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Mari groaned but uttered no further complaint as he outlined his sanction, and after he’d bestowed a peck to her forehead, she huffed and tramped off.
Rhys tramped to the decanters, thrusting an exasperated hand through his hair.
He was so out of his damn depth.
Had been since he’d lost Tristan to that ferocious storm last summer.
Stand him in the House of Lords replete with peers and he could berate them about the treatment of his countrymen; put him before a line of slate quarrymen and he could command their attention; bestow an unexpected dukedom and he broadened his shoulders; but give him the responsibility of a grief-stricken fifteen-year-old and he was as useless as a knitted chamber pot.
He adored Mari yet held no idea how to alleviate her sorrow, so this past spring he’d invited his Cousin Elen on the maternal side to reside with them, but it seemed she had less idea than he.
Night was drawing in, and his sole reflection glared back from the windowpane – bitter and bleak – nothing like the carefree expression that his twin brother had perpetually worn.
The wind gusted, rain lashed and rivulets ran over the glass, etching his reflected cheeks with dark tears for the part of him lost.
With Tristan taken by the sea, it was imperative Rhys marry with all haste – the countless reasons pressing down on him like stone to corn.
He was responsible for six estates with some two thousand tenants, three townhouses with accompanying staff, four factories and two slate mines – all needing to know their future was assured. Not to speak of the forty-five thousand acres with three thousand sheep. Although he doubted the sheep much cared.
Should Rhys cock his toes, the titles and chattels would currently be inherited by a self-confessed libertine from Father’s tangled lineage who’d already declared his lack of interest and whose own life, moreover, was far from assured…
Some months ago, Lady Elen had mooted this solution of a house party in order to secure him a suitable duchess, and although at that time he’d recoiled at the sheer crudeness of it all, he now recognised the practicality and accepted the need. He’d unequivocally failed to find a bride during past Seasons in London or soirées in Wales, so with her usual efficient aplomb, Elen had sent select invitations.
In three days’ time, he would strip that bleakness from his face for this house party and search for a contentment he no longer felt inside.
Rhys closed the curtains on this tempestuous night.
Duty required him to act.
* * *
“And this is your bedchamber,so it is,” hissed a black-clad Mrs Pugh, long fingernails trailing the doorframe, eyes crossed, spine crooked as a dog’s hind leg. “Although most folk can’t stay in it longer than a sennight.”
“Would that be due to the smell of damp?” asked Isabelle.
A frown – though it was difficult to tell amongst the scrunch of features – rumpled the housekeeper’s forehead, the hall sconce light flickering despite the lack of draughts.
“How dare you.” Mrs Pugh bristled, spine stiffening to a lance, eyes uncrossing. “I changed the sheets this very morning, I did.”
“Perhaps it’s the curtains, then.”
“Washed yestermorn. Now will you just listen, young Miss, as to why no one will stay here and meet their doom!”
“Ghosts and ghouls, I expect,” Isabelle retorted. “Because so far, you have told me the hallway is haunted by an insane maid, the staircase by a laughing butler – which I find difficult to believe in this place – and the schoolroom by a sleeping boy. At least he’ll remain silent while I conduct lessons.”
Mrs Pugh glared agape, but Isabelle was still too drenched and weary from the journey to care. If the duke dismissed her for impudence to the housekeeper, then she would cope, and though she might have to dig into her Retirement Savings Pot until another position arrived, so be it.
“But…but…”
“Well, if you insist, Mrs Pugh.”
“Beware, beware…” She paused for dramatic effect. “Beware you must the wicked scoundrel who ravished the lady of the house in this here room and she stabbed him in this here bed and so he haunts this here chamber so he does lifting blankets and moving things so you’d better beware as you’re doomed you’re doomed doomed so you are,” she gushed, without pause nor breath. Not a comma in sight.
Isabelle frowned, certain she’d heard that tale somewhere before.
Despite the innumerable phantoms of the night, the entire school area was most agreeable, occupying the second floor of the west wing when customarily her quarters were draughty corner rooms with a view of a brick wall or in the upper attics with intruding chimney breasts.
This bedchamber was of ample size and well-appointed for a governess, three lit wall sconces imbuing a pleasant glow. The fire blazing in the grate would soon dissipate the faint damp odour, while the half-tester bed was smothered with enough coverlets to keep her toes warm the night through. On either side of the room was a connecting door – one to Mari’s chamber and another to the schoolroom.
