‘Miss Farnham, thank you for coming to see me. Please, sit.’
As requested, Lydia had presented herself in the small parlour off the dining room, which Eilidh had explained was the Laird’s favourite room. Breakfast was finished and the servants were taking Mairead to the room beside Lydia’s bedchamber, which she knew already was to be their schoolroom.
Nervously, she took her seat in a sturdy leather armchair and the Laird seated himself in the facing chair. A fire had been lit in the grate, and the room was comfortably warm. Despite some decidedly draughty corridors, Lydia had noted that the main rooms themselves were well maintained, with good fireplaces and chimneys, and plenty of hangings and carpets to ensure comfort.
The Laird came straight to the point. ‘I have here a letter from a Mrs Gray, who has provided your reference, including a summary of your previous posts. She describes you as a highly talented teacher and informs me that you previously worked with another sickly child. Is that so?’
Lydia felt herself colour a little. ‘She is too good! I enjoy teaching, it is true, and I believe myself to have some skill in teaching children.’ Taking a breath, she asked the question that had been burning within her since Mairead’s suspicious glance the night before. ‘Tell me, sir, is your daughter a keen student?’
He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Indeed not! Despite being as sharp as a dirk, she has evaded all attempts to persuade her to book-learning. Numerous people, including my cousin Eilidh, have tried to teach her, but the little rascal distracts them with questions, refusals and diversions, and ends by not practising either her letters or her arithmetic. Mrs MacLeod, who has been the person to most recently attempt to contain my daughter, has met with little success. Indeed...’ he eyed her challengingly ‘...it was she who insisted I hire a proper governess.’
‘I see.’ Lydia considered this. ‘A challenge indeed.’
‘And this is why I am paying you so handsomely. It would be insupportable for the Laird’s daughter to remain illiterate, or to be unable to contribute to the life of this household, particularly when she is so quick-witted. Since her body is so weak, she will rely even more on her mind as she grows.’ He paused. ‘You will no doubt be wondering about her weakness. She developed normally as a baby, but fell prey to a bad illness nearly two years ago. We thought the fever would never break—in truth, we thought she would not live. Yet she did.’ He shook his head. ‘That indomitable spirit of hers!’ There was clear affection in his tone, which was reassuring. Little Mairead was loved, obviously. At least Lydia would not have to mend a broken heart this time, as she had so often had to do when working with the ignored children of London’s high society.
‘She recovered from the fever, but never walked again. Nor did she regain her healthy looks and size. She remains thin and weak and prone to every cough and cold. She tires easily, so you will have to balance her education with her weakness.’ His hand, Lydia noted, was gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that the knuckles had turned white. ‘Never to run and play, nor climb Rueval, nor milk a cow. Never to know the joys of solitude, for she must always have company, for fear she falls from her chair.’ He looked at her directly. ‘It is not the life I wanted for my daughter.’
‘No,’ she agreed softly, not knowing what else to say. She swallowed. ‘I assume they—people tried to help her?’
‘I brought the best doctors from Edinburgh—even one from London. They could do nothing. Some fever poison got into her, they said, and made her unnaturally frail. Her legs are too thin to hold her up.’
‘I see. How does she move about the castle?’
‘She is carried everywhere.’ He laughed harshly. ‘She is so small and slight that even the lightest of maidservants can take her about on their hip.’
‘She will not always be so small.’
He eyed her sharply. ‘You have a suggestion?’
‘The child I worked with in London...they made him a chair with wheels on it, so that—’
‘No!’ His expression was thunderous. ‘My child suffers enough indignity! She will not be carted around in a cart, or a barrow! I shall not hear of it!’
‘Of course.’ She spread her hands placatingly, though inwardly, she was not yet ready to concede. John Pickering’s wheeled chair had made everyone’s existence easier—including his.
I shall keep my powder dry for another day.
He grimaced. ‘Do not misunderstand me. We look after everyone here. Old Mrs MacKinnon does not walk and the Mattesons have a daughter who cannot hear. We also have a number of people, young and old, who are prone to illness. They are no less important to us than anyone else. We adapt to their needs, we include them in every way possible and we think no differently of them than of anyone else. Just because Mairead is sickly and becomes easily exhausted, that does not mean we love her any less.’
‘Of course!’ Despite his gruffness, she took this as evidence of a good heart. ‘Our bodies are only the—the containers within which we exist. I have often wished for people to see me as a person and not simply as—’ she gestured vaguely at herself ‘—as a face or a form.’
His eyes widened briefly, then he shook his head. ‘I have accepted that Mairead cannot return to the good health she enjoyed previously. But her quick mind must be nurtured. Despite all of our efforts, she seems to believe herself incapable of many things. She has even been known to engage in a battle of wills with those who try to teach her. That is why you are here. You will teach her to write and to figure. You will ensure she knows French, the globe, and logic.’
Lydia nodded. All such subjects were well within her abilities, although the ‘battle of wills’ sounded daunting. ‘I would also suggest painting, music, and history.’ Perhaps if I begin with subjects that are more diverting, I might have more success. ‘I speak German and Italian as well.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Such an accomplished lady!’ Something in his tone made her grit her teeth. ‘You may paint all you like and try her with other languages. However, you are to leave the teaching of history to me. She needs a true understanding of our past—and one free from an English interpretation.’
Slightly taken aback, Lydia could only ask, ‘And music?’
‘Most people here can sing and play one or more instruments. Our bards are renowned. We have no need of Sassenach music.’
‘And what of the classics? Beethoven, Mozart...?’
‘We are not uncivilised, Miss Farnham, whatever you may believe. Indeed, Herr Beethoven arranged at least one of the Airs from the Burns collection.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You are unaware of it?’ Rising, he walked to the desk near the window, returning with a bound publication.
‘The Scots Musical Museum,’ she read, then flicked through. ‘But this is wonderful!’
He grunted. ‘We are proud of our music, Miss Farnham. Perhaps you may learn as well as teach while you are here.’
She smiled and he blinked. ‘I have no doubt of it, sir!’
‘Yes, very well,’ he said gruffly. ‘You may go and see if you can make any progress with her.’
Lydia rose. ‘I shall do my very best, I assure you. But you must allow me to use my judgement in how I work with her.’
‘Your judgement?’ His lip curled. ‘If that is your proxy for laziness, or avoidance of your duties, then I assure you, you will not get away with it here!’
‘It is no such thing!’ she replied hotly. ‘I simply mean—’
He stood, dwarfing her. ‘I care not what you mean. I wish you to be clear about what I mean. You are here to work. Your time here will revolve around Mairead and you will ensure she learns. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Lydia mouthed the words, although she knew her eyes were flashing fire at him. How dared he accuse her of laziness? ‘Good day, sir.’
‘Slàn leibh,’ he returned. Had he deliberately used the Gaelic form to intimidate her? Well, he would soon learn that she was not so easily cowed. Whatever it took, she would somehow get Mairead working with her—but she would do it in her own way and at her own pace.
Alasdair watched her go, saw the outrage in the stiff line of her back, the angle of her head. Perhaps he had been a little blunt, but she would have to learn that, in these parts, plain speaking was admired and deception abhorred. Striding to the window, he gazed out, unseeing. Did she truly intend to shirk her duties, for which he was paying a pretty penny? Did she hope to charm them all into doing what she willed, just like...?
He recalled her smile just now—the first genuine smile he had seen from her—and the impact it had had on him, like a punch to the gut. If she went about Ardmore Castle bestowing such smiles on males or females, she would have anything she wished. ‘Allow me to use my judgement.’ He gave a cynical bark of laughter. Perhaps she was a good governess, perhaps not. But he would not assume it just because she had a smile fit to dazzle the hardest of hearts. He had learned to mistrust beautiful women through the harshest of experiences and would not be easily deceived.
I shall stay away and allow her to do what she can. At least for now.
He refused, however, to acknowledge that the relief that went through him at this decision had little to do with Miss Farnham’s skills as a governess and everything to do with her blinding smile.
‘And now,’ said Lydia, having just checked the weather through the narrow window, ‘it is time for us to go outside.’
‘Ah, Lydia. Must we?’
After only a week, Lydia and Mairead had reached something of an understanding. They had made a pact, which Mairead continually tried to renegotiate, but the essence was that they each took turns to be the ‘teacher’, deciding what they would do for the next hour. Mairead liked to talk and to sketch, and to have stories told to her, and in return she co-operated to some extent with the basic lessons that Lydia had introduced. The child’s mind was too quick for patience, but she was, Lydia thought, quietly pleased at her attempts to form the letters of her own name on the slate. Mairead was beginning to believe in herself.
‘Do not tell Papaidh yet,’ she had urged Lydia, who had smilingly agreed. The Laird clearly believed Lydia to be lazy and useless, and the painstaking work she was doing with Mairead would take some time to show fruit, so she was perfectly content to not keep him informed in great detail about her work with the child. To be fair, he had not pressed her and each evening at dinner they exchanged only the most cordial of conversation. She remained a little wary of him, but thankfully he had neither attempted to flirt with her, nor had he repeated his autocratic demands.
Mairead, enjoying the role of teacher, had decided to teach Lydia what she called ‘Benbecula words’, and Lydia, who already spoke three extra languages with a fair degree of fluency, was enjoying the challenge of learning another. Gaelic was tricky, for it seemed they began every sentence with a verb, and used specific words, rather than word order, to ask questions. She encouraged Mairead to speak Gaelic to her as much as possible and was beginning to get a feel for the rhythm and cadence of the language, if not the complicated grammar.
‘Can we not stay here, inside?’ Mairead’s tone was wheedling. For some reason she disliked going outdoors and the castle staff indulged her. Lydia, however, reckoned that children all needed some time outside each day, with sunlight and fresh air. To her, it was simply good sense that it would be healthier.
‘We can only stay outside for half an hour today,’ she offered placatingly, ‘for we shall need to prepare for dinner.’ Reaching out her arms, she raised an eyebrow at the child. ‘You have worked hard today, Mairead. I am pleased with you.’
The child’s face lit up with happiness at this and she reached up for Lydia to lift her. ‘Thank you, Miss Lydia,’ she muttered into Lydia’s neck, making her smile. Definite progress! ‘I always worry about not doing things right,’ she added.
Lydia leaned back to look at her. ‘You do?’
The child nodded shyly. ‘I cannot do things like other children. They can write and read, and run, and I cannot.’
Lydia replied carefully, ‘Ah, but you can talk and laugh, and sing, which not everyone can do. We all have things we are good at and things we are not so good at. When you work hard and try your best during lessons, even if you do not succeed, you have won. The prize is in the trying.’
Mairead stuck her lip out at this. ‘No. There is no prize for not doing it. It would be silly to give prizes to those who cannot!’
She would not be persuaded and so Lydia, sighing, changed the subject.
Mairead’s skirts had been sewn in an unusual manner, with a seam up the front and back, almost like very wide breeches. This was to facilitate her being carried easily by various people around the castle. When she was seated, her clothing looked like a normal dress, but when she was being carried, balanced on an adult’s hip, the split skirt meant there was much less likelihood of stumbling or dropping her. As she walked through the castle, carrying her featherlight burden, it occurred to Lydia to be grateful that Mairead’s ailment was different to poor John Pickering’s. John’s legs, when he was carried, had used to fall like dead things, while Mairead was able to move herself a little and bring her knees into a more comfortable position. She was—
Lydia stopped, halfway down the main staircase.
‘What is it, Lydia?’ Mairead was looking up at her, puzzled.
Recovering herself, Lydia smoothed out her features, saying only, ‘Oh, nothing. I just had the queerest notion, that is all. Now, where shall we sit today when we go out? In the courtyard? Or outside the walls?’
‘The courtyard, please. Perhaps we might see the chickens, or there may be a horse and cart. Who knows?’
Now that Mairead had accepted the inevitability of the ‘outside’ part of today’s lessons, she was clearly becoming more enthused by the idea. Lydia suppressed a smile. Not only would Mairead benefit from the fresh air, her mind would be stimulated by all she could hear and see.
Once they were settled—seated on Lydia’s cloak in a cleanish corner of the courtyard—Lydia began the lesson. ‘How many chickens are out today, Mairead? They are moving around so much I declare I cannot keep track of them!’
Mairead rose to the challenge, eventually declaring there to be eight hens and a rooster.
‘And can you imagine if there were three roosters, instead of one? How many chickens would there be then, all in all?’ The child frowned, working it out, and Lydia challenged her with a few more addition puzzles. Feeling increasingly confident of Mairead’s abilities, she decided to stretch her a little. ‘Remember the story I told you of the sly fox?’ Mairead nodded. ‘Here is a riddle for you. If the fox were to take two of these hens, how many would be left?’
‘Silly! We do not have foxes here!’
‘Ah, but we are pretending! It is fun to pretend sometimes, is it not?’
She considered this, tilting her head to one side. ‘It is! I pretend sometimes that I can walk and even run! It makes me happy.’ She frowned. ‘And then it makes me sad.’
Lydia swallowed. ‘It is perfectly fine to pretend and to feel happy. And to feel sad sometimes. We all do.’
‘Even you, Lydia?’
‘Even me.’
Lydia was used to following her instincts with children and she sensed that now was too soon to delve further into Mairead’s feelings about her limitations. Instead, she diverted the girl into a conversation about the lack of foxes in the islands and how lucky these chickens were, compared to the chickens in the stories. She then gently repeated the arithmetical riddle and, this time, Mairead decided to co-operate.
While the child puzzled it out, Lydia took a breath, feeling as though the auspices might be reasonably good. Today, for the first time, she was starting to feel hopeful here. Not secure. Not comfortable. But, yes, definitely hopeful. Perhaps she could make a difference for this child.
She closed her eyes briefly, raising her face to the weak March sun. The feeling of sunlight on her skin was welcome and she never worried over such things as freckles. Why should anyone care?
Mairead gave her answer, triumph clear in the tone of her voice, and Lydia smiled and congratulated her. ‘Now let us imagine,’ she said, ‘there were seven hens and the fox took three of them. How many would we be left with then?’
Carefully, she continued with the game of basic arithmetic which, since there were no slates or pencils involved, Mairead would not perceive to be a ‘lesson’. Clapping her hands each time the child calculated correctly, she ensured Mairead continued to see such learning as simply a pleasant pastime. Being entirely focused on her charge, she failed to notice the Laird standing at a window in the keep and gazing at them both.
Six o’clock, and the party assembled as usual for dinner. Lydia had taken to carrying Mairead downstairs herself, as one of the servants generally took the child off to bed directly after the evening meal. Settling Mairead in her usual chair, Lydia ensured she was safely positioned on a high cushion in the centre of the large seat, then took her own place. The Laird signalled to the servants and the meal began. As ever, Mairead ate very little and Lydia had taken to gently tempting her with morsels of the delicious repast, trying to understand the child’s tastes.
Tonight, in contrast to his usual disengaged politeness, there was an air of vexation about the Laird. Lydia could not have said how she knew this. Perhaps his carriage was a little stiff, his expression grim rather than detached. Or perhaps she was imagining it. Regardless, she was conscious that, in his presence, she was intensely aware of him in a way that she had never before experienced with anyone else. It was a mix of curiosity and wariness, she told herself. Why else should her pulse be running a little faster than usual and her mouth feel a little dry? Yet she noticed him in a way that she had never done with anyone else. His facial expressions. His accent. His hands. He had beautiful hands, she knew, although she could not have said what was so beautiful about them.
Mr MacDonald and his sister had gone the day before, with a promise to return the next week. They were regular visitors, it seemed, and behaved as though they were entirely at home in the castle. It must be wonderful, thought Lydia, a little wistfully, to have extended family and more than one home. Since her parents had died she had had neither people nor a place to which she belonged. She herself had been an only child and her mother’s sister, her only other relative, had died many years ago. Alone. I am alone.
Still, the children in her care were her family, she supposed. Or at least they became so, for whatever time she was given to be with them. Already, she was developing a strong bond with little Mairead.
Tonight, then, there was only the Laird and Mr Crawford, Lydia and Mairead. Partly to distract herself from the Laird’s air of brooding displeasure, Lydia responded brightly to Mr Crawford’s conversational sallies—despite the fact that he was sitting across the table from her. Never would such manners be permitted in London, although Lydia had to confess to a sneaking appreciation for the informality of the Laird’s household.
So far, none of the men in the castle had accosted her either, for which she was profoundly relieved. She continued to keep her interactions with men to a minimum, but was getting to know some of the women already. Mrs MacLeod was just as warm and motherly as she had first seemed, young Eilidh was helpful and hardworking and Miss MacDonald—the other Eilidh—had shown her nothing but kindness. Lydia’s appearance seemed not to bother her—but then Eilidh herself was a good-looking young lady, with pale blue eyes and divine red curls.
Mr Crawford who, like the Laird, was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, had been friendly towards her whenever she had encountered him, yet she had not so far felt any alarm in his company. Over recent years she had become quite the expert in discerning which gentlemen were of good character and which were prone to inappropriate behaviour. Confusingly however, even ‘good’ gentlemen had occasionally tried to hold her hand or make declarations towards her, which had left her mistrustful of all men.
There was a pause in Lydia’s discourse with Mr Crawford and the Laird filled it by addressing Mairead. ‘Well, mo nighean, how are you getting along with your lessons?’
Lydia tensed. The Laird had not as much as glanced in her direction as he spoke, yet this question, she knew, was directed as much to her as to Mairead.
‘Very well,’ said Mairead. ‘We have had stories and songs, and I have been drawing pretty pictures.’
Lydia groaned inwardly. Quite without meaning to, the child was creating trouble for her.
‘Stories and songs, eh?’ Now his gaze did turn to Lydia and she felt the full force of it. Her heart began to beat a little faster and her stomach was suddenly unsettled.
She set down her fork. ‘Stories and songs are important, sir. They are in themselves a form of learning.’
‘Reading and writing are also important, would you not agree, Miss Farnham?’ His tone was mild, yet his meaning could not have been clearer.
‘Indeed! In fact—’ She caught the appeal in Mairead’s gaze. Do not tell him! the child was saying. Not yet! ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘I mean to make progress with Mairead’s reading and writing during this coming week.’ There! That was the truth. The fact that Mairead was co-operating with learning her letters for, apparently, the first time, was not Lydia’s secret to reveal. Not yet, at any rate. She did not hold with the view that children’s wishes and needs were unimportant. To reveal Mairead’s progress so far, in direct contravention of her agreement with the child, would breach the trust they were gradually building between them.
‘And what were you doing in the courtyard earlier? You seemed to be quite at your leisure, both of you.’
‘We were looking at the hens, Papaidh.’ Mairead was all innocence.
‘Looking at the hens...’ His gaze swung to Lydia, his jaw tight. ‘And for this I have spent a near fortune securing a so-called expert from London?’
Lydia bristled. ‘You must allow me, sir, to know my own work. Would you direct a carpenter, or a cook, in the detail of their role?’
‘I would indeed,’ he retorted, ‘if I spied the carpenter or the cook sunning themselves in my courtyard when they should be working!’
Mairead was looking from one to the other, frowning. ‘Papaidh, do not be crosta with Miss Lydia! She is the bestest teacher!’
His gaze softened as it dropped to his daughter. ‘The best teacher, mo nighean, is one who can get you reading and writing and counting. She must be more than an expensive playmate.’
‘But we were counting! I was counting the hens, then counting when the fox would take some away!’
He looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ said Mairead, ‘first you have to know how many hens and roosters there are. Then you imagine the fox takes two away. Or perhaps four. And then you imagine how many are left.’
His eyes widened, then he gave a startled laugh. ‘And this is what you were doing in the courtyard?’
‘It was,’ said Mairead, nodding firmly.
‘But,’ offered the Laird, with a decided twinkle in his eye, ‘there are no foxes in the islands!’ He was grinning at his daughter and Lydia felt her insides tighten at the way it had changed his face. He looked younger, somehow. Smiling suited him. If only he would do it more often!
‘That is exactly what I told Lydia! Did I not, Lydia?’
Now they were both looking at her. ‘You did, Mairead. Chickens here are extremely fortunate, are they not?’
‘Everyone is fortunate who makes their home here,’ murmured the Laird, ‘whether they realise it or not.’ His gaze had become unfocused and Lydia was unclear if this was directed at her.
‘So you see, there is no need to be crosta. Miss Lydia was being perfectly strict and I was counting.’
‘And you were very clever at counting, Mairead,’ Lydia affirmed. ‘Shall we show your papaidh how the game works?’
The child agreed and Lydia gave her a series of additions and subtractions, based on the story of the fox and the hens. The Laird and Mr Crawford both pronounced themselves to be impressed by Mairead’s cleverness and allowed her to set them some sums in turn. They all ended by laughing, the mood at the table decidedly lighter than it had been.
‘Miss Farnham,’ declared the Laird then, all graciousness, ‘I must apologise. You clearly do know your work and I should not have doubted you.’ He raised his glass towards her and she could not help but feel pleased. His gaze lingered a little too long and she was conscious of a sudden breathlessness.
She shook it off. ‘I should perhaps have explained sooner that my ways of working—particularly with children who are rather, er...strong-willed, may be less obvious to others.’
‘Including to the child in question,’ he murmured.
‘Precisely.’ They eyed each other, for once in perfect charity, and she was surprised to find her heart racing again, but this time not from fear. Something in the way his gaze touched hers was sending shivers of emotion through her. It was an entirely novel sensation and she knew not what to make of it.
‘What is “strong-willed”?’ Mairead’s tone was one of suspicion. ‘And is it a good thing, or a bad thing?’
Sensing the danger, the Laird made haste to reassure his daughter that being strong-willed was a very good thing, most of the time. ‘It means you are determined, mo nighean. And strong.’
‘But...’ she frowned ‘...I am not strong. And my legs and arms are not strong.’
‘Well, no. Your heart is strong and your mind is strong, and those are much more important than legs and arms.’
Mairead sighed. ‘I just wish my legs were strong-willed, too.’
The Laird’s grip on his cutlery had tightened, Lydia noted. The lump in her own throat was pronounced, as Mairead’s words rippled into a terse silence. Dropping her eyes to her plate, Lydia realised her appetite was entirely gone.
Thankfully, soon afterwards the Laird signalled for the table to be cleared. Following the formal whisky toast, Eilidh came to carry Mairead off to bed. The child insisted on embracing Lydia as part of her goodnights—the first time she had ever done so. Lydia’s heart warmed at this clear evidence of progress in her connection to the girl. She rubbed Mairead’s little face. ‘I shall look forward to the morrow, Mairead.’
‘I, too.’
After she had gone, and with Mr Crawford momentarily distracted by an enquiry from one of the servants, the Laird took the opportunity to say, in a low voice, ‘She has really taken to you, Miss Farnham.’
‘I know.’ She did know. Children always took to her. This was what made it so hard when she, as inevitably happened, was forced to leave. Despite her best efforts, she had never been able to close her heart to the children. She looked directly at the Laird. ‘I know.’
Alasdair was mired in confusion. Miss Farnham, he now knew, was indeed a gifted governess—or at least, so it seemed. He had to acknowledge that the fox-and-hens method of teaching arithmetic was new to him, but perfectly suited to dealing with his strong-willed Mairead. Still, by itself it meant nothing, other than that perhaps Miss Farnham, in all her London posts, had developed some strategies for dealing with a wide range of children. It did not mean she would continue to work hard once the novelty of her arrival had worn off. It did not mean she would stay. He frowned, remembering another lady, another time. Hester did not stay...
He shook himself. The past was done. His focus was here and now. A new shadow, unforeseen, had now revealed itself. What if Mairead became too attached to the governess? What would it do to his daughter when Miss Farnham left, as she inevitably would? No soft Sassenach could ever fully adapt to island life. Why, even Hester, who had been raised in Edinburgh—
He cut off the direction of his thoughts, realising he had once again fallen into the past. He tried to think of Mairead’s mother as little as possible.
‘I know,’ she repeated softly. Her voice, gentle and low, somehow managed to pierce right through to his heart.
‘Do not hurt her,’ he muttered. ‘She is not to be hurt.’
Not again.
‘I have no intention of doing so.’ Miss Farnham’s tone was firm, her expression one of earnest solemnity. Yet he could not take a chance on her apparent sincerity. Although she would need to spend hours each day with Mairead, he would need to ensure that Mairead also maintained strong bonds with others—including himself. Bonds that would be needed when the time came for Miss Farnham to go, as she inevitably would.
‘How do you prevent your charges from becoming over-dependent on you?’ The question emerged from him before he had fully considered it.
She shrugged. ‘I must admit I find it impossible. Children are naturally affectionate, I have found—particularly towards adults who have a genuine interest in them.’
‘Aye. And yet you have left behind a number of children over the past few years. How did you prepare them for your departure?’
A furrow appeared on her brow and she opened her mouth, then closed it again. His keen eye also detected a slight flush along those perfect cheekbones. ‘I—I cannot say, sir. I have always found it...difficult.’
His next question was an obvious one. ‘So why, then, did you leave them?’
‘Oh,’ she replied airily, ‘Various circumstances.’
His attention sharpened further. ‘Such as?’
‘Alasdair.’ It was Iain. ‘There is a problem in the kitchens. The second scullery has flooded again.’ His attention swinging abruptly away from Miss Farnham, he saw Iain’s worried expression, saw, too, that Mrs MacLeod was in the doorway.
‘Very well.’ He rose, bowing to Miss Farnham. ‘Goodnight. We shall speak of this again.’
She nodded, but he could clearly sense the relief emanating from her. Something was off-kilter and he meant to discover what it was. Fox-and-hens games were all very well, but this English governess had a long way to go to earn anything like trust from him.