Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(65)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Sinclair gave a self-deprecating laugh. “So many say I’m morbid about it.”

Bertie shook her head. “You aren’t. You get on with your life, work hard, look after your children. You’re not like the queen—I hear she sleeps with a plaster cast of Prince Albert’s hand. I know she misses him, but that’s going a bit far, don’t you think?”

Sinclair’s sad look faded. “That’s what I love about you, Bertie. You have the ability to see things clearly. No fog. You look at a thing, and know it for what it is. I wish you could teach me to do that.”

“You know how.” Bertie laid her head on his shoulder, and Sinclair kissed her hair. “I’ve seen you do it in the courtroom, sizing up every person around you.”

“Easy when it’s someone else’s life. Not my own.” Sinclair kissed her again. “I’m glad you’re here to help me, sweetheart.”

Bertie was glad too. “We’ll get him,” she said. “This letter writer. We’ll find him, and then he won’t hurt you anymore.”

“And I love your optimism.” Another amused laugh. “Nothing in Bertie’s world is too difficult.”

Well, he was wrong about that, but Bertie didn’t have the words to explain. She was like Ian, she thought, only knowing how to talk about what was straightforward.

Also, she couldn’t think much when her heart was reveling in a warm little glow. One word had started the warmth. When Sinclair had praised her ability to see situations in a clear light, he’d said, That’s what I love about you, Bertie. Not like.

Love.

Blustery, snowy weather returned for a few days, before giving way again to sunshine. The children, tired of being confined, even to a huge house like Kilmorgan, clamored to go out once the clouds parted. Bertie, also wanting to be free of the crowd—though the English guests had started drifting to the train station after Christmas Day—suggested a walk to the ruins of the old castle.

Daniel had told the children about it with the animation of a born storyteller, including the chill tales of its ghosts. “Great-great-great-grandfather Malcolm and his beloved wife, Mary, are said to walk hand in hand on the battlements, looking down at the country they fought so hard for.”

“Rot,” Mac Mackenzie said when he overheard. “The old castle was pulled down after Culloden, and Malcolm and Mary started building this house. If they haunt anywhere, it’s inside here, where it’s cozy.”

Andrew wouldn’t be deterred from exploring the ruins, and Cat, in her quiet way, expressed interest. The entire Mackenzie clan started talking about an expedition, but couldn’t agree on arranging a time. They enjoyed arguing endlessly about it, though.

In the end, Sinclair put aside the piles of papers he was reading in preparation for returning to chambers, and took Bertie, Cat, and Andrew to the ruins alone.

The scramble to the top of the hill, over dark boulders and clumps of snow-covered heather, took time and much energy. They were rewarded at the top, however, with a magnificent view.

Bertie spread her arms, gazing across the open valley—Kilmorgan house looking small from here—to the hills beyond. The formal garden behind the manor house flowed out in a pattern of curlicues, like a large flower itself.

“You’d never know it looked like that,” Bertie said, pointing it out. “Unless you stood up here. Clever.”

“Garden designers in the eighteenth century enjoyed such things,” Sinclair said next to her. “Loved secret designs and things that mimicked nature. Meanwhile, nature is everywhere, if you only lift your eyes.”

“Don’t be a wet blanket. It’s beautiful.” Bertie swept her gaze across the wonder of the Highlands. “Funny, to be able to see so far, and see so much. Even from a rooftop in London, what you mostly see is other rooftops. And smoke. So much smoke.” Bertie inhaled the clean air, not a smokestack in sight.

“I like the change,” Sinclair said. “London gives me much, but here, I can breathe.”

Andrew, having had enough of standing and admiring the view, split away from his father and Bertie and headed for the ruins. Cat found a boulder, wiped it free of snow, brought out a cloth she’d carried in her little pack, and laid it across the boulder. She settled herself gracefully on this makeshift seat, took out her notebook, and started to draw. Bertie had kept her promise, telling no one of the beautiful picture Cat had shown her, and now Cat sketched without tension.

“Is your house in the Highlands like this?” Bertie asked Sinclair, while they both kept an eye on Andrew.

Sinclair raised his brows, a hint of a smile touching his mouth. “A pile of rubble?”

A square part of the old castle stuck into the sky, a few holes near the top regular enough to have been windows or arrow slits. The base was surrounded by a wall that had fallen into nothing but heaps of stones, some stones still large, others ground down by time, weather, and people who took the broken rocks to repair or build their own houses.

“You know what I mean. Silly.”

“It’s not like Kilmorgan, no, so don’t grow too used to living in luxury. No lavish mansion with two-hundred bedrooms—or whatever number it is. I’m not a duke, only a gentleman descended from landed gentry.” He dropped his ironic tone. “It’s beautiful, though. The house is graceful, and the hills and loch behind it are like a painted backdrop. I’m always astonished that such beauty exists in the world.”

Bertie liked when he became like this, lowering his sardonic facade, and looking around with true enjoyment.

She winked at him. “Is there a monster in your loch?”

Sinclair frowned as though giving true thought to the possibility. “Might be. I sometimes see suspicious bubbles in the middle, even on calm days. Macaulay says it’s pike, but who knows? Andrew has watched for hours for tentacles or a head to pop up, but nothing ever has. He’s quiet the entire time he watches, which I think is more astonishing than a monster ever could be.”

Bertie had to laugh. “Andrew’s a good lad. He only needs a way to direct his restlessness. Like in running.”

Andrew was running now, on the flatter ground, chasing unknown monsters that lurked among the ruins. Cat ignored him and the view, her head down over her notebook. She looked fetching in her dark blue coat and hat, mittens hanging from her wrists, while her cold-pink hands moved across the page.

“She really does want to go to Miss Pringle’s Academy,” Bertie said. “She speaks of it often.”