Hugh lifts a hand, cutting me short. “The lad is home, miss. That’s what I came to tell you. He’s abed, and you had not returned, so I came to search.”
I blink, orienting myself. Edmund is at the house? How long have I been out here, running about like a madwoman?
“You needn’t worry about the lad,” Hugh continues. “He knows the grounds, day or night, and his father may spoil the child, but if he caught him near the ponds alone, he would earn himself a right punishment.” Hugh glances at me as we walk. “Mr. August’s sister drowned there when she was but a lass.”
Yes, of course. The first time I’d seen August in a panic was when he found me dipping my toes in the east pond. That was where his sixteen-year-old sister died when he was a child. He’d made me promise never to go near the ponds or lake alone.
Then I realize what he’s said. Mr. August. Yes, “Mr. Courtenay” would be correct, but the more familiar variation is a way for staff to specify among the various male Courtenays. That’s not what catches my attention, though.
Hugh said August is my charge’s father. That means there is no doubt who I saw.
My son.
I need to tell him. Speak to him. Explain.
No, my heart might be a wild thing, clambering in my chest, but I must proceed with caution here. Establish my true identity with others and obtain their assistance in breaking the news to Edmund. Otherwise, I’m a mad stranger claiming to be his mother.
But who do I enlist? William is the obvious choice, yet he’s a hundred-and-seventy years in the future. August? Clearly, my husband ought to know the truth before our son, yet he’s not at home. Do I tell the staff? Put the burden of establishing proof on them? What if they drive me out? What if they have me committed as a madwoman? Or jailed as a fraud? This isn’t the twenty-first century. I could be locked up and never have the chance to prove myself.
What is the alternative? Pretend to be Edmund’s governess? Lie to him?
Get to know him, a voice whispers. Prepare him.
And then say, “Surprise! I’m your mother!”?
Hugh interrupts my rumination. “I am sorry our Edmund led you on a merry chase, miss. He is an odd little lad.”
I must stiffen at that because Hugh cuts me a worried look before hurrying on, “I don’t mean that as it sounds. He’s a sweet child. Good-natured and kind, and if he has his odd ways . . . . . .” He shrugs with a half laugh. “The gentry are entitled to their odd ways, aren’t they?”
“How is the boy odd?”
Another shrug. “He’s like a little ghost, flitting about, at least when his father isn’t home. Mr. August brings the child from his shell. You won’t find a more devoted father. Mrs. Landon grumbles about that, but Mrs. Landon grumbles about most everything.”
“I got that impression,” I murmur.
He grins. “She’s the earl’s hire, and so we are stuck with her, I fear. She thinks the little master a right spoiled child, too fearful by half, and his father scandalously affectionate. One can hardly blame Mr. August for that. He had to be both mother and father, with young Edmund’s mother dying when the boy was still in his cradle.”
It takes all my strength to force out a strangled, “What?”
He glances over, brows raised. “You haven’t heard the story? How Mr. August’s beautiful bride went for a moonlit ride and perished in the sea?”
“Perished in . . . ? No, I-I have not heard it.”
“Then you must not be from these parts. I thought I detected an accent in your voice. I remember Lady Rosalind. She was very kind. And very pretty.” He winks at me. “I was a boy of fourteen and quite taken with her.”
I’m glad for the darkness so he won’t see that I don’t smile—my heart is thudding too hard.
Hugh continues, “Lady Rosalind loved to ride, especially at night. My father always said he could tell when she’d gone out, and he’d quickly tend to the horse on her return so no one would know and give her trouble for it. After Edmund came, there’d been no moonlight rides, but that night she could not resist. The next day, the house was in a frenzy, searching for her. Her horse was found washed up on the shore. It must have plunged from the cliff at night and drowned them both in the sea.”
My stomach lurches, and I clap my hand to my mouth.
Hugh nods gravely, thinking I’m affected by the plight of this poor stranger. My first thought is for my horse, the darling gelding I always rode at Courtenay Hall. Then I realize the rest of what Hugh said.
Everyone thinks I’m dead.
I’d been nowhere near the sea that night, but I hadn’t tied my horse at Thorne Manor. He must have been spooked and run and ended up at the sea, falling to his death. Finding him there, everyone would presume I was dead.
My husband would presume I was dead.
My son would grow up presuming I had died.
“Are you all right, miss?”
“Y-yes, I’m sorry. I just . . . I had no idea. How horrible for the family. I fear the information I received was scant, and I looked no further than confirming their good reputation. So forgive what may seem a question to which I ought to know the reply. I was under the impression that August Courtenay has a wife. Did he remarry?”
“Not yet, miss.” He walks a few more steps and then clears his throat awkwardly. “If I may be impertinent, might I suggest . . .” Another throat clearing. “The master is said to be a handsome man. He comes from a good family and is . . . well situated financially. There have been— That is to say, some of the governesses . . .”
“Set their hat on him?” My laugh is genuine. “I would have thought ladies of my profession had more sense than that.”
“Several were from very good families, no better than his wife’s, and so perhaps their hopes were not without merit.”
“True enough. I know better than to have designs on my employer. I am also no longer a young girl who might be wooed by promises of a ring.”
Hugh’s eyes widen, and as he stammers, I curse myself. I chose my words with care, but they were still not proper sentiments for a Victorian spinster.
“Mr. August does not—” he begins. “He is not that sort of man.”
“Good,” I say. “If young Edmund’s governesses left because they failed to earn a promotion to mother, then you will have nothing to worry about with me.”
He goes silent, and I count out five more steps before saying, “Is that why they left?”
“That . . . that may be the answer, miss.” He straightens, his tone hearty with false conviction. “Yes, I am certain it is.”
7
At Hugh’s suggestion, I manage to avoid Mrs. Landon by coming in the side door. He directs me to my room in the nursery. As in many grand houses, the nursery is far from the master bedroom. That would horrify twenty-first-century parents, but it is how August grew up. He hadn’t even received another room as he grew older. He’d been kept apart from the rest of his family, as if he were a bastard child.
When I’d made it clear that I expected our son to sleep in the adjoining room, August had been quick to agree. His family whispered that this was what came of marrying a girl without breeding. When we visited the hall and they refused to allow our infant son to share our quarters, we slept in the one adjoining his, a cold and cramped room given to guests one hopes to discourage from long visits.