Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
The knock came too soon.
A story that wouldn’t get me killed.
There was a knock, and then the door opened. Mrs. Browne surveyed me, hands on her hips, then nodded. “Come along, the widow will see you now.”
I stood on legs that felt unreliable, smoothing the borrowed dress I’d been provided.
It was better than the rough linen costume I’d been wearing—a simple dress of blue linen, with a white linen apron.
My hair had been pinned back by Betsy’s capable hands, wrapped up in a head wrap, though rebellious curls kept escaping around my face.
I looked like I belonged in this century. I just had to convince everyone I actually did.
The hallway seemed longer than it had yesterday.
My footsteps echoed on the wooden floors as the head housekeeper led me through the servants’ areas and into the main house.
Everything was brighter here, more polished.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting patterns on walls lined with paintings in gilt frames.
A clock ticked somewhere, marking time I didn’t have.
We passed a library where I glimpsed shelves of leather-bound books and a man’s back—dark blond hair tied at his neck, broad shoulders in a simple shirt. He turned slightly as we passed, and for just a moment our eyes met.
Gray-blue. Wary. Assessing.
I looked away first, awareness prickling across my skin.
“That’s Mr. MacLeod,” Mrs. Browne said as we continued down the hall. “The new man. He’s from Scotland and arrived just yesterday. He’ll be teaching Master Philippe his combat lessons.”
Combat lessons. Right. Because this was a world where ten-year-olds learned how to fight with swords.
Mrs. Browne stopped outside a door with carved panels and brass fixtures that looked expensive even by modern standards. She gave me a long look, adjusting something about my collar that I hadn’t realized was wrong.
“The widow is particular,” she said quietly. “Answer her questions directly, but don’t elaborate unless asked. Don’t fidget. Don’t stare. And for heaven’s sake, don’t mention anything about your memory being addled. She values competence above all else.”
“What if she asks about the shipwreck?”
“Tell her what you remember. But keep it simple.” Mrs. Browne’s expression was impossible to read. “The more details you provide, the more questions she’ll have. Do you understand?”
I nodded, though I understood almost nothing.
Mrs. Browne opened the door. “Miss Carter, madame.”
What were the odds I’d have the same last name as the poor governess who’d drowned in the storm? And what if her body washed ashore?
The drawing room was beautiful in the way museums were beautiful—carefully arranged, expensive, designed to impress.
Pale walls reflected the morning light streaming through tall windows.
Furniture that looked French and delicate was positioned perfectly on an Oriental carpet.
Fresh flowers stood tall in a crystal vase.
A harpsichord was in one corner, its wood gleaming.
And in the center of it all, seated on a settee like a queen on a throne, was the Widow Delacroix, the absolute authority of this plantation. Why wasn’t she married? Had she ever been?
She was younger than I’d expected. Maybe forty, with flawless honey-colored skin and dark hair pinned in an elaborate style that must have taken hours.
Her morning gown was pale yellow silk with cream lace at the bodice.
Emeralds glinted at her throat and ears—real ones, I was pretty sure, worth a fortune.
She looked like a celebrity ready to walk the red carpet.
But it was her eyes that stopped me. Amber. Bright and calculating as a cat’s, studying me with an intensity that made me want to take a step back.
I didn’t. Instead, I curtsied the way Betsy had shown me yesterday, hoping I was doing it right, praying I didn’t look as terrified as I felt.
“Miss Carter.” Her voice was silk over steel. “How fortunate that you’ve recovered enough to join us. Please, sit.”
She gestured to a chair positioned directly across from her. Not beside her like an equal, but facing her like a student before a teacher. Or a suspect before a judge.
I sat, keeping my spine straight, folding my hands in my lap to keep them still.
“Mrs. Browne tells me you were found wandering near the old garden yesterday afternoon.” The widow lifted a delicate teacup, sipped, never breaking eye contact. “Suffering from the shock of your ordeal. How are you feeling this morning?”
“Better, madame. Thank you.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “The rest helped considerably.”
“I imagine it did. Surviving a shipwreck when everyone else perished must have been quite traumatic.” Another sip of tea. “Tell me what you remember.”
This was it. The test I’d been dreading.
“The storm came up suddenly,” I said, pulling from every period drama I’d ever watched.
“The wind and the waves—everything happened so fast. I remember the terrible sounds of wood snapping, the ship breaking apart. People screaming. A wave hit, and I tried to hold on, but I was washed overboard. The water was icy cold.” I let my voice waver, which wasn’t hard because my hands were already shaking.
“After that, everything is confused. I must have washed up on the beach, somehow made my way to your home. The next clear memory I have is of Mrs. Browne finding me sitting in the grass.”
“How convenient.” The widow’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That your memory should fail at precisely the moments that would explain your miraculous survival.”
My palms went damp against my skirt. “I’m sorry, madame. I wish I could remember more.”
“Do you?” She set down her cup with a soft clink. “I find memory to be a curious thing. Some details remain crystal clear while others vanish entirely. For instance, I’m certain you remember your name. Your age. Where you were born.”
“Millicent Carter, though everyone calls me Maddie. I am twenty-three, and I’m from Philadelphia. I was on my way here to accept the position of governess in your household.” The lies came easier than they should have.
She made a tsking noise. “Close. I bought you from your father, who, as I understand it, is a drunk and degenerate gambler. I paid for your passage here. You are indentured to me for seven years, and as you lost the clothing and teaching materials I paid for, I have added a year to your contract.” She tapped a finger on an ornate piece of parchment paper.
I could make out some of the words, saw Millicent’s name scrawled at the bottom as cold horror flooded through me.
The widow was beautiful, but somehow I knew she was not only shrewd, but dangerous. She arched a brow. “And your qualifications for the position?”
Here’s where it got dicey because she obviously already knew. It was a test. I’d studied history, knew the general period, but actual teaching methods from 1693? I was completely guessing.
“I was educated by my uncle,” I said, deciding a drunk and a gambler wouldn’t have bothered.
“He believed women should be as well-read as men. I’m proficient in reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, and history.
I also speak and can teach Latin, Greek, and French.
” Guess my degree and all that time with my father traveling the world was going to come in handy after all.
The widow’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Latin, Greek, and French. How progressive.”
She set down a cup of chocolate and stood, silk rustling as she moved to the window.
“Tell me, Miss Carter, what do you know of discipline? My son is... spirited. The last governess fled after only a few weeks.” Then she turned, and the smile made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“She’s been dealt with. I do not abide those who lie or steal from me. ”
“I believe in firm but fair boundaries,” I said, repeating something I’d heard a teacher say once. “Children need structure to thrive.”
“Structure.” She turned to face me, sunlight haloing her dark hair. “And if a child refuses that structure? What then?”
I thought of every terrible kid I’d dealt with at the tour company. The kids who touched exhibits after being told not to, who whined about being bored, who made their parents’ lives miserable.
“Then the child needs to understand the consequences of their choices,” I said. “Consistency is key.”
“Yes. All actions have consequences.” The widow’s smile was sharp. “Philippe, you may come in now.”
A door I hadn’t noticed opened. A boy entered—ten years old, Mrs. Browne had said, but he moved with the calculated grace of someone much older. Dark hair, golden skin, his mother’s amber eyes in a face that would be handsome one day. Right now, it was just cruel.
He wore expensive clothes—a miniature version of what a wealthy adult might wear—and carried himself like he knew exactly how much power he held in this household.
“Philippe, this is Miss Carter. Your new governess.” The widow’s voice was fond, indulgent. “What do you think of her?”
The boy circled me as if I were a horse he was considering purchasing. I sat still, meeting his gaze when he stopped in front of my chair.
“She’s rather plain,” he said in perfect, unaccented English. “Not like the last one. That governess was pretty.”
The words were meant to wound. He watched for my reaction, waiting to see if I’d flinch.
“I’m here to teach you, Master Philippe,” I said evenly. “Not to be decorative.”
His eyes widened slightly. Then he smiled—the same sharp smile as his mother’s. “She has a tongue on her. How refreshing.”
“Philippe.” The widow’s voice carried a warning. “Miss Carter has just survived a terrible ordeal. Do show some courtesy.” She cocked her head, studying me. “She’s pretty, but it’s a quiet beauty. I wouldn’t have anyone in my service who wasn’t pleasant to the eye.”