Biting her lower lip to keep in the tears, Mary nodded. She wished to be alone. “Yes. Trevor’s cousin received the living instead of him. But you would already know that since you opened my letter.”
Her charge placed her hand against her breastbone and gave her governess an outraged look. “I did notopenyour letter. I have kept my word as a Stringham.”
The way Helen emphasized the wordopenmade Mary realize that she had not worded the promise carefully enough for the clever girl. She gave her charge a bitter smile. “Do you promise in the future not toreadmy letters? Open or unopened?”
Unlike her sisters, Helen did not blush easily. But Mary fancied that she saw a little red blotch growing on the girl’s neck.
“Yes, Miss Perkins.”
Becca entered the room quickly, bumping into her sister. “We wish to go and visit Reverend Turpin.”
Her own cheeks flushed as Mary raised her eyebrows. The girls called the older reverend Turnip, and it was not a compliment, for her charges were not fond of that root vegetable. Neither was she. The old man gave the driest Sunday sermons that she had ever been forced to sit through. Every week she missed her father’s inspired and uplifting words. For a moment she wished that her father could give Trevor his vicarage in Cookham, but Papa did not intend to retire for at least fifteen years. He was not yet fifty.
Clearing her throat to get Mary’s attention, Helen nudged Becca with her sharp elbow. “You see, uh, Mrs. May said that he had a cough. And Becca and I thought it would be the Christian thing to bring over an elixir to Reverend Turpin.”
Mrs. May, the Stringham’s housekeeper, was a reliable woman, but none of the servants at the castle liked the chaplain either. They rarely attended his Sunday sermons. Mary squinted at her charges in suspicion.
Helen gave her a fake smile. “You are always telling us that we should do more charitable works.”
“‘Charity never faileth,’” Becca quoted. For all her difficulties reading, she was a sharp young woman.
Mary’s charity threatened to fail as her heartbeat thumped, but she thought perhaps a bit of distraction would not be a bad thing. “Very well. Fetch your wraps.”
The girls ran from the room giggling with their usual exuberance. Fiddling with her fichu, Mary wondered what she should write back to Trevor. Her memories of him were warm and wonderful, but he was right. Several years had passed since he proposed, and she did not wish to wait another decade to marry; she wanted children of her own. At five and twenty, many of the local villagers already considered her on the shelf, even though she wore his engagement ring.
Mary organized her thoughts into a list:
1. She loved Trevor Wallace. Of this she was certain. He was kind, intelligent, handsome, faithful, and thoughtful; everything that she had ever wanted in a husband.
2. She believed that he loved her too.
3. They had already been engaged for nearly four years, and she did not want to wait any longer to marry.
4. Trevor had no living or house.
5. He thought that it might be another ten years before he did. That was a very long time, and there was no guarantee he would be awarded a living.
6. But he had a yearly salary, and she would have the income from her dowry to live upon.
7. She had saved most of her governess earnings.
8. Could they let a cottage in his curacy?
She was still struggling with her thoughts when Helen and Becca bounced back into the room. Helen had Mary’s pelisse in her hands and Becca carried her bonnet. Sniffling, Mary thought that they were truly the sweetest and most thoughtful of rapscallions, and she loved them dearly. However, she could only be grateful that the Duke and Duchess of Hampford only expected a governess to keep their daughters alive. Any additional knowledge obtained was considered a delightful bonus but not a requirement.
Mary accepted Helen’s help in putting on her pelisse and gratefully took the bonnet from Becca. In her youngest charge’s free hand, she saw a bottle. The girls truly did have an elixir, but no one in their right mind would accept an unknown drink from any Stringham daughter.
Biting the inside of her lip, Mary felt a knot tightening in her belly. “Where did you get that bottle from?”
Becca’s blue eyes widened and she almost looked innocent. “The village witch.”
Elbowing her taller sister, Helen hissed, “Mama says we are supposed to call her the village wisewoman.Witchis a derogatory term men give to women who know more than they do.”
Widow Goodman lived in a cottage just outside the village, and Mary had more than once purchased a potion from her. Her green syrup relieved headaches and her red one helped with the cramping from a lady’s monthlies. If the bottle was from her, it was innocuous enough.
Each of her charges linked their arms with Mary’s and all but frog-marched her out the door and into the castle’s courtyard. They passed the chapel and were nearly to the north gate where Reverend Turpin had his own rooms and servants. Becca knocked on the door, and an older woman that served as the chaplain’s housekeeper, whose surname Mary could never remember, invited them insideand led the group to the parlor.
They waited for nearly a quarter of an hour before Reverend Turpin entered the room. He walked slowly but without a cane. His hair was snowy white and fell to his shoulders. It contrasted with his black suit and dog collar. His eyes were small and dark; Mary could not tell if they were dark brown or blue. The chaplain’s mouth wore a perpetual frown. This did not dissuade the girls. Her charges stood up and beamed at him like he was a favorite relative. Mary stood and curtsied, now sure that Helen and Becca were up to something.