Daphne watched the older children, who were exchanging looks of surprise and confusion, as though she had interrupted the perfectly intelligible Greek with a language they could not understand. She turned to them, hands on her hips. ‘I suppose this is as good a time as any to see how you children draw. Lily, show me your watercolour book.’
‘I do not have one.’ The girl was almost stammering in embarrassment.
Daphne fought down the feeling of triumph. ‘You do not draw?’
‘It is hardly necessary, for if one knows maths and languages…’ Edmund said in a starchy tone.
‘Your father knows those things, I am sure. And how to draw, as well. He enjoys gardening, does he not?’
‘He is a botanist,’ said Lily, as though deeply offended by the slight.
Daphne waved it aside, not much caring about the difference. ‘Then he must know enough drawing to render the plants he works on.’
The older children’s eyes grew round, as though they had never considered the fact.
‘And I doubt he would like to hear that you are dismissing any element of your education as frivolous. We must work to correct our ignorance, rather than making excuses for it.’ And now it was her turn to be surprised. That last had sounded rather like something her school mistresses had said to her. Perhaps all that was necessary to turn oneself into an educator was to starch one’s bodice and put on a stern expression.
She smiled at the children so as not to appear too forbidding, remembering the minimal effect such lectures had had on her. ‘For now, you may continue with the lessons you have. But in future, we shall see that you gain some talent for art.’ She smiled at Sophie, who was dutifully drawing an apple from memory. ‘After I have got the more advanced student properly settled.’
The little girl turned to her with such a look of surprise on her face that it almost made her forget her role and laugh. But then Sophie smiled, as though the words were better than rubies to her. With such talented siblings, she had never been the star pupil.
And if what the older children had said was true, she had endured far worse since Clare had died. So it helped her to draw horrible pictures to help recover from her mother’s death. Was there really any harm in it? Daphne picked up the sheet of paper, considered throwing it on the fire, and then smoothed it and set it aside. If it was destroyed, the poor girl would only draw it again.
She stared down at the image of her cousin, crumpled in death. The girl had drawn it from memory, just as she had the apple. Had no one the sense to keep her away, so that she did not have to see such a horrible sight? But the picture was very informative, for it showed just what she had expected: Clare lying on her back as though she had toppled backwards, and not fallen face first as one likely would if the death were accidental.
Without realising it, Sophie might help to prove her mother’s murder.
Chapter Four
Daphne took the picture and placed it between the pages of her own sketchbook. It was too disturbing to hang on the schoolroom wall, but the information in it was too important to discard. She would conceal it for now, then take it to her room where she might examine it in detail. She encouraged the children to work on what they wished, and gave only the barest supervision, assuming that they would come to little harm reading from their texts.
At lunch time, Cook delivered trays of food to the nursery dining room, and they paused in their lessons to eat. The same seemed to hold for tea, and would happen at supper just as Mrs Sims described. The household had given the children no reason to come below stairs at all, if they did not wish to. She wondered if the intent was to keep them away from their father. For if it was, it told the real truth about the loyalty of the servants to their master. They would support him, of course. They took his side in what had happened to his wife, and frowned on gossip about it.
But they feared him, feared for the children and kept them far out of his path.
When a maid had come to clear away the tea things, and they were almost ready to return to the classroom, she noticed a shadow from the doorway that fell across the room.
Lord Colton was there, observing them. She had not heard him approach, and could not shake the feeling that he had been standing there for quite some time, unnoticed. It put her on her guard. Though she doubted he had seen or heard anything of interest, it was disquieting to think him so adept at spying.
‘Miss Collins.’ He gave the same curt bow he had given her on the previous day, and she feared he was ready for another disquieting battle of wills.
Before he could catch it, she broke her gaze, and gave another curtsy, eyes downcast to hide her discomfort. ‘Lord Colton.’
‘How are the children today?’
‘Very well, my lord.’ She hoped that she was not expected to go into detail on their progress, for she had nothing to add.
‘We shall see about that. For if I find otherwise, I will turn you out, no matter what the Duchess might say.’
She flinched at the suddenness of the threat. And when he saw her reaction, and that she was showing none of the bravado of yesterday, he gave a faint laugh and went to greet his children.
She felt her muscles tense in instinctive defence of them. They were stubborn little beasts, to be sure. But what could one expect, when they had a monster for a father? What poison had he poured in their ears about their mother? And what abuses had they undergone to leave them so suspiciously quiet?
Colton’s smile changed as he approached the children. As he looked at them, the lines seemed to smooth from his forehead, and his lips were turned upwards not in a cynical parody of mirth or seduction, but with joyful anticipation. The tension in his body disappeared, making his movements easy. He seemed to become younger with each step, almost as if he were a denizen of the nursery wing and not the master of the whole house.
He came to the boy first, bending down, smiling and offering his hand, which his son took and gave a pale imitation of a manly clasp. The father asked how the studies were progressing, and the boy answered that they were satisfactory. And then Colton said something in what sounded like Latin, and the boy answered quickly and easily, as though in his native tongue.
They conversed thus, for a few minutes, and the child cast a sidelong look in her direction. They were talking about the new governess again, were they? If she lasted long enough to make a difference here, she would take an opportunity to teach the children some manners. It was quite rude to switch languages, and take advantage of the ignorance of others. Even more so when the other was your teacher and had so much ignorance to abuse.
The boy said something adamant, his jaw set in a stubborn parody of his father’s.
The older man shrugged. With a half-smile, he glanced in Daphne’s direction and shook his head. Then he turned to the older girl and dropped to one knee so that he could greet her face to face.
‘Bonjour, Papa.’ She gave him a shy kiss upon the cheek, but her smile had a wicked glint to it. She continued in French, as though she wished to prove that she could best her brother in something.
Her father answered her in the same language, and they proceeded to discuss the day. Daphne had less trouble with this, for she knew more than a little French, although the girl did speak quickly for one so young. Apparently, the day was bon, as was the new teacher. Although the girl was equally adamant that such guidance was not necessary, and that they would show him how well they could manage, if left to their own devices.
Her father answered with a c’est la vie. If Tante Penny wished it, then what were they to do? The children must prove that