A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(34)
As always, my thoughts first went to Emma and then Gage, but I knew if either of them was distressed in any way, I would soon hear of it. I sent up a brief prayer for them anyway, as well as for my family farther afield, considering all the recent political troubles. My gaze dipped to Charlotte, who had yet to rise from where she’d stumbled to her knees beside Lady Bearsden’s chair. She sat with her head resting lightly against the chair cushion, her spine for once less than perfectly straight as she leaned to the side. I searched her face for signs of apprehension, but she seemed entirely at ease—her worries about the wedding, Rye’s children, and her father forgotten.
When the conversation shifted to Lord Henry, I perked up, but they were merely attempting to play matchmaker. It was an irresistible urge for ladies who were currently or formerly happily wed to see those they liked similarly paired off.
Which left only the conundrum those forgeries presented. They were, of course, still nagging me at the back of my mind, urging me to solve their riddle. I decided that was the likeliest explanation for my disquiet, and then did my best to dismiss it from my mind. But it would not dislodge. Not completely.
So when Charlotte confessed her desire to retire a short time later, I told her I would join her. Even if Emma was asleep, I could still look in on her to ensure all was well. We bid everyone a good night and turned toward the doorway only to be brought up short by the appearance of Miss Ferguson, the governess to Rye’s children. Her simple dress was neat, and her honey blond hair was plaited in a coronet on her head, telling us she hadn’t yet retired. For her to be on this floor at this hour of the evening could only mean something was wrong.
“Miss Ferguson, has something happened?” Charlotte said with a gasp, hastening toward her.
The governess retreated several steps into the corridor, forcing us to follow her, and I was instantly irritated by such a maneuver. Rather than dip a curtsy as was customary, her chin arched upward, and her dark eyes flashed. “I was instructed no’ to disturb Mr. Mallery, but rather that I should inform your ladyship.” She glanced toward the doorway as her mouth grimaced ever so briefly in disapproval. “Though I do hope I wasna interruptin’ anything important.”
My eyes narrowed, letting her know that I was aware of her disrespectful demeanor despite the correctness of her words and the polite manner in which she’d uttered them. If she noted my displeasure, she gave no indication of it. Her attention remained fixed upon Charlotte, whose brow had furrowed uncertainly.
“Go on,” she murmured.
“Jane has an earache.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, no! The poor dear. Should we send for a physician?”
“I took the liberty o’ consultin’ with Mrs. Mackay.” The governess nodded toward me. “She told me that pourin’ a few drops o’ oil in her ear should help.” She rolled her shoulders, clasping her hands before her as if congratulating herself. “Jane appears to be restin’ comfortably noo.”
A soft “Oh” was all Charlotte seemed to be able to manage, but I was not similarly distraught.
“I see. Then, you’ve done your job and managed the situation.” I arched a single eyebrow, echoing the same barely concealed scorn she had shown Charlotte. “Well done. I’m glad Mrs. Mackay was able to assist you. Now you shall know better in the future.”
Miss Ferguson’s gaze lowered to the floor. “Aye, weel, I simply thought ye should ken.” She sniffed. “Since you’re to be her stepmother shortly.”
I couldn’t help but feel this was meant to be yet another jab at Charlotte, and perhaps she realized it as well, for she regained some of her self-possession.
“Please let me know if it returns,” she replied crisply.
This time Miss Ferguson remembered her curtsy before spinning on her heel and hurrying away. Charlotte waited for her to disappear around the corner and then turned back to me as if she knew what I was going to say. I told her anyway.
“Charlotte, you cannot let her treat you this way.”
She sighed. “I know.”
“It is possible to live amicably with your staff. In fact, such a situation is ideal.” I was fond of all the servants in our employ, from our stable lads and kitchen maids to the butler, lady’s maid, valet, and nurse. I shook my head, threading my arm through hers as we began to stroll down the corridor. “But not if they don’t respect you.”
She nodded.
I directed our steps toward the grand staircase. “You must exert more control over your interactions than you might wish, at least for a time, or she will continue to try to exploit the anxiety you feel about becoming a stepmother.” I frowned at the stair riser before me, lifting the hem of my gown with my free hand as we began to climb. “I have experience with these sorts of manipulations,” I added more softly. My chest tightened in remembrance. “Sir Anthony employed them often.” I lifted my head to stare blindly at the paintings hanging on the wall of the landing before us as I struggled not to become lost in the dark memories. “He liked to remind me who held the power, and that it was his choice alone whether or not to wield it.”
“Stratford did, too,” she murmured hollowly in reply.
I turned to look at her face. Moonlight from the tall windows glinted off the soft curls of her pale blond hair and cast a silvery, ethereal glow over her creamy porcelain skin. But her eyes were flat and her mouth tight with remembered fear.