Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 92
Mrs. Hill frowned, then she smoothed Bertie’s hair with a gentle hand. “I understand, dear. But they need you too.”
Bertie knew she was right. Cat and Andrew must be frightened and worried, knowing their father was in danger of slipping away. Bertie couldn’t make them face that alone. “I’ll nip upstairs and make sure they’re all right,” she said, and Mrs. Hill gave her an approving nod.
Mrs. Hill sat down in Bertie’s place, and Bertie hurried to her room, her legs weak with exhaustion. She washed her face and smoothed her hair, trying to enter the nursery with some show of confidence.
Andrew threw himself at her, wrapping around her as soon as Bertie walked inside. Cat took Bertie’s hand, squeezing hard.
Cat looked different now that she no longer had the doll perpetually in the crook of her arm—she stood a little straighter and some pain had gone from her eyes. The repaired doll sat on a shelf above Cat’s bed, dressed in another of the gowns Sinclair had given Cat over the years, her cracked smile still benevolent.
“You’ll save Papa, won’t you, Bertie?” Andrew demanded.
“Of course she will,” Cat answered him. “Just like she saved you, and my dolly. She’ll take good care of him.” Cat’s voice was firm, that of a sister reassuring her younger brother, but the look she sent Bertie was anxious.
“Cat is right.” Bertie stroked Andrew’s hair, which was the same color as Sinclair’s. “I’ll look after your dad proper, don’t you worry.”
“Macaulay told us he was in a battle,” Andrew said. “With guns and everything. Like at Culloden.”
“Not like that, Andrew,” Cat said with a touch of her usual scorn.
“He was very brave.” Bertie shivered, remembering how she’d watched Sinclair collapse on the street, barely able to react to her and Macaulay when they came for him. He’d been bleeding again, blood staining his clothes, her gloves, and the seat of the carriage.
Both children hugged her, then Cat withdrew and wiped tears from her face. “You must go back and look after him. Mustn’t she, Andrew?”
Andrew squeezed his eyes shut and clung tighter to Bertie. Cat nudged him, and Andrew jumped.
“Yes, you must look after Papa,” he said rapidly, as though Cat had made him rehearse the line.
“I’ll take care of Andrew,” Cat said. “I’ll put him to bed.”
Andrew tried not to look dismayed. Bertie kissed both of them. “Thank you. I promise, I’ll send for you the moment he’s better.”
Hours later, she feared the worst. Sinclair muttered in his sleep, shoving away the covers. Bertie changed his bandage, washing the wound, which felt hot. She couldn’t make him wake enough to drink the tincture or the powders, so he only tossed more in pain.
He finally quieted when the clocks were striking five. Sinclair’s skin was damp but didn’t feel roasting hot, and his breathing had become more even. Bertie curled up next to him, pulling the rumpled sheets over herself. She said a little prayer, then her eyes would stay open no longer, and she slept.
Sinclair woke, moved, and cursed. Pain ripped from his abdomen through to his spine, and he hissed a breath through his teeth.
He relaxed slowly, making himself lie perfectly still. There. If he stayed just . . . like . . . this, the pain was only slightly excruciating.
He heard soft breathing beside him and carefully turned his head. Bertie was next to him, her head pillowed on her arm, her eyes closed. Her hair was a mess, the curls on her forehead damp. Her nose was free of soot now, except for one tiny smudge, and her lips were parted in her sleep.
If Sinclair didn’t hurt so much, and could move his body at all, he’d roll over and kiss those pretty red lips. Then he’d brush back her hair and slide on top of her, parting her legs to make sweet, deep love to her as the house slept around them.
Sinclair did hurt, however, so all he could do was look at her. Not a bad thing. Firelight touched her throat, her dress open at the neck, and glinted on the chain of her locket.
Safe. She was safe. James was dead or dying, Devlin would likely go after more lucrative game, and Jeffrey would be sent off to Dartmoor.
Safety. Peace. Bertie had never known it, and Sinclair had taken a long time to learn it. He’d make sure Bertie had it for the rest of her days. He’d go on standing up in court, speaking for those who didn’t know how to speak for themselves, helping the innocent and making a case against the guilty. He’d continue working toward being a judge, making Old Monty and his committee happy enough to present him with a position on the bench. Then he’d come home to Bertie and his children every night. Idyllic.
Sinclair knew, though, that he’d never stomach such an ordinary life for long. He’d clung to this routine only because it had helped him bury his grief—being caught up in his work meant he’d never had to take grief out and look at it.
He’d looked at it plenty in that basement with Bertie, when the men had come through the door, ready to kill her. Sinclair would make sure that never happened, and he’d live his life with her and his children to its fullest. He’d take them to this Christmas pantomime Bertie kept talking about, and then they’d go home to the Highlands for the rest of the holidays, back where he belonged.
Sinclair could move his right hand without too much pain. He lightly smoothed Bertie’s hair, loving the soft warmth of it. Bertie was life, and he wanted life with all his might.
Bertie knew she was right. Cat and Andrew must be frightened and worried, knowing their father was in danger of slipping away. Bertie couldn’t make them face that alone. “I’ll nip upstairs and make sure they’re all right,” she said, and Mrs. Hill gave her an approving nod.
Mrs. Hill sat down in Bertie’s place, and Bertie hurried to her room, her legs weak with exhaustion. She washed her face and smoothed her hair, trying to enter the nursery with some show of confidence.
Andrew threw himself at her, wrapping around her as soon as Bertie walked inside. Cat took Bertie’s hand, squeezing hard.
Cat looked different now that she no longer had the doll perpetually in the crook of her arm—she stood a little straighter and some pain had gone from her eyes. The repaired doll sat on a shelf above Cat’s bed, dressed in another of the gowns Sinclair had given Cat over the years, her cracked smile still benevolent.
“You’ll save Papa, won’t you, Bertie?” Andrew demanded.
“Of course she will,” Cat answered him. “Just like she saved you, and my dolly. She’ll take good care of him.” Cat’s voice was firm, that of a sister reassuring her younger brother, but the look she sent Bertie was anxious.
“Cat is right.” Bertie stroked Andrew’s hair, which was the same color as Sinclair’s. “I’ll look after your dad proper, don’t you worry.”
“Macaulay told us he was in a battle,” Andrew said. “With guns and everything. Like at Culloden.”
“Not like that, Andrew,” Cat said with a touch of her usual scorn.
“He was very brave.” Bertie shivered, remembering how she’d watched Sinclair collapse on the street, barely able to react to her and Macaulay when they came for him. He’d been bleeding again, blood staining his clothes, her gloves, and the seat of the carriage.
Both children hugged her, then Cat withdrew and wiped tears from her face. “You must go back and look after him. Mustn’t she, Andrew?”
Andrew squeezed his eyes shut and clung tighter to Bertie. Cat nudged him, and Andrew jumped.
“Yes, you must look after Papa,” he said rapidly, as though Cat had made him rehearse the line.
“I’ll take care of Andrew,” Cat said. “I’ll put him to bed.”
Andrew tried not to look dismayed. Bertie kissed both of them. “Thank you. I promise, I’ll send for you the moment he’s better.”
Hours later, she feared the worst. Sinclair muttered in his sleep, shoving away the covers. Bertie changed his bandage, washing the wound, which felt hot. She couldn’t make him wake enough to drink the tincture or the powders, so he only tossed more in pain.
He finally quieted when the clocks were striking five. Sinclair’s skin was damp but didn’t feel roasting hot, and his breathing had become more even. Bertie curled up next to him, pulling the rumpled sheets over herself. She said a little prayer, then her eyes would stay open no longer, and she slept.
Sinclair woke, moved, and cursed. Pain ripped from his abdomen through to his spine, and he hissed a breath through his teeth.
He relaxed slowly, making himself lie perfectly still. There. If he stayed just . . . like . . . this, the pain was only slightly excruciating.
He heard soft breathing beside him and carefully turned his head. Bertie was next to him, her head pillowed on her arm, her eyes closed. Her hair was a mess, the curls on her forehead damp. Her nose was free of soot now, except for one tiny smudge, and her lips were parted in her sleep.
If Sinclair didn’t hurt so much, and could move his body at all, he’d roll over and kiss those pretty red lips. Then he’d brush back her hair and slide on top of her, parting her legs to make sweet, deep love to her as the house slept around them.
Sinclair did hurt, however, so all he could do was look at her. Not a bad thing. Firelight touched her throat, her dress open at the neck, and glinted on the chain of her locket.
Safe. She was safe. James was dead or dying, Devlin would likely go after more lucrative game, and Jeffrey would be sent off to Dartmoor.
Safety. Peace. Bertie had never known it, and Sinclair had taken a long time to learn it. He’d make sure Bertie had it for the rest of her days. He’d go on standing up in court, speaking for those who didn’t know how to speak for themselves, helping the innocent and making a case against the guilty. He’d continue working toward being a judge, making Old Monty and his committee happy enough to present him with a position on the bench. Then he’d come home to Bertie and his children every night. Idyllic.
Sinclair knew, though, that he’d never stomach such an ordinary life for long. He’d clung to this routine only because it had helped him bury his grief—being caught up in his work meant he’d never had to take grief out and look at it.
He’d looked at it plenty in that basement with Bertie, when the men had come through the door, ready to kill her. Sinclair would make sure that never happened, and he’d live his life with her and his children to its fullest. He’d take them to this Christmas pantomime Bertie kept talking about, and then they’d go home to the Highlands for the rest of the holidays, back where he belonged.
Sinclair could move his right hand without too much pain. He lightly smoothed Bertie’s hair, loving the soft warmth of it. Bertie was life, and he wanted life with all his might.
