wasn’t much more she could say in the face of such a tragic tale, even if it was overly late to call on divine intervention.
Mrs. Carstairs nodded. “Hasn’t been the same since. His lordship, neither. He fair well worshipped the ground his wife walked on, he did. A body has to wonder if he’d have rather lost the child and kept his wife.”
“And where was Lord Lindenhurst while all this was happening?” Heaven help her, she suspected, but she may as well know the entire truth.
“What with his leg plaguing him, he couldn’t walk so far. He had to wait for a horse to be saddled. By the time he got to the pond, it was too late.”
Chapter Six
Dear Miss Crump,
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Cecelia Sanford, and I am Master Jeremy Blakewell’s latest governess. In my short experience with the boy, I have noted his keen interest in military tactics, and he has informed me that you taught him about such things. It seemed prudent for me to contact you to ask if you had any other notions of what might capture the child’s fancy. The knowledge strikes me as vital if I am to perform my duties to the satisfaction of Lord Lindenhurst.
Absently, Cecelia rubbed the feather end of her quill against her cheek, while she considered the wisdom of asking Miss Crump what she knew of the boy’s stumbling, both the literal and his difficulty recalling certain words. If the governess had spent even a day in the boy’s company, she must have noted them, but had she been employed here long enough to inquire about their origin? And might those inquiries, rather than her failure to educate Jeremy, have led to her dismissal?
No, Cecelia had best not say anything, at least for now. If she absolutely must approach Lindenhurst for his frank on her letter, he might insist on reading it. If she could pass the point where correspondence between her and Miss Crump became routine, she might slip in a hint or two in a missive.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy’s question broke in on her musings.
She suppressed a smile. She’d returned to the nursery and set herself up to write this note at the small table while the boy continued to ignore her. Or pretended to. Once more, she’d bet the child’s natural curiosity would prod him until he approached. Seemingly, her wager had paid off.
“I’m writing a letter to Miss Crump. Perhaps you’d like me to include a few lines of your own.”
He tilted his head and looked at her from the corner of his eye.
There’s a trick here somewhere, but I can’t quite work out what it is.
The expression was plain on his face as if he’d spoken the words aloud. Once again, curiosity won the battle with his natural suspicion of all things educational. “What do you mean?”
“If you’d like to say something to Miss Crump, you can tell me the words, and I’ll write them down for you.” She tickled his cheek with the feather, eliciting a giggle. “I have the feeling you liked Miss Crump, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, the movement too casual to be genuine. “She was all right.”
Cecelia closed her hand about the quill before she dropped it altogether and touched his jaw. He’d gone through so many governesses, he no longer knew whom to trust. He barely had the chance to get to know one governess before someone else replaced her. Had any of them had time to win him over? And his own father—the one person left who might show the boy some affection—remained distant. No wonder Jeremy was reluctant to form attachments.
Heavens, what a horrid situation. Mrs. Carstairs’s story had left her with a firm picture in her mind. The snow-covered grounds, the pond, a jagged hole in the ice, and a pale-faced toddler lying insensible next to his mother. Servants scurrying about, trying desperately to revive the pair of them. Lindenhurst riding up on his chestnut gelding, too late.
She shook the image away, the better to concentrate on her charge as he was now. She couldn’t touch him yet. The
Mrs. Carstairs nodded. “Hasn’t been the same since. His lordship, neither. He fair well worshipped the ground his wife walked on, he did. A body has to wonder if he’d have rather lost the child and kept his wife.”
“And where was Lord Lindenhurst while all this was happening?” Heaven help her, she suspected, but she may as well know the entire truth.
“What with his leg plaguing him, he couldn’t walk so far. He had to wait for a horse to be saddled. By the time he got to the pond, it was too late.”
Chapter Six
Dear Miss Crump,
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Cecelia Sanford, and I am Master Jeremy Blakewell’s latest governess. In my short experience with the boy, I have noted his keen interest in military tactics, and he has informed me that you taught him about such things. It seemed prudent for me to contact you to ask if you had any other notions of what might capture the child’s fancy. The knowledge strikes me as vital if I am to perform my duties to the satisfaction of Lord Lindenhurst.
Absently, Cecelia rubbed the feather end of her quill against her cheek, while she considered the wisdom of asking Miss Crump what she knew of the boy’s stumbling, both the literal and his difficulty recalling certain words. If the governess had spent even a day in the boy’s company, she must have noted them, but had she been employed here long enough to inquire about their origin? And might those inquiries, rather than her failure to educate Jeremy, have led to her dismissal?
No, Cecelia had best not say anything, at least for now. If she absolutely must approach Lindenhurst for his frank on her letter, he might insist on reading it. If she could pass the point where correspondence between her and Miss Crump became routine, she might slip in a hint or two in a missive.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy’s question broke in on her musings.
She suppressed a smile. She’d returned to the nursery and set herself up to write this note at the small table while the boy continued to ignore her. Or pretended to. Once more, she’d bet the child’s natural curiosity would prod him until he approached. Seemingly, her wager had paid off.
“I’m writing a letter to Miss Crump. Perhaps you’d like me to include a few lines of your own.”
He tilted his head and looked at her from the corner of his eye.
There’s a trick here somewhere, but I can’t quite work out what it is.
The expression was plain on his face as if he’d spoken the words aloud. Once again, curiosity won the battle with his natural suspicion of all things educational. “What do you mean?”
“If you’d like to say something to Miss Crump, you can tell me the words, and I’ll write them down for you.” She tickled his cheek with the feather, eliciting a giggle. “I have the feeling you liked Miss Crump, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, the movement too casual to be genuine. “She was all right.”
Cecelia closed her hand about the quill before she dropped it altogether and touched his jaw. He’d gone through so many governesses, he no longer knew whom to trust. He barely had the chance to get to know one governess before someone else replaced her. Had any of them had time to win him over? And his own father—the one person left who might show the boy some affection—remained distant. No wonder Jeremy was reluctant to form attachments.
Heavens, what a horrid situation. Mrs. Carstairs’s story had left her with a firm picture in her mind. The snow-covered grounds, the pond, a jagged hole in the ice, and a pale-faced toddler lying insensible next to his mother. Servants scurrying about, trying desperately to revive the pair of them. Lindenhurst riding up on his chestnut gelding, too late.
She shook the image away, the better to concentrate on her charge as he was now. She couldn’t touch him yet. The
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