Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 60
She’d just pulled on her nightgown when she heard Charlotte coming up the stairs with her clanking coal bucket. Bertie hurriedly rumpled her bed and pretended to be just climbing out as Charlotte walked in.
Bertie asked Charlotte to draw her a bath, which the girl did. The hot water stung a bit on Bertie’s intimate parts as she lowered herself into it, making her flush more. The last go on the desk had been a bit turbulent, not that Bertie had minded. She’d gone a little wild with the amazing pleasure of it, and Sinclair had laughed. Then he’d stopped laughing as he’d lost himself in passion. Bertie liked how his eyes had gone dark, his touch firm, the strength of him holding her in place as he’d loved her.
If she’d been a genteel young lady, Bertie supposed she’d feel sorrow or shame at what they’d done, but she didn’t. Maybe that meant she was truly a tart, as the letter had said, but at the moment, she scarcely cared.
She floated on emotion, the joy of it sliding around her like the hot water of the bath. Yes, she could easily have gotten with child any of the three times they’d gone at it tonight, but the thought only made her excitement grow. Any child of Sinclair’s would be welcome, never mind the tiny voice deep inside that told her she was a fool.
Charlotte had left her to enjoy her bath in peace, and Bertie slowly drew the sponge over herself, picturing how it would be if Sinclair did it for her. His hair would be damp from the steam, droplets of water would bead on his skin, and he’d give her his slow, wicked smile that was absent of all sorrow.
Bertie hugged the sponge to her chest. Sinclair was part of her world now, and she wouldn’t easily let go of that.
She got out, dried off, and dressed. She’d discovered a few smears of blood on her drawers when she’d taken off her clothes, and had known it wasn’t from her menses. Bertie had thought she’d be too old to shed virgin’s blood, but apparently not. She wadded up the drawers and shoved them into her laundry bag before Aoife came in to help her lace up. Sinclair’s family’s laundry was all sent out, so with any luck, no one within the house would see it.
Bertie ate breakfast with the children, Andrew already better than yesterday, well enough to eat everything in sight.
Sinclair, Aoife told her, had decided to go back to his chambers today if only for a little while, now that Andrew was healing and the awful man who’d broken in had been arrested. Sinclair departed without coming upstairs, but he raised his hand to Bertie, Cat, and Andrew looking out of the window, smiling up at them. Then he stepped into his carriage and was gone.
In spite of Jeffrey stewing in jail awaiting his trial, Bertie worried about Sinclair out and about in town. The anonymous letter writer bothered her, and though Sinclair didn’t think his brother-in-law had sent the letters, Bertie wouldn’t put it past him, or his wife. They might want their mitts on Sinclair’s children by hook or by crook.
Bertie was no stranger to people leaving threatening notes—her dad had got them all the time. Mostly they were scrawled on a scrap of paper, short and to the point. Stay off my patch, or else. High-end villains liked to lord it over the rest of them, and Bertie’s father was often warned. Sometimes the villains didn’t bother with notes, just sent in a thug or two to do Bertie’s dad over. Jeffrey had urged Bertie’s father to give in and simply work for the big villains, but Gerry never would. He hated people telling him what to do.
Once Andrew and Cat were settled in, Bertie went back down the stairs to the next floor and made sure no one was in Sinclair’s study before she slipped inside and closed the door.
Sinclair had not only locked the drawer into which he’d dropped the letter, he’d locked all the other drawers too. Bertie pulled out a hairpin and unlocked them again. Why the rich bothered with fancy desks that could be picked with a piece of straw, she didn’t know.
Bertie didn’t find any more letters until she discovered a box pushed into the back of the bottom drawer, hidden behind other stacks of papers. Bertie set this box on the desk, put her hairpin to work, and opened it.
Inside, she found five folded papers in their envelopes. The envelopes were ordinary, sold by most stationers. Likewise the sheets of paper. Bertie unfolded each letter, finding the same kind of printing as in the one that called her a viper—the capitals were so precise the writer must have used a straight rule to draw them.
Not one of the missives was very long, and there were five in the box. Bertie made herself read them through, as distasteful as they were.
Every letter was about Sinclair’s wife, the late Margaret McBride. Sweet Daisy wasn’t what she pretended to be, was she? one said. What did she get up to before she squeezed out your children? Another, You know what she was, and how she tricked you into marrying her. Who else would you like me to tell about her past?
Mean things. And odd. From what everyone in the house had told her about Mrs. McBride, she’d been a fine lady—laughing, sweet, loving to her children. Were the letters lies then? The one about Bertie had implied that she’d do harm to Cat and Andrew. The viper always stings, and its venom is deadly.
She’d never hurt them at all, or Sinclair. Never . . .
Bertie swallowed, remembering that her presence had caused Andrew to be shot. Maybe the letter writer was more perceptive than she gave him credit for.
No, that was wrong. These letters were vague hints, allowing the receiver to read into them what he or she pleased. The words about Daisy, Sinclair’s wife, could mean anything from she’d been a murderer to she’d lied about where she’d gone to school. By all accounts, everyone in this house had loved Daisy, including Sinclair. He’d loved her desperately.
Bertie asked Charlotte to draw her a bath, which the girl did. The hot water stung a bit on Bertie’s intimate parts as she lowered herself into it, making her flush more. The last go on the desk had been a bit turbulent, not that Bertie had minded. She’d gone a little wild with the amazing pleasure of it, and Sinclair had laughed. Then he’d stopped laughing as he’d lost himself in passion. Bertie liked how his eyes had gone dark, his touch firm, the strength of him holding her in place as he’d loved her.
If she’d been a genteel young lady, Bertie supposed she’d feel sorrow or shame at what they’d done, but she didn’t. Maybe that meant she was truly a tart, as the letter had said, but at the moment, she scarcely cared.
She floated on emotion, the joy of it sliding around her like the hot water of the bath. Yes, she could easily have gotten with child any of the three times they’d gone at it tonight, but the thought only made her excitement grow. Any child of Sinclair’s would be welcome, never mind the tiny voice deep inside that told her she was a fool.
Charlotte had left her to enjoy her bath in peace, and Bertie slowly drew the sponge over herself, picturing how it would be if Sinclair did it for her. His hair would be damp from the steam, droplets of water would bead on his skin, and he’d give her his slow, wicked smile that was absent of all sorrow.
Bertie hugged the sponge to her chest. Sinclair was part of her world now, and she wouldn’t easily let go of that.
She got out, dried off, and dressed. She’d discovered a few smears of blood on her drawers when she’d taken off her clothes, and had known it wasn’t from her menses. Bertie had thought she’d be too old to shed virgin’s blood, but apparently not. She wadded up the drawers and shoved them into her laundry bag before Aoife came in to help her lace up. Sinclair’s family’s laundry was all sent out, so with any luck, no one within the house would see it.
Bertie ate breakfast with the children, Andrew already better than yesterday, well enough to eat everything in sight.
Sinclair, Aoife told her, had decided to go back to his chambers today if only for a little while, now that Andrew was healing and the awful man who’d broken in had been arrested. Sinclair departed without coming upstairs, but he raised his hand to Bertie, Cat, and Andrew looking out of the window, smiling up at them. Then he stepped into his carriage and was gone.
In spite of Jeffrey stewing in jail awaiting his trial, Bertie worried about Sinclair out and about in town. The anonymous letter writer bothered her, and though Sinclair didn’t think his brother-in-law had sent the letters, Bertie wouldn’t put it past him, or his wife. They might want their mitts on Sinclair’s children by hook or by crook.
Bertie was no stranger to people leaving threatening notes—her dad had got them all the time. Mostly they were scrawled on a scrap of paper, short and to the point. Stay off my patch, or else. High-end villains liked to lord it over the rest of them, and Bertie’s father was often warned. Sometimes the villains didn’t bother with notes, just sent in a thug or two to do Bertie’s dad over. Jeffrey had urged Bertie’s father to give in and simply work for the big villains, but Gerry never would. He hated people telling him what to do.
Once Andrew and Cat were settled in, Bertie went back down the stairs to the next floor and made sure no one was in Sinclair’s study before she slipped inside and closed the door.
Sinclair had not only locked the drawer into which he’d dropped the letter, he’d locked all the other drawers too. Bertie pulled out a hairpin and unlocked them again. Why the rich bothered with fancy desks that could be picked with a piece of straw, she didn’t know.
Bertie didn’t find any more letters until she discovered a box pushed into the back of the bottom drawer, hidden behind other stacks of papers. Bertie set this box on the desk, put her hairpin to work, and opened it.
Inside, she found five folded papers in their envelopes. The envelopes were ordinary, sold by most stationers. Likewise the sheets of paper. Bertie unfolded each letter, finding the same kind of printing as in the one that called her a viper—the capitals were so precise the writer must have used a straight rule to draw them.
Not one of the missives was very long, and there were five in the box. Bertie made herself read them through, as distasteful as they were.
Every letter was about Sinclair’s wife, the late Margaret McBride. Sweet Daisy wasn’t what she pretended to be, was she? one said. What did she get up to before she squeezed out your children? Another, You know what she was, and how she tricked you into marrying her. Who else would you like me to tell about her past?
Mean things. And odd. From what everyone in the house had told her about Mrs. McBride, she’d been a fine lady—laughing, sweet, loving to her children. Were the letters lies then? The one about Bertie had implied that she’d do harm to Cat and Andrew. The viper always stings, and its venom is deadly.
She’d never hurt them at all, or Sinclair. Never . . .
Bertie swallowed, remembering that her presence had caused Andrew to be shot. Maybe the letter writer was more perceptive than she gave him credit for.
No, that was wrong. These letters were vague hints, allowing the receiver to read into them what he or she pleased. The words about Daisy, Sinclair’s wife, could mean anything from she’d been a murderer to she’d lied about where she’d gone to school. By all accounts, everyone in this house had loved Daisy, including Sinclair. He’d loved her desperately.
