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Chapter Four
“In the first struggle for power, extreme delicacy, caution and extreme firmness tempered with mildness, should be exercised by the elder hand.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” Rhys shoved papers aside, perched on the corner of his study desk and crossed his arms.
“I’m sorry, Uncle, I just…” Mari chewed a knuckle.
According to Cousin Elen, he ought to rage and pace whilst listing the punishments he would wreak upon her. So, he began with a glare. A fierce one.
But her top lip wobbled.
Her eyes misted.
So sighing, he rose to his feet and yanked her into a firm hug. “Mari, my love, you scared me damn rigid.”
Slender arms encircled his waist. “I’m so sorry, Uncle. I just… I felt so stifled. I had to ride and ride until I was so tired, I could do nothing else.”
“But on those cliffs? Where your father’s boat…”
“Especially there.” She rubbed her eyes upon the fine silk of his waistcoat. “I know it sounds peculiar but I feel…close to him there.”
So did he.
And Rhys’ earlier deep dread began to seep from him. “I do understand, Mari. But please, take young Jonnet with you. The groom will stay his distance if you wish, but at least he can keep an eye if you fall or the horse is startled. When your mare returned riderless, I was at my wit’s end.”
A nose rubbed up and down on his waistcoat. “I will, Uncle.” Then sniffed. “The new governess said she would ride out with me too.” Those forest-green eyes so like her father’s stared up. “She’s somewhat odd.”
If truth be told, so was his household, so perhaps she would fit in.
He’d abandoned her to Lady Elen and Mrs Pugh the housekeeper, for which he now felt all sorts of a clay-brained barbarian.
“How so?”
“She didn’t require an apology after being called prune-faced, though she isn’t at all, and I…I rather like her. And I don’t like anyone at the moment.”
Rhys smothered a smile. At fifteen, he’d been the same, imagining the world against him, but then he’d possessed a full complement of family for support: parents hearty and hale, and the two of them, himself and his twin brother, Tristan, forever on jaunts together.
Mari, poor girl, only had himself and Elen. He’d hoped that one of the previous governesses could have filled the yawning gap but all they’d done was castigate, scold or ultimately scream.
How would Miss Beaujeu react when–
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
Eh?
“Who?”
His niece gazed ceiling-wards and harrumphed like a Ton matron. “Miss Beaujeu, of course. Too much wax in her hair – I noticed as the rain ran straight off it – and the brown pelisse is awful but her eyes…”
“Like the bay on an autumn daw–” Rhys caught himself. “Anyhow…” He placed a hand on his niece’s shoulders. “Off you go to change. You resemble something the sea has washed up. And remember the dressmaker is due on the morrow for gown fittings. I’ll send a missive that Miss Beaujeu can also order a few if she so wishes for this house party. I suspect a governess’ prudence does not allow needless evening attire.”
“Very well, Uncle.”
“However…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I must still punish your disobedience.”
