If the Slipper Fits Page 3

  Annabelle wished desperately that she could read the woman’s inscrutable features. Although Lady Milford didn’t look aghast at the story, perhaps she was too well-bred to show her distaste.

  “Pray consider the advantage of my having no family,” Annabelle said, determined to turn the situation to her benefit. “I shan’t ever be called away to nurse a sick relation or beg leave to attend a wedding or a funeral. If you employ me, I shall be always at the service of His Grace, utterly devoted to his care. You can be certain he will never want for my attention.”

  “You make quite the persuasive case, Miss Quinn.” Her violet eyes watchful, Lady Milford lowered her voice. “However, there remains one final test.”

  Test? Annabelle wondered what it would entail. Perhaps she would be required to write an essay on why she was the superior choice for the position. Or maybe she’d be quizzed on her knowledge of geography or literature. The prospect actually calmed her misgivings. Whatever the examination might be, she felt confident in her ability to perform better than any other teacher on staff.

  Then Lady Milford did something odd. Rising from her chair, she came forward to sit beside Annabelle on the chaise. “If you would be so kind as to slip off your shoes.”

  “Pardon?”

  The lady gestured at Annabelle’s feet. “Take them off, please. I know it sounds peculiar, but do bear with me. You’ll understand in a moment.”

  She had brought a long velvet reticule, and now she opened the drawstrings and reached inside to produce a pair of fine slippers, which she placed on the floor. Annabelle blinked in surprise. The high-heeled shoes were made of satin the rich color of garnets and covered in exquisite crystal beadwork that sparkled in the light of the fire.

  “Ohh,” she said on a sigh. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  “It’s merely an old pair given to me by a friend a long time ago,” Lady Milford said. “It seemed a shame to let them molder in my dressing chamber. Would you mind trying them on?”

  “But … you’re so dainty,” Annabelle said, unable to tear her gaze away from the dazzling sight of the slippers long enough to think clearly. “Surely it’s impossible that we’d wear the same size.”

  “You’ll never know until you try.”

  Feeling caught in a strange spell, Annabelle unhooked her sturdy shoes and tugged them off, one by one. Brown and ugly, they thumped onto the carpet, a sacrilege beside the fine offering from Lady Milford.

  Reverently, she slid her toes into one until, miracle of miracles, the elegant slipper perfectly enveloped her foot. It didn’t pinch or rub like her cheap shoes, either. The satin felt as soft and supple as wearing a cloud. Quickly, she donned its match and then rose from the chaise, holding up her skirts to admire the slippers. This must be how a princess felt, she thought giddily. Beautiful in every way.

  On impulse, she whirled around on tiptoe, imagining herself dancing in the arms of a handsome prince. “Oh, my lady, they do fit. How can it be?”

  “It appears they were meant for you,” Lady Milford said. “You will do me a great favor to take them off my hands.”

  Annabelle stopped short as reality doused her dreams. Her fingers tightened around the bunched skirt of her gown. “Surely you’re jesting. You cannot truly mean to give me such an expensive gift.”

  “Well, if it will pacify your conscience, you may consider them a loan. That is my only concession. You must humor me, for I am an old woman known for my eccentricities.”

  Wisdom shone in those violet eyes. How old was she?

  The question vanished as Annabelle gazed down wistfully at the slippers. They were so very tempting, and yet so impractical. “But where on earth would I wear such lovely shoes?”

  “There may be a ball or party at Castle Kevern. In the country, a governess is often expected to attend such events if there are not enough ladies to balance the guest list.” She gave Annabelle a critical look up and down. “In addition to traveling expenses, it appears you will need a clothing allowance to improve your wardrobe. One cannot appear a beggar when serving in the household of a duke.”

  From out of Annabelle’s swirling thoughts came one crystal-clear realization. “Does that mean … you’re hiring me?”

  A secretive smile touched Lady Milford’s mouth. “Indeed I am. I can think of no one more perfect for the post than you.”

  Chapter 3

  As the mail coach drove away, Annabelle stood beside her battered trunk and glanced around the deserted inn yard at the edge of the village of Kevernstow. Chickens pecked at the bare earth and a few horses grazed in a stone-fenced meadow behind the stables. The inn was little more than a two-story cottage with a thatched roof. A faded sign depicting its name, the Copper Shovel, creaked in the breeze.

  Where was the cart that was supposed to convey her to the castle? Before departing the academy on the day Annabelle had been hired, Lady Milford had promised to send a letter ahead making all the arrangements. But there was not a soul in sight.

  Grabbing hold of the leather handle, Annabelle dragged the trunk toward the inn. The action kicked up dust and soiled the hem of her gown. She felt stiff and weary after journeying for two and a half days, crammed inside a mail coach with an ever-changing array of travelers. More than anything, she longed to reach Castle Kevern. She certainly didn’t want to be forced to wait here for transportation.

  The inn door stood open. Pausing on the threshold, she rapped on the wooden panel while peering into the dim interior. A peat fire smoldered on the hearth, but no one sat at the scattered tables. Was the innkeeper napping upstairs? Had he gone on an errand in the nearby village? The arrival of the daily mail coach was surely an important event in such a remote area. So why wasn’t he present?

  “Hullo?” she called out. “Is anyone here?”

  Silence answered her. Leaving the trunk outside by the door, she went across the yard and peeked into the stables. The cool shadows held no sign of life, the horses having been turned out into the fenced pasture. Annabelle ventured behind the inn and found a yard bordered by the great dome of a hill. A patch of straggly vegetables grew in the sunlight, while laundry flapped from a rope strung between two large oaks.

  At the rear of the property, the door to the privy creaked open and a stooped old man stepped out. In the process of hitching up his breeches, he caught sight of her and came forward at a trot.

  “Missed the mail, did I?”

  “Yes, sir.” Annabelle pretended not to notice him tucking the homespun shirt into his waistband. Since this region was to be her new home, she deemed it sensible to make acquaintances. “Good afternoon, I’m Miss Quinn. And you are?”

  “Pengilly, miss.” Bobbing his head, the aging innkeeper gave a toothless grin. “Otis Pengilly.”

  He thrust out his hand and she shook it, thankful for her gloves. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pengilly. Would you happen to have seen a cart from Castle Kevern today? It should have been sent for me.”

  He scratched a thinning patch of gray hair. “Blaamed if I have.”

  Pursing her lips, Annabelle glanced up at the afternoon sun. If she tarried too long, she’d be forced to spend a few precious coins on a room at the inn. Hadn’t Lady Milford mentioned the castle was located only two miles from the village? “I’ll walk, then,” she said. “Can you show me the way to the castle?”

  Stabbing a knobby finger at a point beyond her shoulder, he said, “Take the path beyond the paddock. Cross the brudge and up the nip.”

  Brudge? Nip?

  Before she could ask for a translation, he nodded at the dark clouds on the distant horizon. “Best be a-goin’, miss. There be a bank-up fer a good blaw.”

  A storm, she interpreted. He believed a rainstorm was imminent. Yet the sky was a hazy blue overhead and any squall looked to be hours away. Accustomed to invigorating hikes over the moors, Annabelle felt certain she could reach her destination long before the rain struck.

  She made arrangements for h
im to watch her trunk until someone from the castle could be sent for it. Then she set off in the direction he’d indicated. As she passed a jagged boulder at the edge of the property, Mr. Pengilly called out after her.

  “Come the gloaming, mind the piskies.”

  She turned back. “Pardon?”

  His hands cupped to his mouth, he shouted, “If ’ee spy any wee folk in the wood, take a care not to look lest’n they bewitch ’ee.”

  Pixies! The realization of his meaning tickled her fancy. Surely he had to be teasing. But Mr. Pengilly looked quite serious about the warning.

  Waving a cheery good-bye, Annabelle headed along the trail that meandered over a series of small hillocks. It was a lovely late summer afternoon, warm and mild. Birds twittered in the trees, and the musical trickling of a stream drifted from somewhere up ahead. The sound grew louder until she came upon a stone bridge that spanned a brook.

  Ah, the brudge.

  Annabelle laughed aloud. It seemed she would have to learn the local dialect. Up the nip must refer to the steep path on the other side of the water. There, the trail led up a hill shrouded in trees and shrubbery.

  She tramped over the quaint bridge. Minnows flitted through the water, playing tag among the rocks. Were she not on a mission critical to her future, Annabelle might have stopped to enjoy the peacefulness of the setting.

  But now was no time for dreaming. She wanted to assume her responsibilities as soon as possible, to meet the young duke and settle into her new life. The thought made her smile. How wonderful it would be to care for one small child rather than to teach endless classes in deportment.

  Gripping her skirts, she hiked up the hill. This surely could not be the main road to Castle Kevern. Mr. Pengilly must have sent her on a shortcut, for the path was too narrow to allow passage of a vehicle. Besides, there were no ruts to show that any wheels had ever traveled here.

  Annabelle reached the top of the rise and stopped to catch her breath. Before her lay a panorama of wooded hills and green valleys where tiny white dots of sheep grazed amid a patchwork of farms. The pastoral setting made a sharp contrast to the approaching storm.

  Inky black clouds filled the entire horizon. In the distance, the sea churned with white-capped waves. Annabelle stared in awe. Although she’d read about the ocean in books, nothing could have prepared her for its vast grandeur. Against that dramatic backdrop, the gray stone towers of a medieval fortress brooded atop a cliff.

  Castle Kevern.

  A thrill coursed through her. The magnificent sight brought to mind stories of King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table, the scandals of the Tudor royalty, the ill-fated romance of Tristan and Isolde …

  Lightning cut a jagged line through the dark sky, followed several seconds later by the ominous rumble of thunder. A cold gust tugged at her straw bonnet and knocked it off her head. The ribbons remained tied, however, so she let the hat dangle at the nape of her neck.

  Not even the impending shower could dampen her high spirits.

  As she made her way down the sloping path, Annabelle marveled again at the lucky happenstance that had brought her here. One of the other teachers might have been chosen for the post of governess. Indeed, all of them had been green with envy, Mavis and Prudence in particular. Mrs. Baxter had been miffed, too, though she had not dared to gainsay Lady Milford. But after the lady departed, the headmistress had vented her spleen, accusing Annabelle of being everything from a conniving usurper to a disobedient hussy who would come to a bad end.

  Annabelle had been too pleased with her good fortune to pay much heed. She felt no regret at leaving her old life behind—except for her students, who had given her a fine gray silk shawl as a farewell gift. Although the school was the only home she’d ever known, and she’d miss the girls and her few friends among the staff, it was all a part of her past now. The future lay before her, filled with glorious possibilities.

  As if to refute her, the wind tossed a fistful of raindrops ahead of the storm. The afternoon grew steadily darker as the black clouds scudded closer to blot out the sun. Brambles tugged at the hem of her gown, but she pulled herself free and forged onward. This vast acreage had to be the ducal lands. Crofters and tenant farmers would be needed to work the squares of cultivated fields. Yet she saw no one on her trek. Maybe they were all tucked inside their cottages to wait out the tempest.

  Nearing the final ascent, she noticed a muted rhythmic noise and realized it was the crashing of the waves on the shore. The battlements loomed high above her on the cliff. To reach there, she must ascend a steep path that vanished into a thick patch of forest.

  The dense canopy of trees created an eerie twilight. Other than the sea, the only sounds were the scuffing of her shoes and the occasional growl of thunder. Even the birds had taken refuge ahead of the squall. The preternatural hush made it seem as if a wicked spell had been cast over the castle and its surrounding lands.

  Come the gloaming, mind the piskies.

  The fine hairs prickled at the back of her neck. Annabelle shook off a vague uneasiness. How ridiculous to feel as if she were being watched. Holding up her skirts, she concentrated on navigating the rocky trail. She was stepping over a fallen tree limb when something moved out of the corner of her eye.

  Annabelle pivoted sharply. Bracing her hand on the rough bark of a tree trunk, she scanned the area. Her gaze locked on one spot where something stirred in the bushes. The leaves quivered low to the ground. Her heart pounding, she waited to see an elfin figure step out …

  A fat hedgehog waddled into view. Oblivious to Annabelle’s presence, the little animal vanished again into the underbrush.

  She laughed out loud. Pixies and faerie folk, indeed! Such mythical creatures roamed only in the pages of storybooks. She mustn’t succumb to flights of fancy or she’d scare herself silly.

  A bolt of lightning lit the sky and thunder crashed. Annabelle needed no further incentive to resume her climb. Urgency dogged her steps, and she kept her gaze on the path to keep from stumbling. At last she neared the top of the hill. Ahead loomed a grassy sward and then the castle wall, although she could not yet see the entry gate—

  A man stepped out from behind a huge granite boulder. Tall and menacing, he blocked her path. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sir!” She stopped dead to avoid bumping into him. “You frightened me.”

  Swift as lightning, he clamped his fingers around her upper arm. “I’ll do more than that if you don’t answer me.”

  Annabelle yelped, the sound lost to a crack of thunder. She yanked in vain against his iron grip. “Stop! Let me go!”

  “Not until you tell me why you’re here.”

  His aggressive stance intimidated her. He was strongly muscled, a man in his prime. Was he a castle guard? Surely not, for he wore the rough homespun shirt and breeches of a common worker.

  Though her heart pounded, Annabelle fixed him with the cold stare she used on disobedient students. “I shall answer nothing when treated so roughly. Remove your hand from me at once.”

  He glowered down at her. His eyes were a metallic gray against the browned skin of a man accustomed to laboring outdoors. The wind whipped his black hair into unkempt disarray.

  A strange and unsettling tension stirred inside Annabelle. Never in her life had she stood so close to any man, let alone one so hostile. He could overpower her if he chose, so she let her glare convey the message that she would not go down without a fight.

  He abruptly loosened his grip and withdrew his hand. “I will have your name. You’re trespassing on my land.”

  She blinked. His land? How could that be? The duke was only eight years old. “Doesn’t this property belong to His Grace of Kevern?”

  The stranger gave a curt nod. “He’s my nephew.”

  Realization flooded Annabelle with chagrin. This rude, scruffy man was none other than Lord Simon Westbury. He was the young duke’s guardian—and her employer. Although it galled her, she had to ignore his
discourtesy or risk losing her position here before she’d even begun.

  “I’m Miss Annabelle Quinn,” she said, extending her gloved hand. “You must be Lord Simon. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  His harshly handsome features radiated suspicion. He frowned at her fingers until she drew them back. “So you know who I am,” he said on a note of irony. “Whatever it is you’re peddling, I’m not interested. Now, get along with you.”

  Turning on his heel, he strode away toward the castle.

  Peddling? Why would he think her a traveling peddler when she carried no goods?

  Baffled, Annabelle hastened after him. “Did you not receive a letter from Lady Milford? It should have arrived a few days ago.”

  He stopped, his scornful gaze raking her from head to toe. “Why would Clarissa send you here? If she’s matchmaking again, she ought to have had the good grace to choose a more likely prospect.”

  What an utter boor! He would benefit from a lesson in manners. Not, of course, that she dared to tell him so.

  Annabelle gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “It appears you don’t know, my lord. I’m to be the duke’s new governess.”

  Lord Simon’s scowl deepened. “The devil you say! The boy already has a tutor … Blast it all!”

  As if in reprimand for his cursing, the heavens opened and the storm unleashed its full fury. Cold sheets of water drenched them. Annabelle raised her arms in a futile attempt to shield herself. The hard driving rain instantly blurred her vision and chilled her to the bone.

  “Damned beast of a gust,” he muttered. His brawny arm clamped around her back as he propelled her toward the castle. Hampered by her sodden skirts and buffeted by the wind, Annabelle struggled to keep up. All of a sudden, Lord Simon grabbed her like a sack of flour and pinned her close to his side while plowing swiftly through the storm.

  The radiant heat of his body enveloped her. Of their own volition, her arms latched onto him. She instinctively turned her face to the protection of his shoulder in an effort to avoid the buckets pouring down from the sky.