The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(9)

Baffled, she watched him limp across the room and out the door.





Chapter Three





Despite desperate tiredness, Caroline found it hard to fall asleep that night. Her allotted bedchamber on the west side of the main first floor passage, lay next to the schoolroom, to which there was also a connecting door. A third door connected her to Rosa’s chamber. It felt like a room consisting only of doors. Even with them all closed, it resembled a corridor more than a bedchamber. She supposed she would get used to it in time. She was not sure, however, that she would ever get used to her temporary employer.

Javan Benedict filled her thoughts as his presence tended to fill a room. Since he didn’t appear to find her replies insolent, she had no objection to sharpening her wits on his mockery. Or whatever it was. She didn’t pretend to understand him, and he was clearly not in the best of health. One thing was clear, though—he did care deeply for his daughter.

The door between Caroline’s and Rosa’s bedchambers had been left slightly ajar from the child first showing her to her room. So, before she sat down by the candlelight to write to her mother, she had glanced in on Rosa to say goodnight. To Caroline’s surprise, Mr. Benedict was still there, sitting on the edge of the bed.

His back was to Caroline. She must have let very little light into the room, for he did not seem aware of her. His attention was all on Rosa, who lay on her side, facing him, her eyes closed, her little hand lost in her father’s large one. She was either asleep or on the verge of it, but he did not move, simply sat there giving what Caroline imagined to be silent comfort.

She had crept out, closing the door as silently as she could. Then, she’d written part of a letter and was undressing for bed before she heard him leave his daughter’s room and walk quietly along the passage. She wondered if he did this every night, or if Rosa had just been unsettled by Caroline’s unwary words.

The child missed her late mother, of course, and was terrified of losing her father, too. Was that the cause of her silence? But no, Mr. Benedict had said his wife died last year, while Rosa hadn’t spoken for two. Perhaps Mrs. Benedict had had a long illness?

And then who was the mysterious Marjorie, who threw cake at the master of the house and retired to her chamber for the rest of the day? Caroline could understand the impulse. Even on such a short acquaintance, there had been times when she would have dearly liked to throw things at him herself.

What illness was he recovering from? Why was he…the way he was? Why ask her about Braithwaite if he was already sure of her innocence? Did he approve of her or not? Did he like her?

While she realized the latter question was quite irrelevant, she found herself coming back to it all too often. It wasn’t as if she actually liked Benedict himself. At least, she didn’t think she did. She did like the erratic appearances of his humor. And his laughter. But he was hardly easy company. He was sardonic and mocking and occasionally rude. Prying. Arrogant.

What or who had scarred his face? And why did he limp? Why was he hiding out here in isolation from everyone else in the environs of Blackhaven?

Her mind continued to spin with questions long after she blew out the last candle and climbed into bed. Someone had taken the chill off with a warming pan, for which she was eternally grateful. Winter was in the air.

She’d only just nodded off to sleep when she was awakened by a heart-rending cry.

Caroline sprang out of bed, instinctively blundering to Rosa’s bedchamber door. She opened it to discover the child peacefully asleep in the glow of a small, covered night light.

Hastily, she crept out again. Another wail caused her to feel for the flint and light a candle. In Blackhaven, they said the hall was haunted by the ghost of the Gardyn child and those cries did sound childlike…

But Caroline did not believe in ghosts. And Rosa was the only child in the house.

Throwing her threadbare wrapper over her night rail, she opened the door to the passage and walked barefoot into the corridor. Soft sobs in the distance, followed by occasional outbursts of howling, drew her warily along, her candle held in front of her like a shield.

On the other side of the staircase which divided the house, lights bobbed by an open door. A maidservant in a cap and wrapper whispered in the passage to a man with a lamp and then vanished back into the room, closing the door. The crisis, whatever it was, appeared to be over; even the soft cries had subsided.

The man turned in her direction, and her heart lurched, because it was Mr. Benedict, not a servant. In his shirt sleeves with no necktie, the last vestiges of a civilized gentleman seemed to have fallen away from him. He was simply a tall, very physical man, and for some reason, Caroline’s throat went dry as he approached her.

“Why are you abroad?” he demanded, low-voiced but clearly irritated.

“I heard crying. Is someone ill?”

His gaze flickered over her. “She is better now,” he muttered.

Who is better? she couldn’t help wondering. The lady who threw cake? “Is there anything I can do?” she asked aloud.

“Yes, you can make sure Rosa wasn’t disturbed.”

“She wasn’t. She was sound asleep.”

He nodded curtly. “Come, then.”

There was nothing she could do but turn and trot after him to keep up with his long if uneven stride. He didn’t speak until they reached her open bedchamber door.