Bertie’s heart squeezed, fully aware Mrs. McBride had been a paragon. “But she died, poor lady.”
“That she did.” Macaulay’s voice went quiet. “It was a long illness, and the two wee ones nearly went with her. Thought Mr. McBride would go himself, of grieving. The problem was, Miss Margaret had tamed him, but I think she tamed him too well. When she was gone, there wasn’t much left of him.”
“Hardly anything.” Bertie’s heart ached as she thought of the sadness in Sinclair’s gray eyes, as though he waited for some reason to come alive again. “He’s all emptied out.”
“We look after him,” Macaulay said. “Mrs. Hill and me, and the others. We make sure he’s all right and doesn’t grow too morose. We need you to help us with that.”
Bertie nodded. “I will.” Of course she would. That’s why she’d come, wasn’t it?
Macaulay gave her an approving look. “Mr. McBride, he carries on—does his cases and all, and he don’t say no to the ladies—but his heart’s in the grave.” His look turned sharp again. “Remember that.”
“Yeah,” Bertie said, her own heart seeming to shrink. “I will.”
When Bertie returned to the house, she gave the children their regular lessons—the history of Britain, sums from a book of maths, and French. Bertie enjoyed the history, was good at the maths, but let Cat take the lead in French.
She thought about what Macaulay had told her as the children read and wrote, a little lump forming in her throat. The sensations of Sinclair holding her hand yesterday evening when they sat in his study, so chummy, and his mouth on her fingers the night before lingered. Bertie had felt special, singled out, the woman with whom he’d chosen to share his troubles.
Everything’s dark for me, Bertie. But there’s a little flicker of light, the tiniest one. It’s above me every night, in the nursery and you next to it.
And then Macaulay: He don’t say no to the ladies—but his heart’s in the grave. Remember that.
Blast it.
After dinner, when Cat and Andrew had a nap—at least, they pretended to until Bertie was out of the room—Mrs. Hill sent up word, asking Bertie to come to the library on the first floor.
When Bertie entered the dim room, Mrs. Hill, in her usual severe black, was standing in front of the rows of bookcases that rose to the ceiling. “A governess needs to know what she’s teaching her charges,” she said as soon as Bertie entered. “I know there’s Mangnall’s Questions, but a solid education is much easier to defend than memorization from an answer book. And if you want an education, my dear, this is the best way to go about it.” She swept her hand to indicate the rows of books around them.
Bertie took in the leather-backed tomes that marched along every wall up to the very high ceiling, and quailed. “You want me to read all these? Are ye mad? That’ll take me the rest of me life!”
“If needs must,” Mrs. Hill said in her no-nonsense voice. “Mr. Edward Davies—Mr. McBride’s brother-in-law—is determined to take our children from us, and we can’t have that. If you have to read every book in this room to fool him into thinking you’re a real governess, I will stand here until you do so.”
“Oh, Lord.” Bertie turned in a circle, taking in all the books, which seemed to spin around her. “What if I don’t understand any of them?”
“No matter. As long as, when Mr. Edward is nigh, you can trot out a few phrases such as Carlyle tells us . . . or Herodotus’s views on Ancient Egypt are . . . you’ll do well.”
Bertie’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know what’s in all these books, Mrs. Hill?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Hill said without shame. “But I’m not pretending to be a governess, am I?”
“I’m not pretending,” Bertie said. “I am one—now.”
“Well, you’d better be one with everything you have, my girl. I don’t like Mrs. McBride’s brother, I can tell you. The first thing he’ll do is send Andrew off to some cold school in the north of England. Porridge three times a day, shivering by himself in a narrow little room, which they say will make a man of him.”
Bertie doubted Andrew would stand for being shut by himself in a narrow little room—he’d find some way to pick the lock or climb out the window—but she took the point. “What would they do with Cat?” Caitriona definitely wouldn’t benefit from being put into a cold room alone. While Andrew was always trying to burst out of himself, Cat retreated deep inside herself where no one could reach. It would not be best to put her somewhere without warmth, without people who understood and cared about her.
“Miss Cat would be educated in Mr. Davies’ home,” Mrs. Hill said, her nostrils pinching. “With a governess who’d fill her head with all kinds of nonsense, such as a true lady being too delicate to speak above a whisper and so weak she can barely lift a teacup. Then they’ll send Miss Cat to finishing school to complete her ruination.” Mrs. Hill’s lips pressed together, rage in her eyes.
Bertie liked that rage. “Well then,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’d best get to reading, hadn’t I?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Hill gave her a look of vast gratitude. “Thank you, my dear.”
“All the same,” Bertie said, looking up at the books again, her imagination stirring to life. “I have an idea.”
Sinclair left chambers at seven that evening and paid a visit on his way home to Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd Fellows in his comfortable home in Pimlico.
The DCI was one of the Mackenzie clan Sinclair’s sister had married into, and the Mackenzie Sinclair felt most comfortable with. Though Fellows, a half brother to the rest of the Mackenzies, had spent his childhood in the slums of the East End, and Sinclair had lived in a well-kept house, raised by his respectable older brother, Sinclair and Fellows had both made their way up in their professions by hard work and bloody stubbornness. Both also were in the business of the law—Fellows caught villains breaking the laws, and Sinclair helped put them away. They shared a mutual respect, as well as a bemusement at being drawn into the very scandalous Mackenzie family.
Fellows had married earlier in the year to the youngest daughter of an earl—Lady Louisa Scranton. Louisa’s sister, Isabella, had married a Mackenzie herself—Lord Mac, the painter.