Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(38)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“Andrew can’t run races. He has to go to school. I’ve delayed too long sending him already.” The thought of not having Andrew’s voice blasting through the house made Sinclair feel suddenly empty. Cat would feel his absence too. Though she never said much, Sinclair knew she was very fond of Andrew.

Bertie’s nose wrinkled. “You mean one of the schools where they’ll give him cold porridge three times a day? Mrs. Hill told me about those.”

“He’ll go to one that serves meat and bread at least occasionally,” Sinclair said, then he caught Bertie’s eye. She looked angry, not realizing he was joking. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they treat him very well indeed. He can run races at school if he wants. You’re right, he might be good at it.”

“Are you sending Cat off to school too?” Bertie asked. Cat glanced at them, hearing. Bertie had no qualm about discussing the children in front of them. Sinclair could hear her explaining why—Stands to reason. It’s their lives, innit?

“No,” Sinclair said sharply. “Cat will stay home.” He refused say farewell to both his son and daughter.

“I want to go to Miss Pringle’s Select Academy,” Cat said, looking straight at Sinclair. “Like Aunt Ainsley and Aunt Isabella.”

“I saw your aunt Ainsley at your dad’s do,” Bertie said to her. “She looked like a fine lady to me.”

Cat nodded solemnly. “She is. She used to pick locks and steal things.”

Bertie laughed. “Did she?” she asked Sinclair. “Can I meet her?”

Sinclair frowned. “We’ll speak of it later.”

“About what? Cat going to this Pringle’s place or me meeting your sister?”

“Both.”

Bertie grinned. “Well, if your sister’s anything like Eleanor, I shall like her.”

Sinclair growled again, but he wanted to burst out laughing. Then he wanted to grab Bertie and hug her tight. She had no snobbishness in her, no need to impress those born above her in life. Bertie was frank and honest with all, from duchess to scullery maid.

Andrew made it back to them and declared he was hungry. No surprise, since Andrew was always hungry.

Sinclair took his still-prancing son by the hand and led him back toward the coach. Bertie held her hand out for Cat, and Cat readily slipped her fingers around Bertie’s. Cat trusted so few, and yet she was completely comfortable with Bertie.

“Where did you find the chronograph?” Sinclair asked her in curiosity.

Andrew answered for Bertie, in his usual shout. “Aunt Eleanor! She got it from Uncle Cameron. Bertie won’t let me play with it.”

“Because I want to give it back to your Uncle Cameron in one piece,” Bertie said firmly. “But yes, Eleanor lent it to me when I said I wished I had a way to know how fast Andrew could run.”

Sinclair pictured Eleanor opening her blue eyes wide as she explained to the rough-voiced Cameron that he should lend an expensive chronograph to a pickpocket from a family of thieves. Sinclair also sensed that the chronograph would be safer with Bertie than with anyone else in London.

Sinclair signaled for Richards, who drove the coach back to them, and Sinclair handed Bertie in. The smile she gave him as she pressed his hand made him know he was lost. Any thought of control—of his life, of his emotions—was utterly gone, never to return.

The coach stopped after traveling along Piccadilly, and Sinclair handed Bertie down. She loved how he treated her with as much care as he would a lady like his sister and sisters-in-law. Made her feel special, not shoved aside as she had been most of her life.

Sinclair lifted his children to the ground, then took Andrew’s hand and reached to Cat. Cat turned away from him and thrust her hand into Bertie’s. Bertie’s and Sinclair’s eyes met, and Bertie shrugged.

Sinclair turned to the door of the great edifice they’d stopped before, and Bertie saw that it was Fortnum and Mason’s.

Bertie’s interest quickened. She’d never been inside a department store, had been turned away from one she’d tried to enter by its large doorman. Clean stores full of wares were not for the likes of Bertie Frasier.

This doorman bowed respectfully to Sinclair and opened the door for him, also bowing to Bertie as she swept in with Cat. Funny how clean clothes and being in the company of a rich man changed the way people treated her. As long as Bertie kept her mouth shut, she thought, she’d be fine.

The glittering palace of goods made her want to stop and gape. So many people, so many things, so much food. Sinclair led them through to a teashop, already crowded with ladies and gentlemen taking their ease. Sinclair settled them into a table in the corner, and admonished Andrew to at least try not to shout everything he wanted to say.

Bertie noted the looks from the other tea drinkers, some disapproving. Children were meant to be kept inside nurseries or schoolrooms, seen and not heard. Daft. Andrew didn’t know how not to be heard.

Other looks were more fond for the family on an outing—a dad who cared for his children.

Andrew did keep himself quiet, mostly because he spent the time shoveling as many cakes, scones, and pieces of bread into his mouth as he could. Cat ate daintily as usual, saying little.

Sinclair said little as well, but he was polite, making sure Bertie’s plate was full, that his family wanted for nothing. Bertie poured the tea, pretending to be very prim, liking it when Sinclair’s eyes twinkled at her.

When they were nearly finished, the freezing tones of a woman cut through the warmth of their domestic moment.

“Mr. McBride.”

A lady had stopped at their table, two companions behind her. She was not much older than Sinclair, with brown hair and dark eyes, but lines framed her mouth. Her chin was tilted high, as though she’d perfected the art of looking down her nose.

Sinclair’s friendliness vanished behind a wash of ice as he rose to his feet. “Mrs. Davies.”

Mrs. Davies, eh? Wife to Mr. Edward Davies? The one who wanted to take away Cat and Andrew? A knot formed in Bertie’s stomach along with a burn of anger.

Andrew, his mouth full, said, “Mornin’ Aunt Helena.” Cat gave the woman a silent, expressionless look.

“How are you?” Sinclair asked, with an air that said he only inquired to show his children that a person was polite even to someone he loathed. His voice was brittle, Sinclair having become the cold, empty shell of a man once more.

“I am well, thank you,” Mrs. Davies said with poor grace. “You are aware, my dear Mr. McBride, that it is Tuesday?”