Chapter 7 #2
“Of course, Maman.” But the look he gave me didn’t soften. “Though I wonder—if she survived when everyone else died, perhaps God favors her. Or perhaps...” He tilted his head, considering, a cruel smile on his face. “Perhaps she wasn’t on the ship at all.”
The room went very quiet.
“What an imagination you have,” I said, my voice light despite the ice spreading through my veins. “I assure you, I was very much on that ship. I have the bruises to prove it.”
“Do you?” He moved closer, reaching toward my arm as if he intended to check.
“Philippe.” The widow’s voice cut like a whip. “That’s quite enough.”
He stepped back immediately, but his smile remained. He’d made his point. He was clever, this child. Dangerous in a way only people with power and no consequences could be.
“Miss Carter.” The widow moved between us, her silk skirts a barrier.
“You’ll begin Philippe’s instruction today.
Letters and languages in the morning, then he will have his time with Mr. MacLeod, who will handle his martial training three times weekly.
After that, history and geography. You’ll observe the lessons with Mr. MacLeod to better coordinate his education. ”
“Of course, madame.”
“I’m giving you one week to prove yourself suitable for this position.
” Amber eyes held mine. “If Philippe’s progress is satisfactory, you’ll continue.
If not...” She shrugged elegantly. “There are always other positions available. Work in the fields, or I could sell your contract. The brothel in town is always looking for fresh girls. Though I suspect you wouldn’t last long in either position. ”
The threat was clear. Succeed, or be sent to work that would probably kill me or make me wish I were dead.
“I understand, madame.”
“Excellent.” She turned to her son. “Philippe, show Miss Carter to the schoolroom. Your first lesson begins in one hour.”
The boy’s smile widened. “Yes, Maman.”
He led me out of the drawing room and down another hallway, his steps quick and purposeful. I followed, trying to remember the route, cataloging every detail in case I needed to find my way back.
“You’re not what I expected,” Philippe said without looking back. “You’re very young. Too American. And you ask strange questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Betsy told Cook you asked what year it was. What day.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Why would someone forget that?”
Because I’m from three hundred years in the future, and I’m losing my mind trying to figure out how to survive in your nightmare world.
“The shock,” I said instead. “As your mother said, it was traumatic.”
“Hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced. “The last governess cried every night. Betsy heard her. She said this place frightened her. The things she saw in my mother’s collection.”
“What collection?”
“You’ll see.” He stopped before a door, opening it to reveal a bright room with tall windows, a writing desk, shelves of books, and various educational materials I vaguely recognized from museums. “This is where we’ll have lessons.
I should warn you—I’m very particular about my education.
I’ve already run off three governesses. You’ll probably be the fourth. ”
“I don’t plan on running anywhere,” I said, moving past him into the room.
“They never do. At first.” He leaned against the doorframe, studying me with those unsettling amber eyes. “But this house has a way of breaking people. Especially people who don’t belong here.”
The words hung in the air between us.
“I’ll see you in one hour,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t be late to start our lessons. Maman hates tardiness.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the schoolroom with an hour to figure out how to teach subjects I barely remembered to a child who already suspected I was a fraud.
I moved to the window, looking out over the gardens where workers moved between neat rows of vegetables. Beyond them, the sugarcane fields stretched toward the jungle, and somewhere past that was the garden with the stone that had brought me here.
I had to survive this. Had to make it work. Because the alternative was field labor in this heat, or much, much worse, and the widow was right—I wouldn’t last a week.
The hour passed too quickly. I’d barely had time to look through the books on the shelves—grammar texts in English and French, a Latin primer, geography volumes with maps that showed different borders than I was used to—when footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Philippe entered, followed by a maid carrying a tray with water and cups. He dismissed her with a casual wave and seated himself at the desk, looking at me expectantly.
“Well?” he said. “Are you going to teach me something, or just stare out the window?”
I took a breath and moved to the desk, opening the Latin primer to a random page. “Let’s start with a translation exercise. Can you read this passage?”
He glanced at the text and rattled off a perfect translation without hesitation. Then he smiled at my expression. “The last governess started with the same page. I’ve had that memorized for months.”
Of course, he had.
“Very good,” I managed. “Then let’s move on to something more advanced.”
We spent the next hour in what felt like a battle of wills. Every time I tried to teach him something, he either already knew it or deliberately misunderstood to test my reactions. He was smart—genuinely smart—but he used that intelligence as a weapon.
By the time Mrs. Browne appeared in the doorway, I was exhausted, and he looked smugly satisfied.
“Master Philippe,” the housekeeper said. “Mr. MacLeod is ready for your combat lesson.”
Philippe’s face lit up with genuine enthusiasm for the first time. “Finally. Something interesting.”
He stood, then paused at the door. “Come along. Maman wants you to see how a real teacher handles instruction.”
The dismissal stung, but I followed him down the stairs and through the house to a side door that led to a courtyard I hadn’t seen before.
It was paved with stone, shaded on one side by a covered walkway with pillars.
Exercise equipment I vaguely recognized—wooden posts for striking, practice dummies, a rack of wooden swords—lined one wall.
And in the center of it all stood the man from the library.
He’d changed into different clothes—simple breeches and a loose shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing tanned forearms marked with the kind of scars that came from hard living.
His hair was still tied back, and in the bright afternoon sun I could see he was younger than I’d first thought. Maybe early twenties, around my age.
When he looked up, his eyes found mine across the courtyard. The moment stretched. Wary. Assessing. Seeing far too much.
“Mr. MacLeod!” Philippe’s voice broke the tension. “I’ve been looking forward to this all morning. The lessons with Miss Carter were dreadfully dull.”
“Were they now?” The Scotsman’s accent was thick, musical, nothing like the smooth British I’d been hearing from the widow and Philippe. “Then let’s see if we can make this one more interesting.”
He moved to the rack, selecting two wooden practice swords and tossing one to Philippe with casual ease. The boy caught it, grinning.
“Miss Carter will be observing,” Philippe said, positioning himself in what looked like a ready stance. “Maman wants her to see how different subjects should be taught.”
“As ye say.” MacLeod’s gaze flicked to me again, then away. “Take your position, lad. Show me what ye learned from the last instructor.”
Philippe attacked without warning—a quick thrust that would have hit center mass if MacLeod hadn’t deflected it easily, the wooden swords cracking together with a sharp sound.
“Good initiative,” MacLeod said. “But ye telegraphed the move with your shoulder. Again.”
They moved through a series of exercises, MacLeod correcting Philippe’s form with the kind of patient instruction that surprised me. He was firm but not harsh, explaining the reasoning behind each correction in a way that made sense even to me.
Philippe, for his part, actually listened. He respected this man in a way he clearly didn’t respect me.
I sat on a bench in the shade, watching, trying not to notice how gracefully the Scotsman moved. How his voice rumbled when he spoke. How competent he was at something I could never hope to teach.
“Your turn, Miss Carter.” Philippe’s voice jolted me back to attention.
“What?”
“Mr. MacLeod says women should know how to defend themselves too.” The boy’s smile was wicked. “Come on. It’ll be educational.”
“I don’t think—”
“It’s all right, miss.” MacLeod’s accent softened the words. “Nothing dangerous. Just some basic positions.”
I moved into the courtyard, feeling ridiculous. MacLeod handed me a wooden sword—it was heavier than I expected, awkward in my hands.
“Stand like this.” He demonstrated a ready position. “Feet apart, weight balanced. Sword up to guard your chest.”
I tried to copy him, feeling Philippe’s delighted gaze on me.
“No, you’re too stiff.” MacLeod moved closer. “May I?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
His hands were careful, impersonal, adjusting my shoulders, my grip on the sword. But I felt every touch like electricity, hyperaware of how close he was, how he smelled like sun and salt and something woody.
“There,” he said, stepping back. “Now when Philippe attacks—and he will—ye deflect like this.”
He demonstrated a parry that looked simple when he did it.
Philippe didn’t give me time to think. He lunged, wooden sword aimed at my stomach.
Instinct took over. I moved, bringing my sword up the way MacLeod had shown. The impact jarred my arms, but I’d blocked it.
“Good,” MacLeod said, approval in his voice. “Again.”
We went through the exercise several more times, Philippe clearly enjoying making me scramble as he got in a couple of stinging hits, MacLeod correcting my form with patience that seemed at odds with the wariness I’d seen earlier.