Chapter Three

G enevieve Brooking had always wanted a peek inside Lilacfall Abbey. She’d passed it many times as a girl and marveled at how beautiful it was. Though she had visited estates designed by the renowned Capability Brown, whose work everyone in Polite Society raved about, privately Genevieve didn’t care for them. Brown’s work was too ordered, too straight. She liked a bit of chaos and wildness. Lilacfall Abbey had both in spades.

As she approached, she noticed the lush lilac bushes still in full bloom, their flowers spilling over one another and perfuming the air with the light scent of creamy pastels. To Genevieve, a flower like a rose smelled bold and bright, while lilies and lilacs were the scent of pale watercolors.

Genevieve liked to think of herself more like a rose than a lilac. It was true she was pale. She was a ginger with the coloring that accompanied it, and she had to stay out of the sun or else she’d freckle more, and her nose would turn bright red. But beneath the paleness of her skin, she was everything bright and vibrant, starting with her flaming red hair. She’d wrangled the curls into order this morning in a clean updo under a smart hat that matched her dress. This morning, she wore a Pomona-green day dress with a matching parasol. She’d often been told green was her color, as it matched her eyes.

In her satchel, Genevieve carried three letters of reference written by previous employers who could vouch for her abilities as a governess. She wasn’t sure if a governess was what the master of Lilacfall Abbey needed. The advertisement in the local paper seemed to have been written hastily. The text mentioned a caregiver for a child but had not specified the child’s age. If the child was very young and in need of a nanny or a nurse, Genevieve worried she would not be considered for the position. She had never cared for any child under the age of five and had no experience with babies. But perhaps she could convince the housekeeper to overlook that shortfall and give her a chance. She needed this position. Badly.

As she neared the house, she felt more intimidated than she’d expected. After all, she’d served at grand estates that were three times as large as this house. But she’d never worked anywhere as charming. She paused at a white gazebo and stared up at the house. The house had been made of stone, which had weathered and aged gracefully, as stone was wont to do. The shape was more or less rectangular, though quite irregular in form, as it had been obviously added to over the decades. Boxy chimneys rose from the roof erratically, and the exterior jutted out in fits and starts. The house must be three floors at its peak, though some sections were only one or two floors.

What she liked best—well, second best—were all the windows. She’d rarely seen a house with so many windows, and all of them seemed to reach from floor to ceiling. The master of the house must pay a fortune in taxes, as the window tax was excessive enough that her mother had boarded over some of the windows in their cottage to save money. But the taxes spent at Lilacfall Abbey were well worth it, because the house’s best feature was the grounds. Lilacfall Abbey had been named appropriately. Despite how late it was in the season, lilac bushes lined the walks and had grown over the front of the house, dripping down over the windows. Large, flowering trees cast shade near the front drive, the buds of the flowers creating a carpet of pink and white.

Everything was green and lush and just a little wild, though surprisingly well maintained for a house that her mother said had been empty the past half-year or more after a tragedy in the family. The groundskeepers and servants must have taken pride in the upkeep of the house, even as she suspected they were well paid. The salary for the caregiver had not been given in the advertisement, but the text suggested it would be generous.

Genevieve started forward again. Time to knock on the door and inquire after a Mrs. Mann. But just as she moved away from the gazebo, she spotted a boot poking out from under a bench. Genevieve moved closer then crouched down and peered under the bench. The boot was attached to a leg, which was attached to a child. That child was sleeping under the bench. He or she had left a lumpy pillowcase on top of the bench. The pillowcase had fallen over slightly, and Genevieve spotted a frame sticking out, placed on top of what appeared to be clothing.

Having spent the last fourteen of her thirty years caring for children, Genevieve quickly ascertained the nature of the situation. She closed her parasol, leaned it against the side of the gazebo, then sat in the doorway. Once she was comfortable, she reached forward and touched the child’s boot. That had no effect, so she touched it again and said, in a warm voice, “Good morning.”

The child moved and stretched. Genevieve was relatively certain the child was female. She had long brown hair and seemed to be clutching a doll. The doll was made of wood, her face smooth and painted with red circles for cheeks. She had blonde hair, quite matted, with a hat sewn on. The hat was green, like the doll’s dress. The green was almost the same as that of Genevieve’s gown.

“I like your doll,” Genevieve said. “What’s her name?”

The child made a sudden start, obviously coming awake and realizing where she was—or perhaps where she was not —and rolling out from under the bench to blink at Genevieve. “I won’t go back!” she said, her voice raspy from sleep.

“Very well,” Genevieve said with a shrug. “Are you running away?”

“Yes!” The child sat up, cradling her doll. “You can’t stop me.”

“I don’t want to stop you. I was only thinking that you should probably hurry. It’s morning, and if the household hasn’t already discovered you missing, they will soon enough.”

The little girl peered toward the house; her brow furrowed with worry.

Genevieve pointed to the pillowcase. “You left your belongings there. If you tie the end in a knot, it’s easier to carry. Shall I do it for you?”

“No!” The girl grabbed the pillowcase and held it close to her chest. “It’s mine.”

Genevieve stood up and dusted her skirts off. “You’ll be on your way, then.” She stepped aside.

The little girl stood too. “You don’t care if I run away?”

Genevieve raised her brows. “Why should I care? I just happened to be passing by and saw your boot. When I peered closer, I saw your doll and wondered what her name was. I had a doll like that when I was younger. In fact, I still have her in a trunk in my room. Her name was— is —Marcella.”

“Marcella?” The little girl giggled. “That’s a funny name.”

Genevieve put her hands on her hips, pretending to be offended. “No, it’s not. It’s the name I always wished were mine. You see, I never liked my name, and I thought my life would be so much better if I had been named Marcella.”

“What’s your name?” the girl asked.

Genevieve opened her mouth as if to reply, then closed it again. “Wait a moment. I told you the name of my doll. Now you want my name as well. You haven’t told me anything about you. What’s your doll’s name?”

The little girl looked at her doll and brushed the hair back, smoothing it. “Harriet.”

“Harriet is a pretty name,” Genevieve said. “Do you wish that was your name?”

“No.” The girl shook her head. “It’s my Mama’s name.”

Genevieve’s belly tightened at the tone of voice. Clearly, Harriet was gone. Dead? Run away? Genevieve’s mother had said there was a tragedy, so it was not unthinkable that the child’s mother might be deceased. “It’s a perfect name,” she said, keeping her voice from catching, but just barely. “Do you still want to know my name?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Genevieve.” She held up a hand. “Don’t call me Ginny. I don’t answer to Ginny. I will tolerate Eve, but I prefer Genevieve.”

The little girl nodded. “I don’t like being called Franny. I want to be called Frances.”

Genevieve stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Frances.”

The little girl giggled but shook her hand. Then Genevieve took Harriet’s hand and shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Harriet.” She straightened. “And now I suppose I should go home.” She reached for her parasol, opened it, and turned back toward the road.

“But wait!” Frances said. “You’re leaving already?”

Genevieve turned back and gave Frances her best forlorn expression. “I came because of the advertisement for a”—she looked at the child, judged her age at about seven, and made her decision—“governess. If you’re running away, you won’t need me. I’ll go home and look for another child who wants a governess to play dolls with and read books and play hide-and-seek in the gardens.” She sighed. “It’s too bad, because this house has some very good hiding places. Good day, Frances. Good luck running away!”

She started walking, her steps jaunty. It didn’t take more than five steps for the child to join her. She looked down. “Are you running away in my direction?” Genevieve asked.

“Yes,” the little girl said.

“I don’t recommend it,” Genevieve offered.

“Why not?”

“This is the way to the road that leads into the village. If you go this way, too many people will see you. You should stick to the woods. It’s easy to hide there.”

“Oh.” Frances looked over her shoulder at the trees in the distance. There were no great woods in this part of Devon, but Genevieve imagined the trees looked great to a small child. “Are the woods dark?” Frances asked.

Genevieve continued walking. “Yes. Very dark. No one will find you there. There’s only—Well, never mind that.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” She adjusted her parasol. “I was just thinking about the wolves.”

“Wolves?” Frances gasped.

“There probably aren’t any in these woods. I think you’ll be fine. You don’t have any food with you, do you?”

“No.”

“Good. Then they won’t smell it and follow you.”

“What if I see a wolf?”

Genevieve stopped walking and pretended to think. “You should climb a tree. You know how to climb trees, don’t you?”

“No.”

“No?” Genevieve widened her eyes in mock surprise. “Haven’t you ever had a governess teach you how to climb trees?”

“No. My governesses never let me get dirty. They were always scolding me and trying to make me take a bath.”

It did not escape Genevieve’s attention that the girl used the plural of governess. There had been more than one, and no doubt the women hadn’t known what to do with such a spirited child. She would be a challenge, to be sure. But Genevieve was relatively sure she was up to the task.

“It’s a good thing you haven’t taken a bath recently, then. If you smell terribly then the wolf will think you are part of the woods and walk right past you.”

Frances’s shoulders slumped.

“What is it?”

“I took a bath last night. The cruel prince—I mean, my father—made me.”

Genevieve made a dubious face. “Was there scented soap?”

“I think so.”

“Can I smell?”

Frances nodded. Genevieve leaned down and sniffed Frances’s shoulder. “Oh dear. It’s just as I suspected. You smell like roses.”

“Do wolves like roses?”

“I don’t know, but they do like to eat little girls, and little girls often smell flowery.”

“What should I do?”

Genevieve shrugged. “If you don’t want to go home and eat breakfast and wait for the smell to wear off and try running away tomorrow, then you should just be very careful in the woods. Perhaps roll in some mud or deer feces to mask the smell.”

“Deer what?”

Genevieve leaned down and whispered in Frances’s ear what feces meant. Frances giggled then said, “Ew! No!”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why dogs roll about in the dirt and in all manner of smelly things? To mask their smell, of course.”

“But I’m not a dog.”

“No, you are not, though if you were a dog, what sort of dog would you be? I would be an Irish setter.”

“You would?”

“Yes. Look at my hair. Don’t you think I would make a good Irish setter?”

“Yes. What would I be?”

Genevieve put a finger on her chin and pretended to study the girl. “A King Charles Spaniel.”

“Why?”

“Because you have those big brown eyes, and they’re so pretty. Whenever I see a King Charles Spaniel, I can’t help but love him or her because of those eyes.”

“I want blue eyes like Harriet.”

“Blue!” Genevieve waved a hand. “Blue eyes are lovely, but brown eyes are captivating.”

“What’s captivating ?”

“I’d love to speak more, Miss Frances, but if I’m not to interview for the governess position, I should go home and have some tea and toast. I was in a bit of a hurry this morning, and I’m beginning to feel peckish. My tummy will start rumbling in a moment.”

As though on cue, Frances’s stomach rumbled. Genevieve grasped her own belly and pretended to be appalled. “Was that mine? Oh, how embarrassing!”

“No! It was mine!” Frances said, laughing.

“Don’t let the wolves hear your belly rumble like that!” Genevieve held out her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frances.” She started away again. One step, two, three…

“Wait! Will you stay and be my governess?”

Genevieve smiled and turned. “I thought you were running away?”

“Maybe tomorrow. I need to eat so my tummy doesn’t rumble in the woods.”

“You seem quite grown up to me. Are you certain you need a governess?”

Frances looked down. “Maybe I don’t, but Harriet does.”

“Does she? Oh, wonderful! Oh!” Genevieve put a hand to her heart and sighed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve never been governess to a doll. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll help you.”

“You will?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, thank you, Frances. Will you walk back to the house with me?” She held out her hand. Frances promptly took it, her small hand fitting easily in Genevieve’s. “I’m a little nervous. I hope Mrs. Mann is nice.”

“She is. But don’t kick her. She doesn’t like that at all.” Frances laughed, and Genevieve laughed with her. The child had a very infectious laugh that seemed to make the blue skies bluer and the green grass greener. The day was bright and sunny and perfect.

Until the door to Lilacfall Abbey slammed open and the clouds, in the form of a man, descended.

*

Rory had not slept well the night before. He never slept well when he remembered the night he’d been cursed by the witch or the day seven months ago when…when his life had changed. Coming home to Lilacfall Abbey brought all the memories back.

By dawn, he was so tired he pulled a pillow over his head and fell into a restless sleep. That was when his valet came in and said, “Pardon the interruption, my lord.”

“Go away, Chaffer,” Rory said from under the pillow.

“I would, my lord, but there is a problem.”

“Tell Mr. Notley to stay out of the wine cellar.”

“It’s not Mr. Notley this time, my lord. It’s your daughter.”

For a long moment, Rory’s mind went completely blank. It was a clean slip of foolscap. He didn’t have a daughter. But then he remembered Frances. Rory pushed the pillow off his head and sat. “What’s she done now?”

“She’s missing, my lord.”

“What do you mean? She’s seven. She can’t be missing.” Rory stood and looked for his dressing gown. Chaffer handed it to him.

“Mary was sleeping in the nursery—” Chaffer paused as Rory splashed water on his face from the basin.

“Go on.”

“When she awoke this morning, Miss Frances was gone.”

“Get me something to wear, Chaffer. Not that coat. Yes, that shirt and breeches. Where has the staff searched?” He paused while the shirt tumbled over his head. “The staff has searched?”

“Yes, my lord. They have searched the entire house—”

“Forget the cuffs, Chaffer. The breeches. Hurry.”

“—even Mr. Notley’s chambers were tossed, as he was found sleeping on the floor of the library.”

“What about the attic?” Rory fastened the fall of the breeches, pushed his hair back and out of his eyes, and shoved his feet into the boots Chaffer proffered.

“I will have to ask Gables, my lord.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“I couldn’t say, my lord.”

But Rory was already walking out the door of his bedchamber and bellowing orders. “Gables,” he said to the butler. “Has the attic been searched? Where’s Mary? When was the child discovered missing?”

The staff swarmed around him like bees to the hive. They buzzed and bickered until he couldn’t separate the words of one from the next. Meanwhile, he stomped through the house, throwing doors open and roaring for Frances. When he came to the library, he found Munro Notley face down on the rug. At Rory’s shout for Frances, Notley looked up and gave him a bleary-eyed glare. “Has the war come to England?” he croaked.

“No. I’m searching for my daughter.”

“Haven’t seen her. Go away.”

Rory closed the library door again and continued searching. When no one had found her after an hour, Rory began to consider the possibility that she had fled the house. Where would she have gone? How far could she have traveled? He paused at one of the windows and peered out into the lawn.

And then he peered closer, putting his hand on the windowpane and narrowing his eyes. “I’ve found her,” he said. The staff tripped to move out of his way as he marched to the front door, yanked it open, and stood in the doorway. “What the devil is the meaning of this?” he shouted.

Even in his exhausted and panicked state, he could admit shouting had been a mistake. His focus had been on Frances, and she jumped and shrank back at his voice. Then he turned his attention to the woman with her. At first, he assumed it was one of his servants, but he’d never seen this woman before.

He would have remembered.

This woman didn’t jump or shrink back from his shouting, which further proved she was no servant. She was dressed better than a servant, in a green gown with a square neckline and a bit of gauze at the throat for modesty. She had a green umbrella and a green hat to match. Her hair was bright red, and she’d tucked it neatly under the hat.

Then there was her face. Her lips were pursed in disapproval, and her emerald eyes flashed at him. As she neared, she raised her brows in obvious condemnation. “Is this he?” she said, looking down at Frances, who had her doll in one hand and the woman’s hand in her other.

“That’s the cruel prince,” Frances said. “I warned you.”

“Thank you for that.” The woman cleared her throat. “My lord.” She gave a quick curtsey. “Miss Frances, Harriet, and I were just coming in for breakfast.”

Now it was Rory’s turn to start. Harriet? He shook his head. “Where have you been?” he said to Frances. Then to the woman in green, “Who are you?”

“I am Genevieve Brooking, my lord. I’ve come to speak to Mrs. Mann about the position.”

Rory looked behind him, found his housekeeper in the crowd of servants, and beckoned her forward. “What position?”

“The governess position,” Miss Brooking replied calmly as though she always appeared unannounced at people’s doors with runaway children in tow.

“What are you doing walking about the grounds with my daughter?” he said. “We have been searching the house for her this past hour.”

Miss Brooking glanced at Frances, and a look that spoke volumes passed between them. “I think it would be best if we discussed that in private.”

“You think—” Rory sputtered and couldn’t seem to form any further syllables.

“Right now, Miss Frances is quite famished. Harriet too.” She indicated the doll, and Rory was thankful at least one piece of this muddle snapped into place. But why was a grown woman speaking about a doll as though she were alive?

“I’ll take her into breakfast,” Mrs. Mann said, reaching out for Frances’s hand. But Frances drew back, using Miss Brooking as a sort of shield.

“I won’t go unless Genevieve comes with me.”

“Don’t argue, child,” Mrs. Mann said, grasping for Frances, who simply jumped behind Miss Brooking. Miss Brooking raised a hand, and to Rory’s surprise, Mrs. Mann straightened and waited. He watched in wonder as Miss Brooking knelt on the ground, no doubt dirtying her dress, and spoke quietly to Frances, her hands on the girl’s shoulders. Then she lifted the doll and spoke to it as well, which made Frances giggle.

The sound shot straight through Rory. It was a sound he had never heard from his child, a sound that did something to his heart before he pushed whatever the feeling was back down again. The little girl nodded at Miss Brooking, then, just as primly as you please, stepped away from her and held out her hand to Mrs. Mann, allowing herself to be easily escorted away.

Rory watched his housekeeper lead his daughter to the dining room then turned back to Miss Brooking, who was dusting off her skirts. “Should I wait for Mrs. Mann or come back another time?” she asked.

Rory simply stared at her.

“About the position,” she clarified.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “You’re hired.”