The Bride of Time (4 page)

“Bed,” he murmured. “You think…?” Seizing her arm, he propelled her toward the easel and spun her around to face the canvas. Tessa swayed in his arms. With the strange happenings of late, she’d all but forgotten. Here was “The Bride of Time” in the early stages of completion. “That slag wasn’t here for bed sport; she was my model,” he told her. “Didn’t Andy explain?”

“I have been trying to tell you. Your coachman even tried to tell you. I never saw your ‘Andy’ person—”

“Who are you then?” Longworth asked, raking his dark hair back from a sweaty brow. “What were you doing in my coach?” She almost felt sorry for him then…almost, but not quite. He was still a brute and a madman, and she was still at his mercy.

“M-my name is Tessa LaPrelle,” she said, ordering her frock. “I…I’ve come about…about the governess position.” What else could she say? What other excuse could she give him? She should run, and keep on running. But where would she run to? She wasn’t even in her own time. How could that have happened? How could she get back to London in her own day and age? Did she even want to, what with a charge of theft hanging over her head? But how could she stay here with
him
, with this wild-eyed drunken madman? There was a connection, there had to be. She was here, wasn’t she? For all that the situation was passing strange, and considering her mundane existence in her own time, she was brave enough to want to find out why the fates had cast her adrift in a blink of time’s eye.

Longworth let her go, muttering a string of expletives. “I do beg your pardon,” he said, sketching an awkward bow. “You should have said something!”

“I tried,” Tessa pronounced, fastening the buttons on her bodice.

Longworth straightened up, fussing with his shirtsleeves. He seemed to be trying to cover the scar on the back of his wrist with the lace ruffled cuff. “I know it’s no excuse, of course,” he said, “but I’m half-castaway, or I never would have given you such a clumsy welcome to Longhollow Abbey. Brandy has an odd effect upon me, I’m afraid. I assure you that in normal circumstances I am a gentleman.”

“
Clumsy?
” Tessa blurted. “That does not even approach the description of my ‘welcome,’ sir. Tell me: do you imbibe often, then?”

“Only when needs must, dear lady.”

Tessa extended her hand. “My hairpins, please,” she said icily.

He lurched as if she’d struck him, reached into his
pocket and produced the pins. “Frightfully sorry,” he said. “You must think me a jackanapes.”

“Mmmm,” Tessa said, taking hold of her long, thick hair.

Longworth’s hand shot out and stopped just short of making contact. “Oh, please don’t,” he said. “It’s perfect as it is.”

“It’s highly inappropriate as it is, sir,” Tessa snapped, coiling her hair into a Gibson crown—no small feat without a mirror, but she had never had the privilege of a lady’s maid, and she was adept at dressing her hair herself.

He cocked his head in a curious attitude. “Another ‘height of fashion’ where you come from?” he asked her.

“You might say that, yes.”

He studied her thoughtfully. “It’s been a long time since I’ve visited Town,” he observed, half to himself. “Too long, if things have changed this much in my absence. The coiffure is…quite becoming. I cannot say as much for the frock, though.” He was looking at her with the eyes of an artist now, and Tessa wasn’t quite sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

“Yes, well, that hardly signifies,” she said, giving the frock a punishing twist. “Has the position been filled?”

For a moment he brightened, his eyes flashing toward the unfinished canvas on the easel.

“The governess position,” she put in, for it was clear he had quite something else in mind.

“Ah, yes,” he said, his posture deflating. He clouded suddenly, and seemed distracted. The moon had shifted in the sky. It had broken through the clouds, and was clearly visible now through the glass ceiling. It threw a shaft of silvery light between them, and he jumped back as if it were a lightning bolt.

“Well, it either is or it isn’t,” Tessa snapped.

He was standing so close she could feel his body heat again, and smell his scent. The most peculiar expression had darkened his face despite the moonlight streaming down. It was almost as if he was struggling with those inner demons she’d detected in him. Was it the alcohol? Tessa wasn’t accustomed to being in the company of drunken men. He wasn’t falling-down drunk; that would have been safe enough. He was under the influence, but not enough to render him harmless, just enough to make him dangerous, judging from his behavior thus far. This fine display gave rise to new opinions about the temperance movement, but she wouldn’t mention that. He was having enough difficulty becoming accustomed to twentieth-century hairstyles and women’s attire.

“The position is still open,” he said at last, “but…”

“But what, sir?”

Again he hesitated. “Nothing. I’m just amazed that you will still consider taking a position at Longhollow Abbey.”

“Well, I won’t be governing
you
, now will I?”

He winced. “Touché,” he said. “I deserved that. When could you begin?”

“I should like to begin at once, if that’s convenient,” Tessa said, amazed at her command of the situation, though she had a gut-wrenching feeling that this was all terribly wrong.

His demeanor softened suddenly, and he strolled to the canvas, running his thumb along the edge. It came away stained with green paint, the color of the patchwork hills. He rubbed it away with his index finger. “In addition,” he drawled, “might you possibly consider—”

“Certainly not!” she cried, eyeing the naked woman outlined on the canvas.

He raised both hands in a gesture of defeat. “I had to
ask,” he said. “You can see the resemblance yourself, and that
hair
…”

Tessa marched toward the door. Her position had to be made unequivocally clear at the outset.

“All right,” Longworth said, intercepting her. “If you should change your mind, you have only to say so. It would mean a substantial increase in your salary, of course, should you decide to model for me in your spare time.” He didn’t give her time to respond. “My ward, Monty, will be your charge. He is nine. I shan’t deceive you, he’s a difficult child. We’ll settle you in and you’ll meet him tomorrow. Did you have bags in the coach?”

“N-no, Mr. Longworth. I left in rather a hurry, just as I will leave here if you persist about that painting.”

“No matter,” he said, ignoring the last. “Dorcas, my house keeper, will outfit you with some of my wife’s old things. You cannot go about in that costume. It isn’t suitable.”

Tessa nodded. “If your wife wouldn’t mind, until I can purchase suitable costumes locally.”

“She won’t mind,” he said, through what could only be described as a sneer, Tessa decided, having been startled by it. His eyes had taken on a fiendish glare. “She’s dead, you see,” he went on drolly. “Folks hereabouts say I killed her.”

Chapter Three

“You can sleep in this,” the house keeper said, laying a folded nightdress on the chiffonier. I’ll bring up a few frocks for your inspection first thing in the mornin’.”

“Thank you, Dorcas,” Tessa said. “You are most kind.” The woman had settled her in what had been termed the Viridian Suite, the governess’s apartments, chosen for its close proximity to those of her charge. The walls were papered in pastoral scenes in shades of green, reminding Tessa of French toile; a guest suite no doubt, definitely a woman’s apartments on the third floor, with an adjoining sitting room and dressing room. The sight took Tessa’s breath away. She had never slept in a room so grand.

“They used ta hold huntin’ parties at Longhollow Abbey in the old days,” Dorcas said, as if answering Tessa’s thoughts. “These rooms up here haven’t been in use since the master’s father was alive.”

“It’s…beautiful,” Tessa murmured, gazing about at the frescoed ceiling, draped sleigh bed and white French lacquered furniture. “I have never seen the like.”

“The Holland covers spared a lot o’ the furniture, and we put on fresh bedding, but these rooms want a good goin’ over. I’ll see ta that in the mornin’, too, while
you’re with Master Monty. We’re short-staffed here since the mistress…died. There’s the maids Lettie and Lottie—sisters, don’t ya know—Rigby, the butler, Evers, the footman, Foster, the master’s valet, Cook, and Effie in the scullery, and meself. Oh, and there’s Able and Andy in the stables, but they keep to the loft out there in their own quarters.”

“That is a short staff for such a house as this.”

Dorcas shrugged. “We make do,” she said. “We don’t stand on ceremony here at Longhollow Abbey, not like the gentry does in Town. If a job needs doin’, a body’ll cross the line and do it if needs must, just so’s it gets done. Will ya be sendin’ for your things, then?”

Tessa hesitated. “No,” she said. “The master doesn’t approve of my attire. I shall purchase new costumes here locally.”

“Oh, pshaw!” Dorcas grumbled. “What would he know? None o’ his females wears any clothes at all!”

Tessa suppressed a smile. “I’m sure I’ll find something suitable in Truro on my day off,” she said.

“Well, I’ll have ta send one o’ the maids with ya when ya go,” Dorcas said. “It just ain’t safe, a woman on her own travelin’ about, and you’ll have old Able, too. This ain’t like London Town out here. There’s all sorts o’ mischief afoot.”

Tessa wanted to say there was mischief afoot aplenty in London Town as well, but she held her peace. “That can wait for a bit,” she said. “Tell me a little about my charge. My employment here depends upon how we get on together, Master Monty and I.”

Dorcas clouded. She began fidgeting with her pinafore, her stubby little fingers working over the top-stitched hem. She was a rotund, red-cheeked woman of middle age, with a pleasant though toil-worn countenance and what seemed like a good heart—the exact opposite of the servants Tessa had left behind at Poole
House. It was a tremendous relief. At least that part of her prayer had been answered.

“Well, I ain’t goin’ ta lie to ya,” the woman began. “He’s a handful, is Master Monty. Montclair Albert Montague III, though none o’ us ever calls him by any name but Monty, unless the master’s got him on the carpet. The master’ sister’s child, he is. Well, not really. The boy’s no blood kin to the Longworths. Montague was married afore, and young Monty was his son. When she died—the master’s sister; Ursula was her name—young Monty become the master’s ward. Miss Ursula—she’ll always be Miss Ursula ta me; I didn’t much care for that husband o’ hers—well, she was increasing when she died. ’Twas a dreadful accident that killed mother and child. Montague fell fighting Napoleon.”

“And the master took the lad in?”

“They
was
in, him and Miss Ursula—a bit o’ a scandal there, but it ain’t my place ta tell it. When Miss Ursula died, little Monty became the master’s charge.”

“What happened to his last governess?”

“She run off—all of them did,” Dorcas admitted. “We try to do our best for the boy, but like I said, we’re short-staffed out here.”

“The boy can’t be all that bad,” Tessa scoffed.

“Oh no? Just wait,” Dorcas said. “And it ain’t just the boy, ’tis the master, too. He don’t get on well with people.”

Tessa could appreciate that. She wouldn’t probe the woman. She’d been brought here for some reason. She needed to find out what that reason was.

“Listen ta me goin’ on,” Dorcas said. “I don’t want ta scare ya off. Pay me no mind. I’m always speakin’ outa turn. We’re all glad you’ve come. Cook’s fixin’ a tray for ya. Ya must be starved. Eat then get some sleep. You’ll need ta be well rested for dealin’ with young master tomorrow.”

“Oh no, tell Cook not to trouble,” Tessa said. “I’m really too tired to eat. That bed looks so inviting, I think I’ll just go straight to sleep.”

“It’s no trouble, miss, but if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure. You’ve been most kind.”

Dorcas turned the bed down and started toward the door. She turned back when she reached it. “Oh, and there’s just one more thing, miss,” she said awkwardly. “Be sure ta lock your door.”

Tessa didn’t need to be told to do that. It was the first thing on her agenda, but still she asked, “Why?” The short hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end at the woman’s odd expression.

Dorcas shrugged. “It’s just somethin’ we do here at the Abbey, is all,” she said. “The master’ll tell ya the same. Just…lock it.”

Giles Longworth dragged himself up the bifurcated staircase that divided the house into two wings and trudged to his master suite apartments. The fog in his brain was lifting. He was sobering, heaven forbid. There was more brandy in his bedchamber, and he headed straight for it only to be intercepted by Foster, his valet, an antiquated curmudgeon whom his father had bequeathed to him when he turned sixteen. Giles had thanked Divine Providence every day since for that bequest…except when, like now, he was half-foxed, and the valet had custody of the brandy decanter.

“Give it here, damn you, Foster,” Giles growled. “I’m not in the mood to spar with you. I’ve just made a damned fool of myself, and I need to soften the edges.”

“Don’t you think it would be best to sober up in order to do that, sir?” Foster said.

“I don’t think at all when I’m under the influence,”
Giles responded, working his hand impatiently. “That’s the point, old boy, now hand it over.”

The valet ignored him. “How is it you’ve embarrassed yourself this time, then?” he asked. “No doubt there’s a female involved.”

Giles raked his fingers through his hair impatiently. “I confused the new governess with the model I sent for to replace the thieving little slag I just put off the place is all. Tell me that is not worthy of a swig of that rotgut you’re holding captive there.”

“You wouldn’t have embarrassed yourself but for the brandy in the first place,” the valet returned.

A sage, was Foster: always right and always at him. The valet had taken Giles’s father’s directive seriously when he’d instructed the man to keep his son on the straight and narrow. Truth to be told, Giles loved Foster for it, but not in circumstances like these.