“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.”
“I know.” Sinclair sounded resigned. “Andrew has asked me when he can go off to school and join a running team. Not so he can study and learn anything, you understand.”
“Of course not.” Bertie eyed the two of them, children she’d become so fond of in such a brief time. “When you do send them off, I’ll be out of a job.” The words came out more forlornly than she’d meant them to.
“No, you won’t,” Sinclair said quickly.
“I don’t think any of the fancy governess agencies will put me on their books, no matter how many references you write.” Bertie glanced up at him, but Sinclair was watching Andrew, his face a careful blank. “I’ve started my own collection, you know. Of rules for a proper governess.”
Sinclair still watched Andrew, though she saw his chest rise more quickly. “Oh? And what are they?”
Bertie held up her hand, ticking the rules off on her fingers. “Well, book learning for a start. If a governess is going to teach her charges, she should know what she’s teaching them.”
“I’ll grant you that. What else?”
“She must have the patience of a saint but love the children no matter what. They shouldn’t have to behave to earn her fondness.”
“Rather like being a father,” Sinclair said, slanting her a look. “Anything more?”
“She should find ways to keep them interested in learning, not just beat them with facts. Like making history a string of great stories, not dates to memorize.”
“Hmm, I wish you could have given your rules to some of my tutors when I was a lad.”
Bertie grinned and touched another finger. “She should take plenty of exercise with the children and not be upset if they want to run and play. A governess being fit is a help.”
The glint of humor had returned to Sinclair’s eyes. “You sound like a reformer.”
“Do I? It’s only common sense. I think your other governesses ran away because they didn’t like children. They wanted Cat and Andrew to sit like statues while they talked at them, and got angry if they couldn’t repeat the boring details. Heaven forbid either of the kids should have an opinion.”
“The world expects children to be seen and not heard, you know.”
“Then the world ain’t—isn’t paying attention.”
Sinclair didn’t answer, but the space had lessened between them. Sinclair’s gloved hand touched hers, the backs of their fingers brushing.
Bertie wanted this moment to last—she and Sinclair on the hilltop, almost holding hands, Andrew happily exploring, Cat quiet and content. No dark world, no difference in their stations in life, in their pasts. Effervescent happiness welled up inside her—she could float away on it.
The moment broke when the sound of a hunter’s gun cracked the air far away. Hart’s ghillie and Macaulay had taken some of the remaining English visitors on a stalk on the other side of the valley. The cold, clear air brought the sounds from miles away.