CHAPTER ONE
“The children are in the nursery, Miss Grace. I should warn you…”
A sudden loud crashing sound shattered the quiet of the room and was immediately followed by a piercing shriek.
Finally, there came a peculiar, wet thud against the pane, a sound resembling a common toad launched with singular purpose against the glass.
“…they are quite spirited,” Mrs. Kemp finished, her tone carrying the weight of long experience.
Mel Grace stood in the entrance hall of Hartfell House, rain still dripping from the hem of her travelling cloak, and considered the ceiling above her as though she might divine the nature of the chaos through sheer force of practical assessment. She had arrived on a Tuesday, which she had always considered a sensible sort of day, neither burdened by the optimism of Monday nor weighted by the exhaustion of week’s end. Tuesdays were devoted to the steady dispatch of business and the modest commencement of tasks that required no grand display.
The advertisement had been straightforward enough;three children, country estate, generous salary, references preferred but not required.
That last part should have been a warning.
“Spirited,” Mel repeated, testing the word as one might test the floorboards of an unfamiliar house.
“I see.”
Mrs. Kemp was a stout woman of perhaps sixty years, with the sort of face that suggested she had once possessed a sense of humour and had since misplaced it somewhere between the wine cellar and the nursery stairs. Her cap sat slightly askew, and there was what appeared to be a smear of jam on her otherwise immaculate apron. She regarded Mel with an expression that hovered between desperate hope and profound scepticism.
“The last governess lasted three weeks,” Mrs. Kemp said. “The one before her, two. The one beforethatmanaged six days before she declared the youngest child possessed by demons and fled to the village church for sanctuary.”
“And was she?” Mel asked. “Possessed by demons, I mean. The child, not the governess.”
Mrs. Kemp blinked. “I… no, Miss Grace. She is merely… energetic.”
“Then I suspect the church was unnecessary.” Mel removed her gloves with the methodical precision that characterised most of her movements. She was not a woman who rushed, nor one who dawdled. She simply proceeded, as inevitable as Tuesday itself.
“Shall I go up?”
Another crash echoed from above, followed by what sounded like a small voice declaring, “I am thequeenof thiscurtain.”
Mrs. Kemp winced. “Perhaps I should accompany you.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Mel folded her gloves and placed them in her reticule with a calmness that seemed to unsettle the housekeeper more than reassure her.
“I have been a governess for six years, Mrs. Kemp. I have managed children who refused to eat anything but pudding, children who communicated exclusively through interpretive screaming, and one memorable boy who was convinced he was a horse and would only answer to ‘Thunder.’ I’m certain I can manage spirited.”
She did not mention that the horse-child had eventually bitten her, or that the screaming children had given her a permanent wariness of high-pitched sounds, or that she still could not look at pudding without a faint twitch developing beneath her left eye. A governess learned to present confidence as fact, even when experience suggested otherwise.
The stairs at Hartfell House were wide and well-maintained, the sort of stairs that spoke of money and careful attention. The banisters gleamed with polish and the carpet, though worn in places, was of good quality. Mel noted these details as she climbed, filing them away in the mental ledger she kept of every household she entered. A house is a most reliable witness to the habits of its masters, should one know how to listen.
This house saidsomeone with means cares about appearances. Someone with means cares about comfort. Someone with means is paying a generous salary for a governess position that requires no references.
The question, of course, was why.
She had been told the children were orphans. Nieces of a reclusive gentleman who served as their benefactor. It was a common enough arrangement, and Mel had not questioned it when Mr. Grieves, the man of business who had conducted her interview, had explained the situation with careful vagueness. Orphans of quality required governesses. Reclusive gentlemen required discretion. The salary required competence, which she possessed in abundance.
But the carpet was too fine and the house too well-staffed for three orphaned children of a man who never visited.
This does not require your attention,Mel reminded herself as she reached the top of the stairs.You are here to educate children, not to solve mysteries.
The nursery door stood slightly ajar, and through the gap Mel could see movement, a flash of pale fabric, the suggestion of small limbs in motion, what appeared to be either a very large insect or a very small hat sailing through the air.
She paused, adjusted her posture and arranged her expression into one of pleasant neutrality that betrayed nothing of the chaos she was about to enter.
Then she pushed open the door.
