A Mother For His Family. Susanne Dietze
confessed her lack of schooling, she’d wiped her nose on her sleeve and nattered about the benefits of flogging as discipline. Helena’s initial misgivings unfurled into certainty.
Miss Campbell was not the governess for the children of Comraich.
Helena rose from the table in the morning room where she had conducted the interview. There was still plenty of time before her scheduled tour with the housekeeper, Mrs. McGill, so she ascended the stairs to the yellow-papered nursery. In the bright central sitting room, the children gathered around a table eating their noonday meal. Agnes and the children, except Louisa, started to stand at her entrance, but Helena indicated that they stay seated. “Pray do not allow me to interrupt your meal.”
Sneaking glances at her, they resumed their bites of meat, stewed fruit and a mashed vegetable—well, Callum ate only meat, and Louisa only the vegetable. She leaned forward, her mouth wide like a baby bird’s, while Agnes spooned the pureed vegetable into her mouth. Saucy drips of butter trickled down the child’s chin.
Helena caught herself chewing her lip, one of Mama’s most despised practices—but the sight of Louisa slurping from a spoon was startling. Five-year-olds fed themselves, did they not?
She held back the question. If she asked, Agnes would set her jaw and insist, once again, that Louisa “cannae see.” Meanwhile, shabby Tabitha lay on the table. The dog sat on its haunches near Callum’s feet, begging for a morsel. Mama had never permitted toys on the table. Nor did she allow animals in the nursery. Or the house, come to think of it.
Was Mama unique in her rules? Or were things as Catriona, the previous Lady Ardoch, left them? That was the most important question, for Catriona was still the ruler of Comraich. Helena would have to ask her husband.
For now, she made a show of looking into the bedchambers off the right and left of the sitting room, called them charming, and then eyed the fare on the children’s plates. “Callum, did you eat any vegetables?”
“I never do.” Callum grimaced. “Just meat.”
“I don’t like meat,” Louisa announced.
“Try a few bites of what you don’t like then, each of you.”
Callum scowled.
Helena peered down at the dog. It seemed clean and well mannered, at least. “Does the dog always, er, attend you when dining?”
Alex shook his head. “Iona is with Papa much of the time. He calls her his lady.”
Did he? Helena gave in to the dog’s begging look and scratched her behind the ears. Ah, silky. Iona’s stub tail wagged. “Iona is the name of an island, isn’t it?”
“Aye.” Alex started to lick a finger, but stopped at her shake of the head. “There were monks on Iona in the auld days and Papa liked their stories. But I don’t remember any of them.”
“Uncle John says the isle is deceptive. ’Tis small but has greatness about it, like our pup.” Margaret set down her fork with a ping of finality. “At least, that’s what uncle said when he named her. She may be little, but she can be a fierce thing.”
Helena patted Iona’s sleek belly, which the dog had presented for rubbing. “Well, she keeps her fierceness well hidden in the nursery.” If not at all times. The dog was reduced to a puddle of drooling leisure under Helena’s strokes.
“Did you come to tell us about our new governess?” Callum leaned back, clearly in need of a serviette to his chin. Helena indicated the linen square and nodded. He made a hasty swipe.
“The candidate did not suit. I didn’t hire her.” At the children’s gaping, a flurry of remorse scuttled through Helena’s stomach. “Fear not. I will find another. How long has it been since you last had a governess?”
“Two months.” Margaret took a sip from her cup. “It was ever so sudden. Miss McManus left with Mr. Robertson.”
Helena blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Robertson. Our music master,” Alex explained. “Agnes said they run off together.”
“Ran off,” Helena corrected. It was far more polite than what she wanted to say, which was to repeat Alex’s remark in an inelegant balk.
Such a scandal. And it had not been hidden from the children. She brushed dog hair from her hands and stood. She had seen more than a few things that could use improving around here, Catriona’s rules or not. She forced her gaze to avoid Agnes’s, lest the look sizzle.
“Enjoy your pudding.” She crossed to the door.
Her husband had been correct. The sooner she hired a governess, the better. Helena married to atone for her sin, but clearly banishment and marriage to a stranger were not enough to appease God. Yet He had provided a blatant opportunity for her to continue to make amends. The children were in desperate need of stability and wholesome example. Surely God would provide.
With a renewed sense of confidence, she informed one of the footmen—she really must learn their names by the end of the week—to summon Mrs. McGill for their tour. The housekeeper’s arrival was prompt, but her mouth pinched shut like a meat pasty.
Perhaps Helena had mistaken their appointed time. She smiled at the plump woman of middle years, who carried with her the fresh smell of rosemary. “Do I take you away from an urgent matter?”
“Not at all, milady.”
A fudge if ever Helena had heard one. The housekeeper’s sullen expression did not come close to matching her words.
Helena began to open her mouth to ask if another time was more convenient, or question if something had happened to upset the housekeeper.
This staff does not respect you yet. Make them. Mama’s words resounded through her mind.
“Then let us begin.” Heavens, Mama’s voice wasn’t just in her head. It was in her mouth, too. But her tone created the desired effect. Mrs. McGill had the grace to blink, although her mouth remained set in a pout.
“Aye, milady. Where should you like to start?”
Helena folded her hands over her waist. She knew how to run a household. Time to prove it. “Anywhere you wish, so long as I view it all.”
Mrs. McGill stepped back, sending the keys on the silver chatelaine pinned to her waist to jingling. Helena passed her through the threshold.
If Mrs. McGill thought to bore her by showing her every last nook and cranny, she was in error. Helena found the stillroom to be clean and organized, perfumed with lavender and rosemary drying from hooks, and she expressed her approval of the supply of tinctures, vinegars and balms prepared by the stillroom maid. She exclaimed over the spotless house, and nodded in appreciation at the well-stocked larders and cupboards. Candles, cheese and meats awaited future use, and a closet fragrant with the sweet scent of dried apples coaxed a pang of hunger from Helena’s stomach that was only heightened when they visited the savory-scented kitchen.
She’d eaten so little in the past few weeks, it was a relief to feel hungry again.
At tour’s end, she ordered tea delivered to the morning room, along with a small plate to assuage her appetite until dinner.
“Anything else, milady?”
Now it was Helena’s turn to frown. No amount of praise could charm a smile from the housekeeper. So do not praise, Mama’s voice said.
Helena fixed her smile in place. Froze. Prepared to dismiss Mrs. McGill as Mama would.
But I’m not Mama. Nor am I Catriona. Helena could only be herself, and she wanted the housekeeper’s affinity. Their duties kept them in one another’s spheres, so it was best if they got along.
Helena let her smile crack. “Nothing further, but I’m grateful for your efforts. Thank you for executing your responsibilities so well.”
Mrs.