Eve Silver (29 page)

The kitchen was redolent with the scent of fresh-baked scones. As Emma took her seat at the wooden table where Cookie had put out the breakfast, she noticed that a place had already been set for her. So the others knew that she had been banished from the breakfast room. She wondered what else they had been told.

Though she had little appetite, Emma poured herself a cup of tea from the pot and helped herself to a scone.

“We were so glad when you came here, love,” Cookie said softly.

The unexpected statement made Emma glance up in surprise as Mrs. Bolifer grunted noncommittally.

“All the ones before, the other governesses, I mean, they didn't
love
Nicky. Oh, some of them, the early ones, liked him well enough, but he wasn't
special
to them. Each child deserves to be special, don't you think?” Cookie asked, watching her earnestly.

Emma stared at Cookie, her heart constricting in her breast, for the cook put into words the deepest emotions of Emma’s heart. Every child, no matter what his or her beginnings, had a right to be loved.

Even illegitimate children. Like her.

“Nicky
is
special,” Emma replied.

“And every child should be loved, should be with their
rightful
and
true
and
loving
parent,” Cookie pressed.

Emma frowned, wondering at the vehemence in the normally placid cook’s tone.

“Yes. Of course,” she said, then hesitated. Cookie seemed odd this morning. Perhaps it was because she had opened the forbidden subject of Nicky’s previous governesses. After a brief moment, Emma asked the question that had occupied her thoughts on more than one occasion. Now, more than ever, she needed an answer, needed to understand how Anthony could have allowed such terrible women to tend his son, so many women who had been anything but loving. “Why were there so many governesses, Cookie?”

Mrs. Bolifer rose abruptly and began to clear the remains of the meal. She gave Cookie a thunderous look, but held her tongue.

The cook shrugged. “In the beginning, Lord Anthony hired one from the best agency. She was pleasant and professional. Mrs. Granger, her name was. She was more of a nurse. Nicky was just a wee thing. But she hated it here in Wales and left before the year was out. The next one, and the next, felt the same. They wanted a
London
placement, if you please, and the master’s odd comings and goings made them uneasy. They had heard rumors, you see, and with each new governess, the stories seemed to grow larger and larger. The ones who came stayed for a shorter and shorter time, until we expected a fresh departure and a fresh arrival every few weeks.”

“But what was so terrible about Wales?” Emma asked in confusion.

“I told you, love. They wanted a
London
placement. And if they couldn't be in London, then they wanted to work for a family who could give them excellent reference at the end of their employment.” Cookie looked down at the table, rubbing her fingertips absently across the scarred wooden surface. “They didn't wish to remain in the employ of a man with a ... disreputable reputation.”

Emma did not hesitate as she fired the next question at Cookie, intent on understanding at last. “You refer to the gossip about Lord Anthony? That he is a murderer?”

Mrs. Bolifer made an odd sound, but Emma did not look at her, keeping her attention focused on the cook's expressive face.

Cookie nodded miserably, her fingers now working the tabletop in agitated haste. “And Lord Anthony’s odd hours and even stranger ways helped not at all.”

Reaching over, Emma placed her hand on the other woman's, stilling her nervous action. “Go on,” she said.

“Not much else to say, love. The time came that the best agencies wouldn't take his requests any more. So he opted for the second best, then the third.”

“But why hire a governess at all, then? Why did he not leave Nicky’s care to the two of you?”

“I can’t read a word. Or write,” Cookie said. Emma blinked. A cook who could not read a recipe. “Fine thing that,” Cookie continued, “if Lord Anthony’s heir was to be raised by the likes of me.” She closed her eyes and dragged in a breath. When she opened them once more, pain and loss and tragedy were mirrored there. “Besides, I couldn’t keep my own little one safe, couldn’t stop death from claiming him. How was I to care for another’s?”

This was the first time Cookie had ever spoken of her dead child. “I am truly sorry for your loss,” Emma said.

“Yes. Well. Little Nicky needed a proper governess.”

Clearly the woman had no wish to discuss her child, and Emma was loath to press. “I had not thought of the academic issue,” she conceded, steering the conversation back to less painful ground. “But at least in your care he would be loved.”

“True enough. And I do love him, but he needs to cipher and write and learn his Latin. He has a place in this world, a station. Besides, Lord Anthony’s stepmother was most insistent. Nicky was to have a proper governess, or she’d come and see to the matter herself.”

A place in this world, a station. Emma swallowed the resentment that the words drew forth. How many times had she been reminded to know her station, her place? How many times had she been taunted and called bastard?

“The women who came got worse and worse,” Cookie continued, warming to her topic. “Then the last two died, and
no
agency would fill the position. And after Lord Anthony found out that the wee one had been hit, well, he was in a fine rage. He was away at the time, didn’t know about it until it was over and done.” Cookie smiled at Emma then. “So he sent for you.”

“And aren't we lucky that you came.” Mrs. Bolifer cut in.

Emma was unsure if the housekeeper's statement was meant to be heartfelt or sarcastic. Her customary sour expression lent no clue. Whatever the case, the moment was gone. Cookie rose from the table and began to tidy the kitchen.

“You think you know things,” Mrs. Bolifer said. “But you understand nothing.”

Putting down her teacup with great care, Emma raised her eyes to meet the housekeeper's.

“Then help me understand,” she said.

“What manner of man do you think he is?” Mrs. Bolifer queried.

Emma looked at her, startled by the open challenge. What manner of man? A loving one… Or so she had thought. He was a man who stood in the dark with a knife poised and his expression set. She sucked in a breath. Who was Anthony Craven, really?

“I have no idea what manner of man he is. He is full of contradictions, with more twists and turns than the most intricate maze,” she said at last.

“He has his reasons.”

What reasons? she longed to cry out. What reasons for holding a knife to his son? What reasons for letting his wife’s fear of him grow to such extreme that she left a written legacy implying he would do murder?

“He may have reasons aplenty, but my care is for Nicky. He is an innocent child and must be protected.” Emma held her tone firm.

“Protected, yes. But not from the one you think.” The housekeeper's lips turned down at the edges, etching deep lines that bracketed her mouth. “He would never harm the boy.”

Emma wondered how much the housekeeper knew, how much it was safe to reveal. Should she press the point, describing the tableau she had witnessed two nights past, Lord Anthony standing by his son’s bed with knife in hand? She felt it would be a betrayal. She must confront Anthony directly, not slink about behind his back, prying morsels of information from the other servants. At length, she merely shrugged delicately, and pretended an interest in her tea that she did not feel.

“Here now.” Cookie brought her own tea back to the table and sat halfway along, using herself as a barrier between the other two women. “Here now,” she said again, but seemed to be unable to think of any other words that could fill the leaden silence.

At that moment Anthony entered the kitchen with Nicky in tow. Emma’s belly dropped as nerves twisted her insides into knots. Oh, she would never be used to the way the master of this house wandered about, right into the kitchen or the scullery. Right into every crack and crevice of her heart.

Though he had already breakfasted, Nicky snatched a scone from the plate and began to munch on it happily. The child seemed oblivious to the undercurrents and tensions that pervaded the room, but the adults were not. Both Mrs. Bolifer and Cookie busied themselves with pressing tasks.

Emma lowered her head, unwilling to meet Anthony's gaze. She could sense his eyes upon her, but he made no attempt to approach her. Hazarding a quick peek through her lashes, Emma watched him as he leaned negligently against the table by the far wall. His lean fingers plucked an apple from the bowl, and he began to quarter the fruit with a small knife.

Abruptly, he turned to face her and caught her in her clandestine observation of him. One brow lifted mockingly as he moved the knife up and down, the way one would move a wine glass when giving a toast. Yet, she sensed that mockery was a façade, for in his eyes she saw the same confusion and hurt that she had read when she confronted him in Nicky’s bedchamber. And then his gaze became cool and detached, the protective wall he maintained cutting off her momentary glimpse of his soul.

He lifted a slice of the fruit to his lips and bit into it with his straight white teeth. Emma looked away, hardening her heart. He was at fault here, at grave fault, and she could not allow herself to think otherwise. She could not allow herself to be beguiled by the dark lure of him.

“The cheese, Papa!” Nicky tugged on his father's arm.

“Ah, yes. The cheese.” Anthony turned to Cookie. “It would seem that Nicky feels the need to feed the stable mice. We would like a slice of cheese to carry with us.”

Cookie stared at him a moment, her face uncharacteristically solemn, and then went to fetch the requested item.

Emma felt like crying. The morning seemed so pleasant, so normal. A father and son sharing a moment in time. She felt like a thief, her suspicions stealing into those moments, carving the lines of tension that she saw on Anthony’s face. He was waiting for her to come to him, to confront him. She could sense it. He would offer no explanation unless she asked, and some instinct whispered that he had his reasons. But she wanted
him
to come to
her
, to trust her, to share his secrets freely.

With a heavy heart she watched as Anthony and Nicky left the kitchen, laughing and carrying their cheese.

o0o

It seemed the longest day of Emma's life. Nicky was sullen and uncooperative. He balked at his lessons and went so far as to have a tantrum when Emma insisted he work on his sums. Her patience strained to the limit, she tried desperately to keep her mind on the task at hand. At last the day was done, and the child was washed and changed and more than ready for his bed. As she leaned over to place a good-night kiss on his cheek, she sensed a presence behind her. Her heart sped up, but she forced herself to rise slowly from her stooped position, hoping that her expression betrayed none of her thoughts.

Hope, confusion, sadness—all swirled in a maelstrom that threatened to overwhelm her.

Anthony stood on the other side of his son's bed, watching her, his expression shuttered. He had once regarded her with what she was certain had been some form of affection. Now, he looked at her, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts, his gaze distant and aloof. She could not read him, could get no inkling of what he contemplated behind that icy mask, and she thought that were she to reach out and touch him, she would feel the solidity of the protective walls he had erected about himself.

“Miss Parrish.”

She thought perhaps he mocked her with the formal address, the lordly nod of his head. But no, there was no mockery in that smooth, rich voice. Rather, she detected a subtle undertone of grief. Emma ached to step back to nights past, to be able to look at him as she had, with a lover’s admiring gaze. The compulsion to touch him, to find some reassurance in the human warmth of him was nearly overwhelming.

Something flickered in the depths of Anthony's eyes, an answering need. Emma recognized it and seemingly of its own volition her hand began to move toward him.

Nicky murmured drowsily, and Anthony turned his attention to tucking in the covers and plumping his son's pillows. He smiled down at the child, the hard curve of his lips softening as he looked at the sleepy boy.

Emma watched in puzzlement. Two nights past she had seen the knife in Anthony's hand. There was no doubt about his intent. He had meant to cut Nicky while he slept, for what nefarious purpose Emma could not guess.

 Her confusion grew as she watched him standing there gazing at the boy with all the love that any parent could bestow. What possible answer could explain the absolute oddity of Anthony's behavior? Was he mad, with unseen demons gnawing on his soul, urging him to perform horrible acts outside the normal bounds of society? She could not fathom it. He was eccentric, to be sure, a trait she found appealing, rather than sinister. Being unconventional was not necessarily an indicator of an unstable mind.

Suddenly, Emma realized that her hand hung suspended, poised in midair, the fingers stretched toward him as if pleading for his touch. Self consciously, she tucked the wayward appendage behind her and was grateful that Anthony seemed not to have noticed her gesture.

Without warning he swung his attention back to her. Whatever warmth she had read in his expression was gone now, replaced by a cool façade that veiled his thoughts.

“I think Nicky may be feverish,” she said softly. “He was out of sorts this afternoon.”

“Yes, I expect he was. He’ll have a fever and a sore head, but it shall only last a few days.”

Emma frowned, for Anthony’s words implied that he had anticipated Nicky’s illness.

“Come. I would speak with you,” he said.

Emma swallowed, his words bringing both hope and dread. “Of course, Lord Anthony.”

He fairly grimaced at her answer, though she was unsure of whether it was her tone he disliked, or the formality of the address.