he needs to know.”
“See that you do. Philippe is... spirited. The last man I hired to instruct him lasted three days before he begged to be reassigned to the fields.” Her smile widened. “My son enjoys testing boundaries. I suggest you establish them firmly from the beginning.”
“When shall I begin his instruction?”
“After the midday meal. Three times a week to start—more if he shows aptitude.” She set down her cup with a soft clink.
“If the governess proves suitable, you’ll both be responsible for Philippe’s instruction—you for the martial skills, she for letters and languages.
I expect you to work together without incident. ”
“Of course, madame.”
“You’re dismissed. Return this evening to serve at dinner. We have guests arriving, and I want my household to make a good impression.”
Brodie bowed and retreated, wondering about the new addition to the household.
Mrs. Browne had given him three hours before he was to meet Philippe.
Thomas had suggested he familiarize himself with the widow’s collection of books.
“She likes her servants to be able to converse when necessary,” he’d said.
“Looks better when she entertains. Makes her seem cultured and benevolent.”
The library occupied the back corner of the second floor, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with leather-bound volumes that smelled of old paper and tobacco.
A globe stood in one corner, its surface marked with territories and trade routes.
A large desk dominated the center of the room, its surface bare except for an inkwell and a stack of papers weighted down with a stone carved with strange symbols.
Brodie moved along the shelves, reading titles. Philosophy, poetry, papers about Europe and the Americas, agricultural treatises, books on navigation and natural philosophy. The widow’s collection was impressive, worth a small fortune.
He paused at a section devoted to maps and pulled down a leather folio, opening it with care. Inside were hand-drawn maps of Jamaica, each one showing different regions in meticulous detail. Coastal routes. Interior plantations. Mountain passes. Known settlements and rumored ones.
His fingers traced the coastline, finding the spot north of Port Royal where the rocks jutted out into the sea. Where a ship might break apart in a storm.
He returned the folio to its place and selected a book on navigation instead. Something to study, to keep his mind sharp while his body performed its required duties. He’d not let this place dull him the way it had dulled Duncan.
Brodie turned a page, not reading, his thoughts circling like gulls over a wreck.
The sea had taught him to recognize when a storm was building, even when the sky looked clear. And something about this place felt like the pressure drop before lightning struck—a certainty in his bones that couldn’t be explained by logic or reason.
A door opened somewhere below. Footsteps on the stairs—Mrs. Browne’s measured tread, and another set lighter and less certain.
Voices carried up through the house’s bones, too muffled to make out words but distinct in their rhythm.
Mrs. Browne’s firm instructions. A younger woman’s responses, polite but strained underneath.
The governess, being taken to meet the widow.
Brodie set down his book and moved to the library door, which stood slightly ajar. He could see a sliver of the hallway, and the top of the main staircase where it curved down to the entrance hall.
They passed by—Mrs. Browne first, her posture rigid with purpose, and behind her a young woman in a plain dress that didn’t quite fit properly.
He caught only a glimpse. Dark curly hair escaping from a hasty arrangement, sun-kissed skin, a face that looked young but drawn with exhaustion or fear or both. She moved like someone navigating unfamiliar territory, her steps tentative and her shoulders tight.
For just a moment, as she passed the library door, she glanced up.
Their eyes met.
Brown eyes, wide with something that looked like barely controlled panic. Not the glazed confusion of someone recovering from shock, but the sharp awareness of someone who knew exactly how wrong everything was and was desperately trying to hide it.
Then she was gone, descending the stairs toward wherever the widow waited.
Brodie stood frozen in the library doorway, his heart hammering against his ribs.
That look in her eyes. He’d seen it before, on the faces of men who’d been captured and sold. On his own face, probably, when he’d signed his name to the widow’s contract.
The look of someone trapped in circumstances they couldn’t control, wearing a mask to survive.