Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(61)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Daniel only grinned at his father. “I know your meaning, and you can cuddle with my stepmama later. But it’s the bairns’ day, isn’t it?”

Sinclair said nothing at all, only went after Andrew, who was running hell-bent after one of the drifting balloons. Cat watched with some interest, but she sat down on the terrace wall and took out her notebook.

Bertie sat down next to Cat, and Cat shut the book, as usual. “That was a lovely dress your father gave you for your doll.”

Cat nodded. “He has a dressmaker make them. It’s very kind.”

“Will you show them all to me? I bet you can see the march of fashion all the way back to this one.” Bertie touched the dress the doll always wore, which had a tighter skirt and a smaller bustle than the one Cat had received today, the mode of about eight years ago.

Cat gave her another nod. “They’re in London. We can look when we get back.”

Her answers were polite, but she was impatient, her fingers tightening on her notebook.

“Will you show me what’s in there?” Bertie asked, gesturing to the notebook.

Cat shot her a look that was almost fearful. “No.”

Bertie’s curiosity rose, but she remembered how she’d been at Cat’s age, having lost her mother. She’d needed something private, hers alone, and so Bertie had made her hideaway under the street. “It’s all right. I won’t ask if you don’t want me to.”

Cat watched the children running through the garden, arms outstretched for the balloons, which were drifting down again. Their parents ran after them, like colorful ducks after their ducklings. Bertie and Cat were relatively alone on the terrace, no one in their corner.

“I don’t want anyone to see,” Cat said, shifting her doll in her arm. “They’ll laugh, or try to make me stop. Even Papa.”

Bertie’s curiosity rose even higher, but she quelled it. “I won’t let anyone look if you don’t want them to. Promise. Not if it’s that special to you.”

Cat shifted the doll again, her brows furrowing as though she debated with herself. Finally, slowly, she opened the notebook, at first holding it so Bertie couldn’t see inside. Then she leafed to a page and held it out to Bertie.

Bertie stared at the drawing on the paper in some puzzlement, then she realized what she was looking at. It was Bertie herself, standing in front of the mirror in Eleanor’s dressing room, gazing at herself in wonder.

The picture wasn’t an exact representation of her, with every line precise—it was more light and shadow than thick lines. Bertie’s gown flowed into her body, short, bold strokes delineating where gown ended and woman began. Her face was a suggestion but her eyes held all the amazement Bertie had felt, seeing herself pretty for the first time in her life.

The other ladies were there, squiggles of darkness and light, each of them expressing delight.

“Oh, Cat,” Bertie said breathlessly. “This is lovely!”

Cat pried the book from Bertie’s fingers. “It’s not right. I know I don’t draw like the drawing master taught me, but it’s how I see things.”

Bertie touched the notebook’s leather cover. “Are all your pictures like that?”

Cat nodded. “I draw all the time.” She flushed. “Sometimes I write little poems about what I draw.”

Bertie instantly wanted to read them, but she restrained herself. “Have you ever shown your Uncle Mac any of what you’ve drawn? I’ve seen his paintings. They’re beautiful, even though some of them are . . . well, blurry.”

“He paints like Monsieur Manet and Monsieur Degas,” Cat said. “Mrs. Evans said that what Uncle Mac paints is shameful, but I think his pictures are beautiful. But no, I haven’t showed him.”

“Why not? Maybe he can give you some lessons.”

“No!” Cat said in a hard voice. She swallowed. “What if he says they aren’t any good? It would be . . .”

She made a helpless gesture as though not knowing how to finish the thought. Bertie believed she understood. If Mac derided Cat’s drawings—not that Bertie thought he would—that would take something away from Cat, something she considered personal and precious.

“You can’t tell him,” Cat said with a scowl. “You promised, Bertie.”

Bertie lifted her hands. “I know I did. I’ll not say a word. Not unless you want me to.”

Cat nodded, though she gave Bertie a skeptical look. Bertie saw she’d have to win the girl’s trust in this matter, and she determined to do so.

The picture Cat had done of Bertie was full of vibrancy and strange beauty. She had talent, Bertie was sure of it. Maybe one day, Cat would be ready to share it with the world.

After breakfast, once the adults of the family had rested from the mad chase of children in the garden, Sinclair went to meet Fellows and Ian in Ian’s wing of the house. Before Sinclair could shut the door of Ian’s upstairs sitting room, it was pushed open by Bertie, who slid in behind Sinclair without apology.

Fellows raised his brows, but Sinclair answered, “It’s all right. I want her here. She might be able to help.”

Fellows pinned Bertie with his policeman’s stare but conceded with a nod. Ian, who was leaning on the edge of a desk, had the letters in his hand and was peering at them in turn. Sinclair watched him interestedly.

Ian didn’t simply read the letters. He held each one an inch away from his face and scanned the paper, turning it over and then upside down. He even touched a page to his nose, as though taking in its scent.

“What do you make of them, Ian?” Sinclair asked.

Ian didn’t answer, continuing his scrutiny in silence. After a few moments, he stood up and laid the sheets out on the wide desk, making three rows. He stood back and studied the arrangement, then lifted a few letters and changed their places with others, neatening the rows again.

At last Ian stepped back and made his pronouncement. “They were all written by the same person.”

Sinclair came to stand next to him—not too close, because Ian didn’t like anyone to touch him without warning. His wife and children could, and his sisters-in-law, but no others. Even his brothers had to be careful with him. Sinclair noted, however, that Ian didn’t seem to mind Bertie coming close to his other side to look at the letters with him. Was Ian a madman, or simply crafty?

“I’d worked that out already,” Sinclair said with a touch of impatience.