Rules for a Proper Governess (14 page)

He found Bertie sitting close to him, her warm skirts spilling over his thighs. “Now, you stop right there, Mr. McBride,” she said, her eyes sparkling with anger. “You’re a perfectly fine father. You don’t beat them, first of all. You give them a good house, and lots of things, and book-learning—at least you try with the book-learning. I didn’t have none of that. This Edward can’t say your kids are mistreated, because they ain’t. I can see
that
. You’re good at laws. You’ll best him, I know it.”

Her confidence was as warm as her touch. “I’m a barrister,” Sinclair said. “An advocate. Not a solicitor. The niceties are beyond me.”

“What are you talking about? You stand up in court and tell everyone what’s right and what’s not.”

Sinclair wanted to laugh. “Love, I’ve known barristers who’ve never cracked a law book in their lives. They take on pupils to do the legal research for them. To be a barrister you only need a firm resolve, a persuasive way about you, and a large pair of bollocks.”

Bertie rewarded him with a brief grin. Her unwavering faith made Sinclair feel a bit better. Gave him hope, let him breathe easier. If Edward wanted a fight, he’d have one.

Then Bertie’s smile dimmed. “If your brother-in-law gets wind that I’m not a proper governess, he’ll use that against you too, won’t he?”

Her gaze was shrewd. She was right, and she knew it.

Sinclair squeezed her hand. Hers was small, delicate yet strong. These fingers had dipped into his pocket, unhooked his watch, and taken it without him detecting it.

And yet, she had finely shaped hands, skin a bit rough from too much manual work, but he didn’t mind. Sinclair lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her fingertips. Last night he’d suckled these fingers. He’d been half-drunk, disgusted with himself, and he’d needed her. He’d craved to have something of her in his mouth, and he hadn’t been able to let go of her once he’d started.

“Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t find out,” Sinclair said. “Cat and Andrew need you, and I can’t do this without you.” He kissed her fingers again, tenderly. “Everything’s dark for me, Bertie. But there’s a little flicker of light, the tiniest one. It’s above me every night, in the nursery and you next to it.” He pressed her hand between both of his, drawing in her warmth once more. “Please don’t put that light out.”

Bertie looked at him for a long time, a swallow moving down her throat. Sinclair knew he asked a lot of her—had since he’d chased her through the dark streets of London, determined to wrench his watch back from her. This morning he’d virtuously thought he could let her go, to prevent himself taking what he shouldn’t want.

This evening, he knew his virtuousness was a lie. Sinclair wanted her here, needed her, couldn’t let her walk out of his life, no matter what tricks they had to play on the rest of the world.

At last, Bertie smiled. She wrapped her hands around Sinclair’s, her dark blue eyes meeting his gaze over their twined fingers. “All right,” she said. “You convinced me. We’ll draw up the battlements here, and I’ll become the best governess London has ever seen. We’ll face them together, yeah?”

Easier said than done, Bertie thought the next morning. She knew she had to appear to be a well-read, genteel young lady, fit to take on the task of educating the McBride children. Not the simplest task in the world for Bertie Frasier. She’d have to put her mind to how to go about it, but she was determined to. Nobody was going to take these children away from Mr. McBride, not if she had anything to say about it.

Bertie had begun the habit of taking the children for a walk straight after breakfast, after they waved their father good-bye. She’d found they settled down better to reading and things afterward. The previous governesses had forced them to stay inside until they’d done a certain amount of work, and that hadn’t done well, had it?

That morning, in light of Jeffrey’s threats, Sinclair had ordered Macaulay to accompany them everywhere, which was fine with Bertie. Though Macaulay still made her nervous, she was sure even Jeffrey would balk at taking on a giant in a kilt.

Macaulay trailed behind them, his usual taciturn self, but Bertie couldn’t quite forget he was there. He had a presence, did Macaulay.

He kept his eagle eye on the kids as they played—Andrew running, Cat perched on the edge of a bench writing in the book again. Macaulay had been so silent the entire hour that when he cleared his throat, the sound rumbling up from the depths of his large body, it was as though a volcano had begun to bubble over in the quiet tranquility of the park.

Bertie jumped, but Macaulay only fixed a sharp gaze on her and began to speak.

“I won’t lie to ye, lass,” he said in his blunt way. “I saw Mr. McBride with you upstairs after his fancy supper night before last, a-kissing ye.”

Bertie’s face went scalding hot. Macaulay only watched her, daring her to deny she’d been in Sinclair’s embrace, which, of course, she couldn’t.

“He weren’t kissing me—” Bertie broke off. Explaining what Sinclair
had
been doing would be much more delicate and somewhat embarrassing. “What if he was?”

Macaulay kept his eye on her, the man looking out of place in this tame, manicured park. He’d be more at home striding across sweeping hills, his kilt swinging, his hair ruffled by a wild Scottish wind.

“I don’t blame
you
, miss,” Macaulay said. “Ye have to forgive him for it.”

Bertie blinked, her lips parting at this unexpected turn. She’d been sure Macaulay had been about to blister her with an admonishment. “I have to forgive
him
?”

“Aye. He’s not been himself since . . . well, in a long time.”

Bertie took a breath, trying to recover from the surprise. “Not since he lost his wife, you mean,” she said. Her voice softened. “It was hard on them all, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, lass. This has been a house of grief for a long time.” Macaulay shook his head. “He’s a good man, is Mr. Sinclair, for all his wild ways.”

“Is he wild?” Bertie asked, perplexed again. “But he goes off to a job every day, like a respectable gent.”

“
Now
, he does. But I was Mr. Sinclair’s batman in the army. We were sent to parts of Africa that would make you wilt away. His men respected him more than anybody, would do anything for him, would die for him. When he was off duty though, whew.” Macaulay took on a faraway look, one that held fondness. “He loved his whiskey, Mr. McBride did, and his pranks, especially on English officers who were prats. He’d make them look like fools, but he was so good a soldier his superiors wouldn’t punish him. He was a fine officer, though. No one better in a fight, always brought his men home.”

Bertie listened, soaking in the information. Mrs. Hill had told her a few things, but this was the first time she’d gotten an outpouring about Sinclair’s past. “Why’d he leave the army? If he was so good at it?”

“Met his wife, didn’t he?” Macaulay watched Andrew leaping over a series of stones he’d set up. “Miss Margaret was a pretty thing. Miss Caitriona looks much like her.”

“I’ve seen her photo,” Bertie said. One smiled from a frame on top of the dresser in the nursery. The picture was grainy and dark, but she could tell that the woman had been quite comely. “Mr. McBride was much in love with her, wasn’t he?”

“Aye, that he was, lass. He resigned his captaincy and went into chambers in London—his grandfather had been a barrister there, and they took him on easily enough. Miss Margaret encouraged him, and he started to rise. No telling how far he’ll go—all the way to the Queen’s Bench, I wouldn’t wonder. He grew famous as a junior, and was offered silk pretty quickly. He and Mrs. McBride were a fine couple, loved by everyone they knew.”

Bertie’s heart squeezed, fully aware Mrs. McBride had been a paragon. “But she died, poor lady.”

“That she did.” Macaulay’s voice went quiet. “It was a long illness, and the two wee ones nearly went with her. Thought Mr. McBride would go himself, of grieving. The problem was, Miss Margaret had tamed him, but I think she tamed him too well. When she was gone, there wasn’t much left of him.”

“Hardly anything.” Bertie’s heart ached as she thought of the sadness in Sinclair’s gray eyes, as though he waited for some reason to come alive again. “He’s all emptied out.”

“We look after him,” Macaulay said. “Mrs. Hill and me, and the others. We make sure he’s all right and doesn’t grow too morose. We need you to help us with that.”

Bertie nodded. “I will.” Of course she would. That’s why she’d come, wasn’t it?

Macaulay gave her an approving look. “Mr. McBride, he carries on—does his cases and all, and he don’t say no to the ladies—but his heart’s in the grave.” His look turned sharp again. “Remember that.”

“Yeah,” Bertie said, her own heart seeming to shrink. “I will.”

When Bertie returned to the house, she gave the children their regular lessons—the history of Britain, sums from a book of maths, and French. Bertie enjoyed the history, was good at the maths, but let Cat take the lead in French.

She thought about what Macaulay had told her as the children read and wrote, a little lump forming in her throat. The sensations of Sinclair holding her hand yesterday evening when they sat in his study, so chummy, and his mouth on her fingers the night before lingered. Bertie had felt special, singled out, the woman with whom he’d chosen to share his troubles.

Everything’s dark for me, Bertie. But there’s a little flicker of light, the tiniest one. It’s above me every night, in the nursery and you next to it.

And then Macaulay:
He don’t say no to the ladies—but his heart’s in the grave. Remember that.

Blast it.

After dinner, when Cat and Andrew had a nap—at least, they pretended to until Bertie was out of the room—Mrs. Hill sent up word, asking Bertie to come to the library on the first floor.

When Bertie entered the dim room, Mrs. Hill, in her usual severe black, was standing in front of the rows of bookcases that rose to the ceiling. “A governess needs to know what she’s teaching her charges,” she said as soon as Bertie entered. “I know there’s Mangnall’s
Questions
, but a solid education is much easier to defend than memorization from an answer book. And if you want an education, my dear, this is the best way to go about it.” She swept her hand to indicate the rows of books around them.

Bertie took in the leather-backed tomes that marched along every wall up to the very high ceiling, and quailed. “You want me to read all
these
? Are ye mad? That’ll take me the rest of me life!”

“If needs must,” Mrs. Hill said in her no-nonsense voice. “Mr. Edward Davies—Mr. McBride’s brother-in-law—is determined to take our children from us, and we can’t have that. If you have to read every book in this room to fool him into thinking you’re a real governess, I will stand here until you do so.”

“Oh, Lord.” Bertie turned in a circle, taking in all the books, which seemed to spin around her. “What if I don’t understand any of them?”

“No matter. As long as, when Mr. Edward is nigh, you can trot out a few phrases such as
Carlyle tells us
 . . . or
Herodotus’s views on Ancient Egypt are . . .
you’ll do well.”

Bertie’s eyes narrowed. “Do
you
know what’s in all these books, Mrs. Hill?”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Hill said without shame. “But I’m not pretending to be a governess, am I?”

“I’m not pretending,” Bertie said. “I
am
one—now.”

“Well, you’d better be one with everything you have, my girl. I don’t like Mrs. McBride’s brother, I can tell you. The first thing he’ll do is send Andrew off to some cold school in the north of England. Porridge three times a day, shivering by himself in a narrow little room, which they say will make a man of him.”

Bertie doubted Andrew would stand for being shut by himself in a narrow little room—he’d find some way to pick the lock or climb out the window—but she took the point. “What would they do with Cat?” Caitriona definitely wouldn’t benefit from being put into a cold room alone. While Andrew was always trying to burst out of himself, Cat retreated deep inside herself where no one could reach. It would not be best to put her somewhere without warmth, without people who understood and cared about her.

“Miss Cat would be educated in Mr. Davies’ home,” Mrs. Hill said, her nostrils pinching. “With a governess who’d fill her head with all kinds of nonsense, such as a true lady being too delicate to speak above a whisper and so weak she can barely lift a teacup. Then they’ll send Miss Cat to finishing school to complete her ruination.” Mrs. Hill’s lips pressed together, rage in her eyes.

Bertie liked that rage. “Well then,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’d best get to reading, hadn’t I?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Hill gave her a look of vast gratitude. “Thank you, my dear.”

“All the same,” Bertie said, looking up at the books again, her imagination stirring to life. “I have an idea.”

Sinclair left chambers at seven that evening and paid a visit on his way home to Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd Fellows in his comfortable home in Pimlico.

The DCI was one of the Mackenzie clan Sinclair’s sister had married into, and the Mackenzie Sinclair felt most comfortable with. Though Fellows, a half brother to the rest of the Mackenzies, had spent his childhood in the slums of the East End, and Sinclair had lived in a well-kept house, raised by his respectable older brother, Sinclair and Fellows had both made their way up in their professions by hard work and bloody stubbornness. Both also were in the business of the law—Fellows caught villains breaking the laws, and Sinclair helped put them away. They shared a mutual respect, as well as a bemusement at being drawn into the very scandalous Mackenzie family.

Fellows had married earlier in the year to the youngest daughter of an earl—Lady Louisa Scranton. Louisa’s sister, Isabella, had married a Mackenzie herself—Lord Mac, the painter.

Louisa smiled warmly as Sinclair entered, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek. Her red hair glimmered in the lamplight, and her gown couldn’t hide her increasing girth. Louisa was expecting sometime in the early spring.

“Lovely to see you, Sinclair,” she said warmly. “How are dear Cat and Andrew?”

“Dear Cat and Andrew are very well, thank you,” Sinclair answered, waiting for Louisa to sit before he took the chair she indicated. “They have a new governess they’ve taken a liking to, and so the house has stayed more or less intact for the last few days.”

“Yes, the new governess,” Louisa said, giving Sinclair a shrewd look. “Eleanor told us about her.”

Sinclair blinked, though he knew he shouldn’t be surprised Louisa already knew about Bertie. “It’s gone around, has it?”

“In the Mackenzie family?” Louisa shot him another smile and began pouring out tea. “Of course. Everyone from Hart’s manservant to Beth’s scullery maid knows you’ve recently employed a young governess with a charming Cockney accent.”

“No denying it, I suppose.” Sinclair accepted the cup Louisa handed him. “One of the reasons I’ve come is to ask you to help her,” he said to Fellows. “I need you to find out about her relations and keep them away from her. Especially one called Jeffrey. A thug who styles himself her beau.”

Louisa’s brows rose. “A thug? That sounds ominous. Is he a danger?”

“I don’t want him to be,” Sinclair said. “Either to my children or to Bertie—I mean, Miss Frasier.”

Louisa peered closely at him, noticing the slip. “A very winsome young lady, Eleanor said.”

Sinclair flushed, and Louisa smiled at him again and lifted her teacup.

Fellows didn’t share his wife’s amusement, but he did share her concern. “If he weren’t a danger, you wouldn’t have come to me,” he said. “I advise you to keep your governess and little ones close to home, or don’t let them go out without you.”

“Exactly why I’m here,” Sinclair said. “Macaulay keeps a good eye on them, but I want this man found, warned, stopped.” He took a sip of tea. “That and . . . the letters.”