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Chapter Five
“The governess should be introduced to strangers, provided doing so can be effected without making her appear unpleasantly conspicuous.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Rhys lingered in the west wing.
Inspecting the second-floor corridor ceiling for cracks.
“Répétez après moi, Mari. Je ne crois pas aux fantômes.”
And mayhap listening in at the schoolroom door.
Business had taken him north for three days in the end, to the Llanedwyn slate quarries, as a secretary had needed to be replaced, and he’d half-expected to return and find no trace of Miss Beaujeu, as had been the case with her predecessors.
Yet here she was.
Teaching French in that husky accent.
The house had subtly altered also: jasmine now floated in the corridors and a deftly played Mozart piano sonata had soared from the schoolroom to the rafters during mid-morn tea, even halting Morgan in his tracks.
Mrs Pugh had not altered though: her mutters still filled the corridors but that may have pertained to all the additional ironing required for the house party.
He raised a fist to kno–
“There you are, Aberdare. I’ve been searching high and low for you.” Cousin Elen’s arm slipped through his. “The guests are beginning to arrive.”
Oh, hell.
“Oh, excellent. I thought I’d ask Mari if she wished to join us in greeting them.”
Elen screwed her eyes shut as though he’d asked Pirate Blackbeard to dinner.
With flaxen hair and a gaze of pastel blue – when not exasperated with him – Cousin Elen resembled a graceful Welsh mermaid.
Her parents hailed from the distant Pembrokeshire coast, but they’d known each other since childhood as their families had gathered for summers. Elen had always disdained his and Tristan’s juvenile antics, preferring to read etiquette books, her nose wrinkling at boys and their dirty manners.
Actually, she still did that.
Which was probably why she’d never been inclined to marry, but Rhys wondered if he shouldn’t have invited some bachelor guests along for her benefit. After all, what was sauce for the fatted goose…
“I would leave that for later, Aberdare. Mari’s daytime schedule should remain untouched for the duration of this house party.” She led him down the hall, the refrains of rasped French verb conjugation fading. “You shivered. I hope you’re not ill?”
“Not at all.”
“Which reminds me, Hugh arrived on the doorstep unannounced yestermorn. Looks atrocious and slept all day. Muttered of a duel or some such.”
“I’ll check on him later.” His cousin and heir had likely been shot at…again. “And how is the new governess settling in? Is she to your liking?”
Elen paused and inhaled deep through her nose. “For a Frenchwoman, she will suffice.” And if you knew Cousin Elen, that was high praise indeed. “She maintains her eyes demure, speaks only when spoken to, looks presentable at all times, and I’ve seen some improvement in Mari.”
“Magnifique.”
Cousin Elen blinked owlishly and did not laugh, so Rhys cleared his throat and together they descended the staircase in companionable silence, although Elen looked to be casting an assessing eye over his rumpled attire.
In the lower hall, pristine-liveried footmen staggered to the servants’ stairway with guests’ hefty trunks that had been sent on ahead, starch-aproned maids rearranged perfectly arranged flower arrangements, and Mrs Pugh ran a finger along a picture frame and tutted.
