Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The lamps had been lit along the drive by the time Winston Burgess returned to Greystone House.
His horse was lathered, his coat mud-splashed, and the weight of the day pressed down upon his shoulders like a millstone.
He dismounted without waiting for a groom, thrust the reins into the nearest pair of hands, and strode up the steps two at a time.
“Louisa,” he called, his voice carrying into the echoing hall.
The butler materialized at once, bowing low. “In the schoolroom, sir.”
Winston grunted, already moving past him. He did not ask after his correspondence. None of that mattered until he had seen his daughter. The schoolroom door stood half open, spilling the smell of ink and wax into the passage. Winston pushed it wider and froze on the threshold.
Louisa sat at her little desk, brows drawn tight in concentration, a needle trembling between her fingers.
Before her lay a pitiful scrap of fabric, punctured with wild, uneven stitches.
Her thumb bore three angry red pricks. Louisa’s governess hovered beside her.
Miss Grainger was tall, angular, with lips that always seemed to be pressed thin, as though she were too fine to touch her charge. A stray thought ran across his mind.
It must be exhausting to expend so much effort in keeping one’s lips in such a ruler-straight line.
Winston’s temper flared like oil to flame as he strode to his daughter, kneeling beside her.
“She is bleeding. And I have told you before about holding lessons in this dungeon!”
Louisa looked up, wide-eyed. “Papa, it is nothing and this is the schoolroom.”
“Nothing?” He took her hand gently but firmly. “This is a wound. This is your blood. I do not want to see either on your body. Not ever.”
He examined the small wounds as though they were mortal injuries.
“What sort of guidance have you given her?” He turned to stare at Miss Grainger.
The governess stiffened.
“Needlework requires perseverance. The young lady must learn to endure. As for which room I choose to educate her in…”
“It is my choice and my house!” Winston barked, “This room was built by my grandfather to oppress the youngest members of his family. Louisa will not be oppressed!”
“It is proper that a child learns in a school environment…” Miss Grainger went on, voice beginning to tremble.
“And as for endurance?” Winston’s voice was soft, dangerously so. “She is twelve years old, not a dray horse to be whipped. And where were you, madam, when she nearly tumbled from the oak tree last week? Or when she wandered into Barrow’s field and nearly got herself trampled by cattle?”
The governess flushed. “Children are willful, Your Grace. I cannot be blamed for every scrape she finds herself in.”
“You were employed to keep her safe!” His voice cracked like a whip now, echoing against the high ceiling.
Louisa shrank back, though not from him but the storm she had learned to weather. The governess drew herself up, chin high.
“I will not tolerate this manner, Your Grace. Your temper makes this position impossible. You may consider this my resignation.”
“Good riddance,” he snarled and waved her toward the door.
She swept out, skirts swishing like a banner of defiance, and moments later Winston heard the quick clatter of her heels on the stairs.
He turned back to Louisa, softening at once. “Are you hurt, little one?”
Louisa giggled. “Only my pride, Papa. I never liked sewing. Governesses always try to make me sit still.”
The sound of her laughter thawed something in him. He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, his features easing into the rare expression of tenderness. None knew him capable of it because only Louisa saw it.
Most people, including me, are despicable and disappointing—in that order. We all make exceptions from time to time, though. For me, I endeavor to show my daughter all the goodness I can muster.
“Then we shall do without a governess, if it pleases you. Heaven knows we’ve gone through enough of them.”
Even as he said it, he knew the fallacy of his words. His daughter was at a vulnerable age, on the edge of womanhood. She needed to learn skills that he could not teach her in order that she could fit in with Society when the time came.
If she cannot play, sing or do needlepoint what place will the world have for her? She will be rejected without cause. The same cannot be said for me. I have burnt many bridges and made my own mistakes.
Louisa leaned against him, content, while the household beyond trembled.
Winston's temper was infamous in Greystone.
His bark was equal to his bite. He was sharp, quick, unrelenting.
Servants came and went like leaves in the wind.
Few stayed long enough to learn that beneath the fire was a man hollowed by grief, his trust splintered, his spirit bound by chains no one could see.
Even if they did, Winston could not show such things.
Not to anyone, except for his precious daughter.
For Louisa, he tried to be a kinder, gentler Duke.
But oftentimes, he struggled with the duplicity of it all.
Strength is all important. A man must be the match of his walls. Weakness is sin. A betrayal of all who rely on a man for his fortitude.
“Go upstairs, child,” Winston said as he pulled away from Louisa and motioned for her to climb the staircase. “I will put things in order down here and join you later.”
But Winston did not seek out his child again that day.
When Louisa had gone up to bed, Winston retired to his study where he spent long moments staring into the dying fire.
The room still smelled faintly of lilacs, though the vase upon the mantel had been empty for two years.
Sometimes he swore he felt her there, the reason for his guilt, hovering just beyond the corner of his eye.
A shadow in the mirror, a whisper at the edge of hearing.
The ghost of her clung to him, relentless as guilt.
The rap of knuckles against the study door drew him from his reverie.
The butler entered, carrying a sealed note upon a silver tray.
“From the Dowager Duchess, sir. Marked, urgent.”
Winston broke the seal and read, his eyes narrowing as they tracked the graceful script. A fire at Briarwood. His mother and her household coming to Greystone at once. He read the final line twice.
I shall be bringing my Lady-In-Waiting, a most dear companion, who has proven herself indispensable.
Winston set the letter down slowly, the muscle in his jaw tightening.
A Lady-In-Waiting? A companion?
Words that could mean anything. Positions with no real responsibility except to flatter an old woman. Take advantage of her generosity.
How could my mother have hired such a person two years ago? Has it been so long since we last saw each other?
Winston searched his memory, trying to recollect the last time his path crossed his mother’s, but nothing flew to the forefront except thoughts associated with this supposedly indispensable companion.
Exploitation, manipulation, flattery for gain.
His mother, for all her wit, was not immune to folly. Winston saw all of this in a few words. He leaned back in his chair, scowling into the shadows.
“Whoever this woman is,” he muttered, “I’ll see for myself what game she plays.”
And in the hollow silence that followed, the ghost that haunted him seemed to stir.
There were shapes in the periphery of his vision.
The guilt came, the crushing remorse, the sense that he could have done more.
He suppressed it brutally. Winston sought to bury the emotion and pretend it did not exist. Soft laughter from somewhere behind him echoed mockingly.