A Bewitching Governess Read online

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t slay with those icy eyes, but he could with his dirk or his knowledge. He’d rather not use the dirk unless forced.

  “There is one other matter,” he warned, looking for a way to discuss the delicate topic of a bastard son.

  She nodded, understanding instantly. “Aloysius. He is supposed to be in school. Owen meant for him to be educated. I can use funds from my settlement to pay for his tuition, but that will not leave me much for paying for a solicitor.”

  “I need to hire a tutor for Enoch. Why don’t we bring the boy here? Enoch could use a solid companion if you vouch for the boy’s character.”

  “I did not see him frequently, but Owen did. His mother was only a tenant’s daughter, but she seemed to take good care of her son. He was being tutored at the kirk school back then. He’ll be behind in his studies if he’s not been back. I cannot vouch for his character other than to say that if he takes after his father, he should be a fine companion for Enoch. Perhaps you can speak to his teachers. And I must insist on paying my share of his tutoring.” She set her small chin firmly.

  “You are schooling my children,” he reminded her, relieved that she showed no aristocratic snobbery about bastard sons. “I’m not sure how we balance our debts. We’ll tote it up after we find your husband’s documents. Give me the name and address of his solicitor, and I’ll have my own look into him.”

  She looked both relieved and wary. “I am grateful, thank you. I was not even certain where to begin.”

  “There is no reason you should. That’s what solicitors are for. We’ll have mine look into your mother-in-law’s deed as well, and the marriage registry. Who officiated? We’ll give him everything we know.”

  “Owen provided a chapel on his estate for the tenants. Mr. Willingham ministered to the chapel and tenants and had since Owen’s childhood, as I understand it. The reverend raised his family there and was practically a father to Owen. I don’t know if the current viscount even knows of Willingham’s existence.”

  Simon grimaced. “A man who relies on the viscount for his living might not be helpful, but we’ll see.” He had much to learn about his chosen home. He’d been too busy building the mining business to notice the village inhabitants.

  Letitia would have known. A breeze brushed the unruly hair from his brow, just as his wife had often done. It was almost reassuring.

  His guest rose in a flurry of silk and petticoats, wafting a faint scent that reminded him of heather and lilacs. He hastily stood with her.

  “I must check on the children. Clare does not sleep well. Good-night, Mr. Blair, and thank you again.” She hesitated, then lowered her lashes, shadowing her eyes. “I am sorry we did not start off well.”

  “So am I.” He bowed as she swept out, but her parting words served to remind him that she was not the placid, innocent teacher that she seemed. She was a stubborn, witchy Malcolm and she gambled. He stood forewarned.

  Besides, a lady as beautiful as this one would drive him mad with lust. He’d best solve this nasty situation soon and send her off to Hargreaves Hall, where she belonged.

  With that resolve, he stalked to his office to write his solicitor. He despised correspondence, but he wasn’t heading into Glasgow and leaving his weans alone. Perhaps he should hire a secretary.

  And find a mistress. As the sound of the lady’s voice crooning to one of his bairns drifted down from above, Simon adjusted his trousers, scowled, and shut his office door.

  “There you are, my darlings!” a loud female voice cried as a force of nature swept into the schoolroom the next day, startling Olivia from the lessons.

  Enoch stood and bowed properly. “Aunt Margaret.”

  The twins looked interested but did not bounce up for hugs. Since the twins were very young, and had been living in Edinburgh and York all this past year, Olivia assumed they did not remember a great-aunt.

  Mrs. Dunwoody was a large, florid-faced woman with a mass of graying hair, but her smile was kind, and she beamed happily at Enoch’s acknowledgment. Olivia opened her inner eye just a little bit, just enough to see that the woman’s colors were as clear as Mr. Blair’s. She caught a glimpse of the woman’s loneliness as well, but she didn’t like to intrude, so she shut out the vision and held out her hand in greeting.

  “Mrs. Dunwoody, I presume?” Olivia asked. “I am Olivia Hargreaves. I am so pleased that you are able to visit.”

  “Call me Maggie, dear. I’m too old to change my ways for these fancy new ones. My, you are a pretty one. I see why Si needs a chaperone!” She turned back to the children and finally noticed Evie, who was coloring her slate. “He’s added another to his nursery?”

  “Evie is my adopted daughter. And we hope to bring in my late husband’s son as well. It’s only a temporary situation until we find experienced teachers. There is much to explain.” Olivia gestured at the twins. “Clare, Catherine, make your curtsies, please. This is Mrs. Dunwoody, your father’s aunt. Do you know what an aunt is?”

  They shook their identical blond heads but eagerly showed off their curtsies.

  “I am sister to your father’s father, your Grandfather Blair. Have you started sewing your samplers yet, girls?”

  Olivia had given them more practical tasks like sewing handkerchiefs, but the children needed family around them, so she didn’t inject her opinion.

  Clare leaned over and whispered to Cat. Cat’s blond eyebrows drew down over her tiny nose. She spoke with the fierceness of one defending the helpless. “Mama says samplers are silly, and we should make handkerchiefs for daddy.”

  Oh, dear. Olivia shot a nervous glance at the non-Malcolm visitor. Mrs. Dunwoody shook her graying curls but did not scold—yet.

  “Well, I’m sure your mama meant well, but you must practice stitches before you can waste fine cloth. And when you show me that you’re ready, we’ll add his initials to handkerchiefs.” She turned to Olivia. “Really, we must discourage these odd outbursts. It won’t do to have the neighbors think them strange.”

  None of her business, Olivia reminded herself. She was a guest here. The children would have to live with their aunt. She caught a pencil rising from the table in agitation and smiled without answering.

  “Well,” Mrs. Dunwoody huffed. “I see you’re settled in then. We’ll discuss taking turns minding the children over luncheon. I do not believe in this nonsense of tea in the afternoon. It just makes extra work for the staff. I’ll go down and speak with the cook.”

  She swept out with the force of a whirlwind.

  “Mama says she’s an interfering biddy,” Clare murmured. “What is a biddy?”

  “An old hen,” Enoch said crudely, returning to his seat. “She’ll send me to a school where they won’t let me practice.”

  “I doubt there is a school anywhere that will accept your gift,” Olivia said gently. “That is why you are learning to disguise it. And control it. Levitating that pencil was not well done.”

  “She doesn’t like us,” Cat said mulishly.

  “I think she likes you very much and simply wishes you to be safe. What did you see that makes you think otherwise?” Olivia had no way of ascertaining if Cat’s ability to see auras resembled her own. The child was still too young to explain what she saw or to interpret it.

  Cat still looked mutinous, but she hesitated, as if trying to remember. “Reddish brown,” she decided. “Brown is bad, right?”

  “No, not always.” Red seemed to be a family color. The Blairs were solid, passionate, grounded people. “Brown sometimes means a person is insecure.” At Cat’s frown, Olivia tried to explain better. “How do you feel about not understanding the colors you see?”

  Cat screwed up her nose and eyes, then shrugged with the impatience of a four-year-old. “I don’t like it.”

  “That’s because it confuses you and makes you insecure. Maybe your Aunt Maggie is confused when she can’t see what you do. Be kind to her, because she means well. There will always be people who do n
ot believe in you. You must accept their limitations just as you must accept some people don’t sing or write or play ball as well as others.”

  It was a hard concept for them to grasp, so Olivia returned to their lessons.

  She felt the cold breeze on her nape that she’d come to accept as Letitia’s spirit. She had no notion of whether it meant approval or not. Olivia had long quit looking for approval from others. Deciding what she thought best for herself was difficult enough.

  Simon escaped Maggie’s clutches by the simple expedient of heading into the village after she arrived. He’d resisted her interference this past year for very good reason, but a chaperone was necessary, and she was all he had.

  He mailed off his inquiries to his solicitor, then walked down to the moss-covered kirk. Greybridge was not a market town, so the streets were little more than lanes. He liked it that way. Children and animals were safe running along the dust and cobbles, and the grassy verge was preferable to the city filth he’d grown up in.

  The minister was a local man, one of the Napier family. He rose from his desk when Simon was introduced. Simon felt a bit awkward since he did not regularly attend services, but Letitia had.

  “Mr. Blair,” the portly minister said without obvious judgment. “How may I help you?”

  “Lady Hargreaves is a relation to my late wife and has come to visit. She has just been informed that Aloysius Cargill has been living with my steward instead of attending school as her late husband wished. Do you know anything of this?”

  The clergyman raised his dark eyebrows and gestured at a chair. “Have a seat, sir. I’ll have my housekeeper bring tea.”

  That sounded ominous. Simon sat and waited while the minister retreated to the interior to consult with an unseen housekeeper. He knew how these things worked. The housekeeper would run next door and pass on word that Lady Hargreaves was back in town. He would have petitioners at his doorstep night and day. It could not be avoided.

  The minister returned, took a seat behind his desk, and clasped his hands in a gesture of restraint. “There has been a great deal of concern over young Aloysius since the new viscount took his seat.” He sounded as if he were choosing his words carefully.

  “Lady Hargreaves was promised that her brother-in-law would care for her late husband’s affairs. She was unaware anything had changed. She insists that she will pay for the lad’s schooling if the funds have disappeared. I’m more cautious.” Simon left the next step in the clergyman’s hands.

  Napier cleared his throat. “Mary Cargill, the mother, came to me when the funds stopped. We sent inquiries. We were told there were no arrangements for the funds to continue after the late viscount’s death. I personally spoke with Mr. Willingham, the viscount’s minister. He assured me that the late viscount had indeed left funds, but Lady Hargreaves had confiscated them.”

  Simon tried not to throttle the messenger. “And how did Mr. Willingham acquire this information?”

  The minister relaxed just a trifle. “From the current viscount. Mr. Willingham has no other living but that of the estate. He must rely on the word of his employer.”

  “The same employer who told the lady that she never married her husband? Willingham officiated, did he not?” Simon sat back in his chair as the housekeeper delivered a tray of tea things. He didn’t want tea, didn’t even like it, but he’d learned to accept the hospitality.

  “He has made no mention of that to me, of course. I fear Willingham tipples more than a little these days. I only arrived in Greybridge five years ago. The viscount and his lady had just christened their infant son in the family chapel at the time. No one led me to believe theirs was anything except a regular marriage. And even if Willingham denies he officiated, under Scots law, they were married by the mere fact that they lived together and produced a child. There is no question that the marriage was legal.”

  Simon held his cup without drinking. “But an irregular marriage might be questioned in England, where the title was created. Now that the problem of title is moot, then it is only the late viscount’s trust agreement that is in question. The lady claims she received no funds beyond her dower.”

  “As I said, I was not there when they married and am not familiar enough with the family to speculate one way or another about who is right about the boy’s funds. Willingham is the man you wish to see. But Aloysius and his mother were my parishioners. The lad attended the kirk school until his mother needed help. He has not been back since. I regret that. He is an intelligent lad, well-spoken, and will be an asset to the community one day.”

  “That was the recommendation I needed, thank you. The son of a viscount should not be left mucking stalls. I’ll be looking for a tutor for my son. If you can persuade the lad that we mean him no harm, we’ll take him in, bring his education up to snuff, and the lady will arrange for his schooling.” Simon rose, unwilling to say more than necessary.

  Napier rose with him. “Why don’t you send both boys to the kirk school? Young Ponder Hamilton has returned from the university with a lot of new notions in his head about education. We’ve put him in charge, and he seems to do a fine job.”

  “One of Sir Harvey’s relations?” Simon asked warily.

  “His nephew, by a younger brother who is a professor at the university. Ponder’s mother is a Methodist, but we don’t hold that against him.” The minster smiled as boots clattered down the hall outside his office. “You might wish to meet young Aloysius before you make any decisions.”

  The housekeeper ushered in a tall, lanky boy with a shock of pitch-black hair and a wary, almost feral expression on his angular face.

  Simon had never met the viscount, but he could see aristocracy stamped on the lad’s high cheekbones, long nose, and stubborn, square jaw. He nodded at the boy, who regarded him with suspicion, before turning his attention to the familiar face of the minister.

  “Mr. Blair, this is Aloysius Cargill, the lad we spoke about. Aloysius, Mr. Blair has come to correct some assumptions we’ve wrongly made about Lady Hargreaves.”

  The boy’s eyes spit fire. Simon was pretty certain he detected the word bitch on his lips, but he gave the lad credit for not saying it aloud.

  “The lady lost everything after your father died,” Simon said sternly. “She lost her land, her title, and her only son. She had no reason to return here, but she has, and now she has learned of the lies being spread about her.”

  “She lives in riches while my mam died in filth,” the boy spat.

  The brat wasn’t dumb or ignorant by any means. Simon sympathized with his resentment.

  “Lady Hargreaves is living with her aunts as a schoolteacher,” Simon corrected. “Her family has money. Your mother’s family didn’t. She has asked me to find out what happened to your father’s funds. I will do so if you show that you are worth the trouble.”

  Napier interfered before the boy could say anything rash. “You owe it to your parents to hear the other side of the story, lad. The lady owes you nothing. You are not of her family. It is your father’s family who has ignored your plight. If she is generous enough to correct the wrongs that have been done to you, then you should give her a chance.”

  “She stole from us!” the lad protested. “Me mam would be alive if she hadn’t stole from us!”

  “It is the viscount’s word against the lady’s,” Simon reminded him. “Has your father’s brother offered to help? Did he offer aid to your mother or send you to school as Lady Hargreaves wishes to do?”

  The lad scowled and didn’t reply.

  “It is an opportunity to hear the other side,” Napier said gently. “Mr. Blair is a good man. I can vouch for him. He has bairns of his own and has generously offered to open his home to you. You can go back to school again.”

  “I can work,” the boy said roughly, not looking at either of them. “I’m strong. I don’t need charity.”

  “You’ll work at an education then,” Simon said. “You can make your father in heaven proud of yo
u.”

  The plain speech that meant nothing to Simon apparently worked for the boy. He hesitated, then shrugged his bony shoulders.

  Having found a common speech in church words, Simon looked to the minister for approval.

  Napier held out his hand to him. “I’ll come by and visit some evening, see how the lad is doing, shall I?”

  Simon shook the offered hand. “I’m not a man for religious ritual,” he warned. “My mam brought me up in the church, but I prefer action to words. When does the school start its new session?”

  “After Hogmanay. That will give Aloysius the rest of the week to settle into his new home. Tell Lady Hargreaves it will be a pleasure to call on her if she will allow. And if there is any way we can aid in her search for. . . justice. . . we shall do all that is possible.”

  Hogmanay. Simon counted the days to the new year—less than a week. Letitia had been dead and buried a year and a month. With sadness descending like a cloak, Simon put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and steered him out to the street.

  He’d lived in hell for this past year. The boy had lived worse. The world was filled with evil-doers. It was time at least one of them paid.

  Seven

  “Oh, my, you look so much like your father!” Lady Hargreaves exclaimed when Simon brought Aloysius up to the nursery.

  She looked ready to cry. Simon’s gut twisted. She’d once been married to an honorable, handsome aristocrat—a creature Simon believed in as much as he did unicorns. And now he had a rare noble bird teaching in his nursery!

  She brushed a lock of hair from the boy’s face. The boy flinched. The lady didn’t.

  “I am so very horribly sorry,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “I did not give you one thought. I believed. . . I am so ashamed!”

  The boy went from looking rebellious to seriously uncomfortable. That, Simon understood. He tapped the boy on the back of his head to catch his attention. Wary dark eyes turned to him.

  “This is where you say something polite like, how do you do, Lady Hargreaves. Or pleasure to meet you. Meaningless words when you have nothing else to say. You’ll catch on soon enough. Do you know how to bow? That works a treat too.”