Nina Coombs Pykare (11 page)

A governess, as she well knew, was entitled to no private life at all. Unless by some miracle she was offered matrimony and left her position, she was expected by everyone concerned, including herself, to devote all her energies and love toward her charges.

  And so Jennifer, after a few words to Betty, said brightly to the children, “I have an errand to attend to and will leave you with Betty. When I return we will begin today’s lessons.”

“Yes, Miss Jennifer,” chorused the child-ren, their faces lit with their affection for her. Jennifer’s heart contracted sharply at the realization, now suddenly brought home to her with poignancy, that this was the only kind of love she was ever to know.

Fortunately, she had already turned and was headed for the door, when Cassie asked, “Shall we learn more about the sea today?”

Jennifer swallowed hastily over the lump in her throat. “I think perhaps we should attend to spelling and arithmetic today, Cassie. But later on we shall look again at the shells and perhaps look on the map to see where the ocean touches other lands.”

“I should like that very much,” said Mor-timer, through half a mouthful of muffin. “I am not sure yet, but I think I might like to be a naval officer.”

Jennifer, her features now under control, turned to face them. “That is quite an honorable calling for a gentleman,” she said. “My own Papa was a naval officer.” She saw Mortimer’s eyes light up with interest. “I will tell you about it after lessons today. But now I must hurry.”

  As she made her way down the dimly lit stairs, Jennifer’s mind again reverted to the coming interview with Ingleton. What kind of proof could Ingleton have? Haver-ford, no matter what else he might be, was certainly not stupid. How could an incrim-inating letter of his have gotten into the hands of Ingleton?

Jennifer sighed. All this speculation would get her exactly nowhere. She would simply have to examine Ingleton’s proof.

The downstairs was quite deserted as she slipped through the rooms, dark and chill even though the morning sun was shining brightly. And then she was outside making her way toward the rose garden.

Actually, the rose garden was more like a thicket since the designer of the house had made the garden, too, a “ruin.” How the roses contrived to grow, Jennifer could not tell. As she neared them she saw Ingleton pacing agitatedly. “Ah, there you are,” he cried and then looked fearfully around as though expecting someone to pounce on him. “I have been waiting a long time. And it is dangerous having this letter on my person.”

Jennifer, feeling her dislike of the man increasing by the moment, merely said, “May I see it?”

  After casting a glance around him, Ingle-ton reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper.

Carefully Jennifer spread it open. The strokes of the pen were heavy and bold. “All going as planned. Will meet you at appointed time and place. Have good news for B. H.”

Jennifer felt hope leaping in her heart. Although she did not doubt that the bold, sprawling hand that initiated it was Haver-ford’s, the note itself was ambiguous. “It is not addressed
to
anyone,” she pointed out. “And what is incriminating about it? It might be about any plans or meetings.”

Ingleton’s features crumpled in anguish. “You’ve got to believe me,” he said. “This note was found in a secret hiding place where smugglers exchange messages. You must believe me,” he repeated. “I’m telling you all this because we might need your help.”

“We?” asked Jennifer.

Ingleton nodded. “Yes.” His voice dropped even lower. “I’m working for the govern-ment. We hope to trap Haverford and the smugglers through whom he’s sending messages. We might need your help.” He watched her anxiously. “Will you help me if I ask?”

Jennifer nodded slowly. “But I do not see how I could help. I know nothing of such things. What could I do?”

Ingleton shook his head. “I don’t know either. But my instructions were to tell you about it and see if you’d help if called upon.”

“Of course,” replied Jennifer. “Of course I will defend my country.”

“Good!” Ingleton looked genuinely relieved. He took the crumpled paper from her fingers. “I have to put this in a safe place. And, oh, my instructions said to ask you to remain friendly with Haverford.”

“Friendly?” Jennifer repeated, her heart giving a great lurch.

Ingleton nodded. “Yes. I don’t know why.” Then, with a fearful look around him, he sped back toward the house.

Jennifer stood distraught, trying to make some sense of the whole thing and quite failing. How could she be friendly to a man suspected of espionage? And how could she trust
herself
to be friendly to a man for whom she had already conceived far too much partiality? Again her heart rebelled at the thought that this man could be a spy. Every particle of her being seemed to deny such an absurdity.

  And yet she must heed Ingleton’s words. Here was involved much more than the honor and reputation of a mere governess. Here was involved, perhaps, the fate of her whole country. And so she must do what-ever was demanded of her to preserve that country from the Frenchman Bonaparte who seemed to think that the world was a toy for his immediate entertainment.

Suddenly Jennifer gasped, and looking down at the rose she had absently picked, saw three drops of bright red blood where the thorns had pricked her finger. A cold shudder ran over her. What did they do to convicted traitors these days? Was the gallows their fate or - she felt herself grow faint at the thought - were they still drawn and quartered?

The thought was too much for her and she was forced for a moment to sink onto an old stone bench and close her eyes in horror. She sat that way for several min-utes, the rose unheeded in her hand, the drops of blood gradually darkening.

  And then she raised her head. Such thoughts were nothing but the workings of an overheated imagination. She would remain friendly to Haverford, she would do what she could to help Ingleton, but she would remain steadfast in her conviction that somewhere a mistake had been made. For it was inconceivable to her that Vis-count Haverford could be a traitor. And if someday he should be proved such.... She shook her head, refusing to admit the possibility of’ such a thing, rose and hurried toward the house.

The day was a long one for her, especially since the children, of late quite even-tempered, seemed to have reverted to their old ways and grew exceedingly quarrel-some. When Betty brought their luncheon, Jennifer could not help remarking, “The children are quite out of sorts today.”

Betty’s cheerful face darkened. “I expect that’s cause Miss is not her usual self.”

That timely bit of wisdom caused Jenni-fer to take herself to task severely. She must make a greater effort to attend to the children and their needs. There was cer-tainly no useful purpose served by her mooning around like some schoolroom miss. And so, a little later when Cammie, struggling with the letters of her name, sighed for the sixth time and remarked with a look at the high narrow windows, “It must be awful nice outside today,” Jenni-fer made a sudden decision. It was absurd to keep the children cooped up in the chill, dank schoolroom just because she was feeling gloomy.

“Come,” she said briskly. “Each of you finish your task of the moment and we will take a walk before dinner.”

  Three heads bent industriously to their labor and quite soon they all declared themselves finished. “Bonnets and gloves,” said Jennifer and the girls scurried to their room. Mortimer returned in a moment with his cap and Jennifer, tying her own bonnet strings and drawing on her gloves, soon found the girls all ready.

And so they ventured forth into the sun-light. As the children’s faces brightened, Jennifer thought with dismay of the constricted life they must have lived before her arrival. She looked around her for some object of interest and noted in the distance the roof of the pavilion which for some reason they had not visited during their other walks.

It seemed natural that the man who had designed this house and rose garden for Mr. Parthemer should have carried this Gothic theme throughout the whole park. And Jennifer, thoroughly surfeited with ruins of every description, had previously had no desire to view a ruined pavilion. But now it seemed a natural objective for their walk. “Will you show me the pavi-lion?” she asked.

“Oh yes, Miss Jennifer,” the children replied.

“I have been there before,” cried Mor-timer, his eyes gleaming. “But the girls have not.”

  “Why not?” inquired Jennifer, seeking any subject that would divert her thoughts from a certain tall blond viscount.

“Nurse said the pavilion was haunted,” Cassie reported seriously. “She said she saw spirits there - ghosts.”

“Ghosts,” replied Jennifer matter-of-factly, “exist only in stories. And even there they appear only in the darkness.”

“Nurse said she saw them,” insisted Cammie, her dark eyes growing wide with wonder.

“Nurse had your room,” explained Cassie. “You can see the pavilion from your win-dow.”

Jennifer nodded.
Of course. But her window was so narrow that she seldom looked out of it. Nurse, however, must have been given to looking at scenery.

“She couldn’t sleep at night,” explained Mortimer. “And she would make herself a cup of tea with medicine in it. And she would look out the window.”

“Medicine? I didn’t know that Nurse was ill.”

“It was for her nerves,” said Cassie. “She kept it in a bottle in her room.”

“Smelled awful,” interjected Cammie, wrinkling up her little nose.

  This information was absorbed by Jenni-fer in silence. That Nurse had not been of an exceptional character she had already ascertained from certain remarks dropped inadvertently by Betty and the children. But it had not occurred to her before that Nurse had been solacing herself with a secret “medicine.” Jennifer knew of no medicine that could be taken in tea except for some kind of spirits. Perhaps, then, Nurse’s ghosts had their origin in her “medicine” bottle and not in a newly “ruined” pavilion.

“She said she saw lights,” chimed in Mor-timer, eager to add to the story. “And a figure in a cloak crossing the lawn to the pavilion.”

Jennifer’s heart skipped a beat as Ingle-ton’s words recurred to her. Could Nurse have seen Haverford on his way to a meet-ing? But why should spies and traitors meet in a place like that when assuredly there were other, safer, places?

  Her head was in a whirl and then, as Cammie’s little hand slipped trembling into her own, she realized that the child was frightened. “I do not like to contradict Nurse,” said Jennifer firmly, “but I do not believe in ghosts. People who claim to see them quite often are mistaking perfectly natural objects for supernatural ones. Besides,
if
there were ghosts, which
I
do not for a moment believe, they would hardly wish to live in a ruin that is brand new.”

They had reached the pavilion by this time and Jennifer was pleasantly surprised to find that its ruinous aspects were indi-cated only by the profusion of ivy that grew up its columns and a few crumbling stones that were scattered about it. The pavilion itself was reasonably light and airy and boasted several circular benches.

“Let us sit and rest for a moment,” said Jennifer, leading the way inside. The children, even Mortimer, stayed close to her, she noted, but she pretended not to see.

A gentle breeze wafted between the columns and inside the pavilion it was quite cool and pleasant. “It’s nice in here,” said Cassie with a look at her little sister who was still pressing quite close to Jenni-fer’s side. “So green and cool.”

“What sort of places
do
ghosts like?” inquired Mortimer with a mischievous grin.

“Ghosts, according to the people who make them up,” replied Jennifer, giving him a stern look, “like places that are very old, very dark, and very gloomy.”

Cammie relaxed visibly. “They wouldn’t like it here,” she declared with a look to Jennifer for confirmation.

“You are quite right, Cammie. They wouldn’t like it here at all.”

The little girl released her hand and rose to wander around the building and peer out between the ivy-colored pillars.

It was quite a lovely building, Jennifer thought. And certainly one she would never have expected to find on the Par-themers’s estate.

After a few moments she marshalled the children and began to return to the great dark house. As they left the pavilion Cammie heaved a great sigh. “I wish we could do lessons here.”

Jennifer, looking around the quiet com-fort of the place, was quite in agreement. It was a shame for healthy children to be cooped up in that chill dank house, even to do lessons.

Jennifer stopped suddenly. There was no reason they must be! She smiled at the children. “Cammie has given me a famous idea.”

“What... what is it?” they asked eagerly.

“Tomorrow I shall get several of the foot-men to carry us out a table. And when the weather is fine we shall do lessons here.”

“Oh, Miss Jennifer,” chorused three happy voices. Cammie’s gratitude so carried her away that she threw her arms around Jennifer’s legs and hugged her.

Jennifer looked up at the sun. “But for now we had best be moving. Your dinner will soon be ready and I must dress for

mine.”

“I wish you would eat with us,” said Mortimer.

Jennifer did not quite keep back the sigh. “I wish so too, Mortimer, but your Mama has guests and she wishes for me to help entertain them.”

“I saw the pretty lady,” said Cassie.

“She’s not as pretty as Miss Jennifer,” declared Cammie.

“I know,” agreed Cassie. “But she has very pretty dresses.”

Jennifer, flushed from these evidences of the children’s affection for her, interrupt-ed. “Lady Carolyn is lovely and she dresses very well. You will be ladies like that when you grow up.”

As she said this Jennifer hoped that these two bright-eyed children would not be disappointed, that some financial disaster to their father would not wrench happiness from their grasp and reduce them to creatures for whom beauty and a well-bred past were almost insupportable burdens.

  But, she assured herself,
Mr. Parthemer was a man of some shrewdness. Although he was obviously under Mrs. Parthemer’s dainty thumb in home matters, he must have been quite astute in his business to have achieved the wherewithal to make this gloomy ruin a reality.