Bertie looked at him in surprise. “You’re not alone. Goodness, you’ve got oceans of people living under this roof, haven’t you? There’s Macaulay and Mrs. Hill, Charlotte the downstairs maid, the lad Peter, a cook and the other maid who comes up here for you . . . what’s her name?”
“Aoife,” Andrew said. “She’s Irish. Mrs. Hill says we have to call her Jane, because Aoife is outlandish, but that’s her name, so it’s what I say.”
From the good-humored twinkle she’d seen in Aoife’s eye, Bertie thought she must appreciate Andrew’s candor.
“And there’s Richards, the coachman,” Cat said. “We don’t see him much, because he stays in the mews, with the groom and the gardener.”
“See?” Bertie said. “All sorts of people. You don’t really need me all the time, do you?”
“Yes, we do!” Andrew declared at the top of his voice.
“The others say we’re unruly and a handful,” Cat said without inflection. “That we’re holy terrors, and no one can do anything with us.”
“I’m a holy terror!” Andrew shouted. “That’s what Richards said when I let out the horses to run free. But it was Cat that opened the door.”
Cat took the time to press a kiss to her doll’s head, but Bertie saw the flush on her cheek.
Bertie rested her elbows on the table. “Did Richards take the back of his hand to ya?”
Andrew stopped shouting and stared, round-eyed. Cat lifted her head. “No,” she said, sounding surprised Bertie would ask.
“Dad would have torn his head off,” Andrew said. “The governess we had that week sent us to bed without supper, and Dad sacked her.”
“Good on your dad.” Even Bertie’s father had never made her go hungry as punishment, knowing what it was like to be hungry in truth. Her grandfather, dead before Bertie was born, had spent all his money on drink while his wife and son starved. “Even so, sounds like your dad spoils you a bit.”
“He gives us anything we want,” Andrew said, his voice getting louder again. “Anything, anytime we ask.”
“But he’s never home,” Cat said quietly.
Bertie thought about how late Mr. McBride had come in last night and how early he’d rushed off again this morning. “My dad stays out all the time too,” she said. “But I’ll nip home and make sure he’s fixed, and be right back here before you know it.”
Cat looked down at her doll again. “You won’t come back.”
The words were quiet, nearly drowned by Andrew bouncing in his chair and yelling again that he wanted to go with her.
Bertie leaned down to Cat until she could look her in the eye. “Now, Miss Caitriona, you put that idea right out of your head. Of course I’ll come back.”
“If you go, we’ll climb out the window and come after you,” Andrew said.
Bertie grew alarmed, realizing Andrew might do just that. “No, you won’t,” she said firmly. “I want to come back here and live with you a spell. Now, we just have to convince Aoife or Macaulay that you’ll be fine with them while I’m gone.”
“Aoife says naughty children in Ireland get dropped down a well,” Andrew said. “But she laughed when she said it, so I don’t believe her. And Macaulay gets so mad. Mrs. Hill doesn’t—she goes all cold and stares at me until I think a ghost has grabbed me. Except she sneaked us cakes when Miss Evans was here.”
Bertie’s respect for Mrs. Hill grew. But it sounded as though the rest of the household had grown wise to the children’s ways and wouldn’t be welcoming a chance to watch over them.
“We could stay with Aunt Eleanor,” Cat said.
Andrew jumped up on his chair, even more animated than before. “Aunt Eleanor! Say we can, Bertie. Say, say.”
Bertie regarded them warily. “Who is Aunt Eleanor?”
“She lives in Grosvenor Square,” Cat said. “She’s a duchess. She’s married to the brother of Aunt Ainsley’s husband.”
Bertie didn’t bother to follow the line of relationship—families in the East End could be extensive and convoluted. As long as you said someone was “our Mary” or “our John,” outsiders didn’t waste time figuring out exactly who was related to whom. “She a real duchess?” Bertie asked, her interest piqued.
“Uncle Hart is a duke,” Andrew said. “The Duke of Kilmorgan. A Scots duke.”
“An English duke too,” Cat corrected him. “Fourteenth duke of Kilmorgan in the Scottish line, second in the English.”
Bertie had no idea what any of this meant, but her interest grew. “I think I’d like to meet a real duchess,” she said. “I say we try that.”
The real duchess lived in a mansion not far from Mr. McBride’s house. Mrs. Hill, who’d thought taking the children to this duchess a good idea, offered to have Richards bring the coach around, but Bertie saw no reason not to walk. The December day was crisp but bright without many clouds, and the house was only a block or two away.
When Andrew pointed out the house in Grosvenor Square, however, Bertie thought it might have been wiser to roll up in some style. The place was much bigger than Mr. McBride’s house, taller and twice as wide. Its grand door was positioned between two columns, and arched windows rose up the walls to a dormer roof far above.
The door was opened by a very stiff and slender young man who didn’t grin like Peter at Mr. McBride’s house did. He knew Cat and Andrew, though, and ushered the three of them into a wide foyer.
A sweep of stairs with a carved wooden railing wound upward through a lofty hall, large windows on each landing pouring in light. Bertie craned her head to look all the way to the top of the stairs, where a painting on the ceiling showed clouds and flying creatures.
Andrew, next to her, exploded into sound. “Aunt Eleanor! We’re staying with you, so our new governess can go home and fetch her things before her dad gets into a right state!”
A door shut somewhere above them. Bertie heard light footsteps, and then a lady, so extraordinarily lovely she might have stepped from a fine painting, started down the stairs, her face alight with curiosity. Her dress rustled as she descended—its skirt had stripes of lighter and darker blue green, with a solid blue green overskirt pulled open to fall in ruffles down the back. Her shining red hair was all braids and curls, probably the latest fashion, though Bertie had no idea, and her long-sleeved bodice hugged a body of curves, not pencil thinness.
Bertie had supposed a duchess would be stout and gray, stern and commanding. Not so this woman. She was young and robust, and she moved with an animation that Bertie found fascinating.
The duchess stepped off the stairs and gave Bertie a stare of frank interest from eyes of delphinium blue. “New governess, are you?” she asked.
“Her name’s Bertie!” Andrew shouted. He took a deep breath and threw his head back, so his voice could reach the ceiling many stories above them. “We’ve come to play with Alec!”
“Well, he’ll be awake now, that’s for certain,” the duchess said, her smile widening. She held out her hand to Bertie. “How do you do, Miss Bertie? Quite an unusual name, I must say. You may call me Aunt Eleanor, as everyone in the family does. The grace-ing and duchess-ing can become a little complicated, so within the family, I am simply Aunt Eleanor. Except to my husband, but one never knows what will come out of his mouth. Fortunately for you, he is not home. What did you say your full name was?”
Chapter 7
Bertie hadn’t said, and she cleared her throat, suddenly nervous under the duchess’s shrewd gaze. “Miss Roberta Frasier,” she said, taking the offered hand. She remembered Sophie’s teachings and made a brief curtsy, as gracefully as she could manage. “Ma’am.”
Eleanor’s grip was strong. She kept hold of Bertie’s hand and pinned her with a very thorough stare, her blue eyes bright and assessing. “The governess, yes? You never answered.”
Andrew was already halfway up the stairs. “She’s the best
governess in the world! She’s going to stay with us forever!”
“Really?” Eleanor didn’t release Bertie’s hand. “Andrew, please don’t climb on the railing. You know what Uncle Hart said when you fell off last month. Pardon me for saying so, Miss Frasier, but you don’t look much like a governess.”
“Well,” Bertie said, wetting her lips. “Maybe I’ve just started.”
“I see.” Eleanor peered at her harder, as though she could read every thought in Bertie’s head. A frightening woman, this, despite the fact that she was pretty and smiling. “Caitriona, what say you?”
When Eleanor said the name, Caitriona, it rolled off her tongue with a hint of the broad Scots Mr. McBride had. Scots, the lot of them, the chambers clerk had said, shaking his head. The only Scotsmen Bertie had met in her life were those that came out of the backstreets of Glasgow to try their luck in London. Much of the time, Bertie couldn’t understand a word they said. Mr. McBride and Eleanor spoke more clearly, but with a lilt that proclaimed they certainly weren’t English.
Cat gave Eleanor an open look. “We want her to stay.”
Eleanor’s expression softened as she gazed down at Cat, compassion entering her eyes. “I see. Well, I’m sure that can be managed.” She switched her attention back to Bertie, still hanging on to Bertie’s hand. “You’re depositing them here to be looked after? Where are you going, exactly?”
The keen stare wouldn’t let Bertie lie. “Whitechapel. Little lane off it.”
Eleanor gave a decided nod. “Well, you can’t walk all the way. I’ll send for the coach.”
Bertie’s eyes widened. She imagined the reception of a duke’s carriage in the warrens off Whitechapel and St. Anne’s Street, where she lodged with her father.
“No, no, I’ll take an omnibus,” Bertie said quickly. She leaned forward and lowered her voice, conscious of the footman at the door listening as hard as he could. “They’ll steal the gilt off the wheels there, and the horses from the harness, before you know where you are.”
“That’s settled then. Franklin, fetch his grace’s coachman,” the duchess called to the footman. “He’ll be driving Miss Frasier to Whitechapel.” She moved her attention back to Bertie. “Or, if you’d like, I can have Franklin go collect your things for you. Save you the bother, and you can stay with Cat and Andrew—Andrew, what did I say about the railings?”
“He likes to climb things,” Bertie said faintly.
“Doesn’t he just. One day, he’ll be a famous acrobat and put out his tongue at all of us. Shall you stay and have tea with me, Miss Frasier? Go on, Franklin, there isn’t much time.”
Much time for what? “No, I’ll go,” Bertie said, at last withdrawing her hand from the duchess’s rather formidable grip. “I’ll know what to get. And if my dad’s there . . . well, it’s best if it’s me.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Well, I’ll send Franklin with you anyway. He’s a rather good boxer, though he’s such a slim young man. If you need him, you shout for him. But you’d best set off if you’re going, before . . . oh, dear. Too late.”
Franklin had darted out the front door. As it swung closed, Bertie heard a loud growl, and then a giant of a man shoved the door open again and walked inside. He stopped, greatcoat in hand, and looked around with a stare like an eagle’s. He had the most golden eyes Bertie had ever seen, which made him seem all the more eaglelike.
“Hello, my dear,” Eleanor said warmly. “This is Miss Bertie Frasier, new governess to Andrew and Caitriona. She’s going off to fetch her things, and I of course said she must ride in the coach—Franklin has gone for it. I take from the look on your face that your meeting did not go well, but fortunately there is plenty of whiskey upstairs and some nice cakes Cook made for you. Cat and Andrew are staying for tea, so do be kind, Hart, and don’t frighten anyone, at least for ten minutes.”
Throughout the rapid speech, the Duke of Kilmorgan simply stared at Bertie, pinning her in place as his wife had done. He was a handsome man, no doubt—with dark red hair, a strong face, a solid body, and fine clothes—but a frightening one.
Bertie decided she preferred Mr. McBride, with his sudden smiles and flashes of temper, his bearlike voice, and warmth in his gray eyes. One could be comfortable in Mr. McBride’s presence. Bask in it. With the duke, Bertie would have to be on her guard all the time. Not comfortable at all. And yet, Eleanor regarded him with vast fondness even as she babbled at him.
“Uncle Hart!” a voice screeched from above. “Catch me!”
The duke looked up in alarm as a missile dropped at him from the railing half a flight up. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” the duke roared, even as he opened his arms and caught Andrew. Andrew, instead of being alarmed, threw his arms around the formidable man’s neck, and laughed.
Eleanor made shooing motions at Bertie. Franklin had popped back inside, stiff no longer, and waved at her to follow. Bertie cast a worried look at Andrew, but Eleanor shook her head, smiling, and kept flapping her hands, driving Bertie away.
Bertie fled. “Whew,” she said to Franklin as he opened the door of a black polished coach. “Are they always like that?”
Franklin smiled politely. “It’s a lively house, but they’re good people. Won’t hear a word against ’em. In you go, miss.”
Bertie was right about the reception of the duke’s coach in her father’s street. It was a fine carriage, right enough; a landau, with lovely horses and a coachman in a red coat and high hat to drive it.
Bertie had never lived anywhere so nice as the inside of that coach. The seats were leather, soft and supple, the walls polished wood, the curtains velvet, and there was carpet on the floor. It was warm too, with boxes of hot coals to keep her feet toasty.
She hated to leave the landau’s confines for the chill of the East End street, but Franklin, who’d ridden up top with the coachman, opened the door as soon as the carriage stopped in front of the lodgings where Bertie lived with her father. Every person on the street stopped to stare as Bertie hopped from the coach’s step to the door of the house, the footman handing her down like a posh lady.
“Won’t be a tick,” Bertie said to Franklin, pretending to ignore her neighbors, and went into the house’s dim interior.
“Where the devil have you been?”
The bellow came as soon as Bertie opened the door of their flat on the second floor. Gerald Frasier, Gerry to his mates, staggered into the front room, face stubbled with graying beard, his eyes bloodshot. Hung over, Bertie thought. And bad too. Just my luck.
“I’ve been working,” Bertie said. “Earning an honest living.” She ducked past her father before he could grab her and entered her own bedroom, which was sparsely furnished, but clean and neat. Bertie liked everything in its place.
“Working?” Gerry shouted as he came after her. “What’cha mean, working? You were with a man, weren’t you?”
“No,” Bertie said. The only way to deal with her father when he was like this was to be firm. “You know me better than that.” She opened the drawer of her bureau and withdrew clean underthings, which she tucked into a valise.
Her father came close to her, peering at her for signs that she’d spent the night in bed with a man. Gerry was always terrified Bertie would run off with a bloke—one he didn’t control. Or be taken by one of the full-in-pocket villains who commanded teams of young thieves and prostitutes around here. Her dad might be a drunken lout, but he didn’t want anyone touching his daughter.
The trouble was, Bertie wished she’d spent all night with a man—Sinclair McBride. Lying in her bed last night, knowing he was a floor under her at his desk, likely running his broad hand through his shorn hair while he read his papers, had kept her restless. She hadn’t been able to cease thinking about how he’d kissed her, or the fire in his gray eyes when he’d planted himself in front of the door of his study and challenged her
.
Her father grunted. “What work were you about then?”
“An honest job, I said.” Bertie piled more stockings in the valise and opened the drawer to add the picture of her mother. Her mother smiled up at her from the framed photo with all the warmth Bertie remembered.
“Doing what?” Gerry demanded
“Looking after children, if you must know.” Bertie added hair ribbons, a brush, and a few toiletries, and closed up the soft case.
“Eh?” Gerry stared. “What do you know about looking after children?”
“I’ve looked after you all this time, haven’t I?” Bertie gave him a warning look. “They’re a good family, so you stay away from them.”
Gerry’s bloodshot eyes opened wider as he tripped after her to the front room. It was cold in here—her father hadn’t started a fire or put on a kettle for tea. Sighing, Bertie detoured to the kitchen to poke the kindling in the stove and throw in a few lit matches. She emptied the tea kettle, rinsed it by pumping water into the sink, filled it, and set it on to boil. She put tea into the teapot, but pouring would have to be up to her father.
“You get a nice hot cup inside you, and you’ll feel better,” Bertie said, returning to the front room. “And have another sleep after that.”
Gerry watched Bertie pulling on her gloves again, then he looked at the valise, and everything came together for him.
“Where the devil do you think you’re going?”
Really, he could rival Andrew for noise. “I told ya. I have a job. I have to go back.”
“Back where?” Gerry seized her by the arm. “You put away that valise and make me breakfast. Do you hear me? Then you’re going down the pub to fetch me some beer.”
Bertie drew a breath and summoned her courage. A half hour back here, and already her stay in Sinclair McBride’s house was fading like a dream. She needed to hold on to that dream, to get away from this place. She thought about Sinclair’s gray eyes, which could turn warm in an instant, and the rumble of his Scottish voice that filled a room. She wanted to hear that voice again. Many times more, before she was done.