Impoverished Miss, Convenient Wife. Michelle Styles

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      The heart-rending wails hit Phoebe as she mounted the stairs—pitiful wails to make any adult wince with pity, pleas for his aunt to come upstairs. But with each new piercing sound, Simon Clare’s face became more stonily resolute and the maid only appeared concerned that her evening had been interrupted.

      ‘Who is Mrs Smith?’ Phoebe asked.

      ‘Robert’s nurse.’ Mr Clare stopped and a wry smile crossed his face. ‘Surely you do not expect me to leave Robert under the care of a scullery maid, or perhaps lying on his own, unattended? Mrs Smith came highly recommended from Lady Bolt. She has excellent references. But Robert wants his aunt.’

      Excellent references. Phoebe’s heart sank. Had she entirely misjudged the situation? She had been positive that his letter had asked for a nurse. ‘It would appear that I have made a mistake.’

      ‘It would appear to be the case, Miss Benedict. And you may explain the situation to Robert.’

      Another loud, long echoing plea issued from the room. Phoebe’s heart squeezed. How would he react when she explained about his aunt? Would he understand any better than his father? And then what?

      She glanced at Mr Clare’s stern back. His coat twitched as if he knew she would get her words wrong. Suddenly she wanted to rush down the stairs and demand to be returned to London. But that would be admitting failure.

      Phoebe allowed herself three steps of panic and then regained control. She knew why she was here. James deserved his chance in the army. A friendship with the Earl of Coltonby was not to be underestimated. Who knew where it might lead not only for James but for Edmund as well? She owed it to her stepbrothers. After all, she bore some responsibility for their predicament.

      She took another step and knew there was more to it. She had seen the tears in Lady Coltonby’s eyes and knew how torn she was between her love for her nephew and her need to protect her unborn child.

      ‘Miss Benedict, I am waiting. Unless of course you want to give up before you have begun.’

      Phoebe gathered her skirts in her free hand and marched up the final few stairs. ‘Quit before I have begun? Never!’

      ‘Well said, Miss Benedict. I hope you will not have cause to regret those words.’

      He flung open the door. Phoebe stifled a gasp. The single guttering oil lamp threw shifting shadows on to piles of broken toys and dirty linen, and an overturned bowl of congealed brown liquid oozed on the floor. A freezing wind blew through an open window as a young boy with only a few shreds of hair on his head stood screaming on the bed, his hands clenched around the rails of the iron bedstead. Phoebe shivered slightly and fought to keep her stomach from churning as all around her the echoes of his cries rose. How could anyone with an ounce of compassion in their body permit this to happen? Where was this misbegotten nurse who had been hired?

      She glanced up at Mr Clare, but his face had become even more set, harder and more forbidding.

      ‘Robert, be quiet this instant! You will do yourself injury!’

      ‘Aunt Diana. I want Aunt Diana.’ A tear trickled down the boy’s face as he rocked back and forth. A terrible squeaking from the bed combined with the wailing to create an unholy din. ‘She is here! I heard the coach! You promised!’

      ‘Stop this racket!’ Mr Clare thundered. ‘Immediately, Robert Clare! You are ten, not four! Behave yourself, boy!’

      The boy stopped his screaming so abruptly that the silence seemed unnatural. Everything appeared suspended in time as if she had inadvertently stepped into one of the panoramas at the Exeter Change. The scar on Simon Clare’s face stood out bright red against the paleness of his cheek. His hands curled tightly as if he was making a supreme effort not to hit the wall. His son’s pleading face was turned towards him.

      Her stomach knotted. She felt helpless standing there watching the scene, but her voice refused to work.

      A gust of wind rattled through the room bringing with it a flurry of hard stinging snow, breaking the spell.

      ‘Who opened the window? The room is freezing.’ Simon struggled to contain his temper. The window had been opened to the elements. Against his expressed orders. Windows were to be kept tightly latched at all times. He had been very clear on that. Every one of the staff knew the order. It could only have been one person. The blackness of his nightmare was complete. ‘Robert, did you open this window?’

      Robert slowly shook his head as he hugged his arms about him. ‘I am cold. I want a fire!’

      Simon slammed the window shut and threw a bucket of coal on the fire, before he turned towards the boy. ‘Somebody must have! Windows do not magically fly open!’

      ‘I…Ihavenoidea.’ Robert’s teeth chattered as Simon eased him back under the covers. ‘It just opened! When I woke, I was cold.’

      ‘My orders are quite strict on the matter! No window is to be opened!’ Simon struggled to hang on to his temper. Memories of the last time he had discovered a window open like this assaulted him. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t you, Robert?’

      ‘It wasn’t me!’ Robert looked up at him with injured eyes.

      ‘If not you, then who?’

      ‘Mrs Smith did,’ Robert mumbled, ducking his head. ‘She did it, because I was naughty.’

      ‘Mrs Smith? You will have to do better than that, Robert. Mrs Smith is a trained nurse. I cannot abide a

      liar. Who threw the beef jelly on the floor?’

      ‘Hate beef jelly. Particularly when it is cold.’

      Behind him, Simon Clare could hear Miss Benedict make a little tutting noise in the back of her throat, judging him and finding him wanting. His humiliation was complete. СКАЧАТЬ