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“Then, like my own night terrors, perhaps this…this is a consequence of the sorrow you feel. A consequence that will never be fathomed, but perhaps one day–”
“Our Mrs P wasn’t best pleased,” declared the footman as he entered bearing a silver tray with two mugs and a piled plate of biscuits. “Still up counting tablecloths, she was. But she made you both a chocolate.”
“Oh, my favourite,” said Mari, her aspect brightening, her youth, natural verve and the thought of chocolate submerging the fear as quickly as it had arisen. “And are those the cinnamon biscuits?”
“Yes, Miss.” He eyed Isabelle askew. “And I’ve a message for you, Miss Beaujeu, from Mrs P. She asks you to join her for breakfast tomorrow.” He leaned forward. “Between us, Miss, best not be late,” he whispered, as though the housekeeper lurked at his shoulder. “She gets a mite testy over tardiness.”
“Er, yes, of course. Thank you, Madog.”
He returned a jaunty salute. “I’ll be at the end of the corridor if you need me.” With a nod, he gently closed the door on them.
“Madog stays all night through, but I don’t usually…walk for a while now. Uncle won’t lock me in, you understand, in case of fire. I feel so guilty and–”
“I’m certain His Grace pays him handsomely, no?”
She shyly nodded, grasping her mug of chocolate. “Eight shillings a week.”
“Then no need to feel guilty. We could view it as though you are providing employment.”
Mari snorted in laughter. “Oh, Miss Beaujeu…” She peeped up. “I’m so glad you came to us, Miss Beaujeu. I… I don’t think I could have borne another governess telling me I was insane or possessed.” She sipped the hot beverage and sighed. “But what happened with your own guardian?”
Tucking the coverlet around her charge, Isabelle thought back. “As my dreams became less frequent, I believe he forgot about me, and he had three sons of his own to worry over. But I still have trouble sleeping on occasion.”
“So does Uncle. I see him striding through the gardens at all hours. I think…. I think he misses my father a lot. They were evermore together, and now Uncle is much quieter than he used to be.”
Isabelle recalled yesterday morn on the cliff top. The duke had appeared solemn and not chattered on but he’d also stayed her by the wrist to regale her with tales of dragons.
But why had he never told her of Mari’s walking? Had he thought her so frail of heart that she would have refused the governess post if she’d known? He must have realised she would find out eventually, just like her predecessors.
Tomorrow she would seek him out and request answers, for Isabelle’s heart would never be raised to fright by a child’s suffering. “So, would you like to be left alone now, Mari? Or we could read a little poetry? A light Chaucer or–”
“Have you some Byron? I like him best. Especially The Corsair.”
Isabelle waggled a finger. “Byron can also be…”
“Saucy, I know. I found some books in Uncle’s study once.”
“Your uncle…reads romantic poetry?”
“Oh, yes. He likes to read it in the library late into the night.”
Why, she couldn’t say, but an intensely…decadent image appeared in her mind. Of the duke lounging in a gilded chair within the shadows, cravat loose, brandy in one hand, a book in the other, his deep rumble reciting sensual poetry. Isabelle swallowed, smoothed her plait, and repelled such inappropriate images. “Well, maybe a light Chaucer for us both. Just for tonight. Byron can be a little…over-setting.”
“If you insist,” grumbled Mari. “At least Chaucer will send me to sleep. In fact, it will most probably cure my nightwalking.”
