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Mrs Pugh’s lips at last formed a half-moon. “Well then, you sit yourself down and… Perhaps we can put this little misunderstanding behind us? Let me pour some tea for us both while I explain, and you can have one of these here biscuits. Though I’ve not long, I’m afraid. Miss Pritchard wants the dressmaker summoned as her bodices need altering. Daft widgeon, any lower and we’d see her knees.”
Abiding suspicion as to Mrs Pugh’s motives warred with the lure of those cinnamon biscuits and their divine sugar dusting.
Isabelle replaced the book upon the shelf and took a seat at the table.
Mrs Pugh sat opposite and measured out tea leaves from a short caddy before pouring the water and allowing it to steep.
“It’s the young lass, you see.” She faffed with her black lace cuff. “I couldn’t bear another governess to call her insane or she’ll start believing it – you’re the fourth, you realise.”
“Surely they didn’t all consider her so?”
“No, that’s true enough.” She flattened her lips. “The first thought she was possessed by a diabolical demon and tried to drown her in holy water that she stole from the St Baglan Church font.” She grabbed the strainer and poured the tea, tutting. “I mean, I’m as God-fearing as the next person, but I’ve known that child since she were a babe and she’s an utter angel. And then that last governess began badgering the duke with her odd notions and so…” She tamped out the strainer, scratched her chin and cleared her throat.
“Yes, Mrs Pugh?”
“Do you take sugar?” The housekeeper held the tongs aloft while shuffling her feet beneath the table.
Isabelle shook her head.
“Well, I… I thought to scare that governess away, you see, with a few tales of marauding ghouls and spectral scoundrels. Nothing too unholy. Those novels gave me the idea.”
“And it worked.”
“Aye, she fled the house quicker than a Swansea blowsabella when the ships come in.” She sniffed. “I mightn’t have gone through with it, but…I found rowan seeds under the lass’ pillow.”
“Rowan seeds?”
“Used as charms in these parts, Miss Beaujeu. Charms against witches.”
“Mari is no witch!”
“I know that better than anyone!” Mrs Pugh huffed. “The duke means well, wanting to employ all these clever-clogs governesses for learning and ladylike flimflam, but, well… I thought it better if Miss Cadogan did without any more meddlesome so-and-sos for a while. Lass just needs some time, I feel.”
“So you sought to scare me off too?”
“Hmm. Sorry about that.” A flush tinged her pale skin. “But you’re quite hardy, aren’t you now, Missy?”
“I’ve had to be, Mrs Pugh,” replied Isabelle, accepting the tea. “Well, I’m not quite sure what to say. I understand your motives, truly I do, but…”
“Like I say, let’s put all this pettifoggery behind us, shall we?” She prodded the plate of cinnamon biscuits forth. “Make a fresh start, like.”
Blatant bribery.
Nevertheless, Isabelle reached for one. Still warm from the oven, all sweet spice and crunch.
“But what does the duke think of Mari’s nightwalking? He failed to even mention it at my interview.”
“Ah, well.” Her expression hardened. “Of late, I don’t rightly know. When it started, His Grace was naught but tolerant and concerned. Had the gate installed to prevent her from falling or leaving the house, but after that last governess…”
“Yes?”
“Well, Miss Cadogan told me of a letter she saw in his study, to some doctor, and… I worried he was considering an asylum.”
“No, surely not.”
“You don’t know how these doctors are, Missy. They can be ever so persuasive. My brother Dylan went to one as he’d wake with these strange shudders having come back from the war.” Her nose twitched. “Baths filled with ice, the quack ordered, like the poor sod hadn’t suffered the cold enough as a soldier, sleeping in fields and the such. And as if that weren’t enough, the doctor then attached some new-fangled electrifying machine to Dylan’s tallywags. Worse than fighting the bloody Frenchies, he said… Beggin’ your pardon.”
Isabelle wafted a hand. “Have you not spoken to the duke?”
