Page 5 of A Pearl Before Spies (Agents of the Convent #5)

C hapter F ive

T he Bichard girls were up to something, and Abby’s curiosity was getting the better of her. They had been quiet, docile, and perfectly obedient in their lessons, and considering how the last two days had gone, that was an aberration.

Not that they were mischief makers. They were angels most of the time. Angels with loud opinions, fervent wishes, and unbridled passions, as well as very active imaginations. All of which Abby loved, but it did make the uninteresting work far more difficult to get through.

Today, the weather was beautiful and fair, which made remaining in the schoolroom less than inviting. It was a common issue with her students in Kent, but they were at least old enough to have developed restraint in word and deed.

Madeline and Marie-Claire, on the other hand…

Abby had caught them looking out the windows repeatedly, but they had said nothing. Not a word about escaping or going for a walk or picking flowers, all of which they had asked for in the days previous when the weather had only been half so lovely. The fact that they were not saying anything at all on the finest day for weeks was more suspicious than anything else.

There was nothing to complain about when it came to the Bichards or living at Coutanche. Truly nothing. The house was quiet constantly, apart from the girls being the children they were, and Mr. Bichard never interfered with lessons, but checked in with his daughters frequently at regularly scheduled intervals. Usually morning before lessons, at family supper, and then at bedtime, but there had been the picnic a few days before, and yesterday he had surprised them all with teatime during a break in lessons. The girls had been delighted by the surprise, and they had asked for stories of his childhood.

According to Mr. Bichard, this was not an unusual request.

He had grown up in Quimper, on the coast of France, ships and beaches and festivals a regular part of his memories and stories. Cousins, too, and mischievous adventures with them seemed to be a recurring theme, which Abby found endearing.

Not that her employer should be in any way endearing, but to know that this bookish, softspoken, attentive father had an active childhood himself was certainly promising for her aims with the girls. To see them continue to flourish in the world of imagination and light. To be free of the shadows that Madeline still bore at night, but Marie-Claire only had rarely. To have the freedom to become whomever they were, however the world would let them—or to challenge those very restrictions.

They were not her daughters, and she did not intend them to be. Every girl Abby taught was a vessel for those same hopes, dreams, wishes. Everything that Abby’s life could not be, she poured into them, whether operative or lady. She could not help herself; they deserved anything they wished for themselves, so long as it was good and could not harm anyone.

The girls at the Rothchild Academy could not usually find the light and innocence for true imagination of their age, not with the lives they had lived up to that point and the horrors they had endured. But most were able to rid themselves of the worst of shadows, and that was usually enough.

With the Bichard girls, there were fewer shadows, but the ones they had were deep. However, young as they were, there was a chance of restoring them to true childhood and its wonders yet.

A very soft, very high-pitched clearing of a throat brought Abby round from the windows looking out towards the sea.

Perhaps it was she who had gotten distracted by the beauty of the day rather than her students.

“Apologies, mes filles,” she said with a smile, as both girls looked at her with curious, eager eyes. “Have you finished your letters?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle Abby,” they recited in sisterly unison with perfection.

Sheer perfection.

Abby narrowed her eyes at them both, trying desperately not to smile. “Let me see them.”

Obediently, the girls turned their parchment pages to her, upon which childish versions of letters were laid out in neat rows beside the original letters she had written for them.

Exactly how she wanted.

Her eyes raised to the girls, the urge to smile more compelling than ever. “What exactly are you girls up to? You have some scheme in mind, and somehow it is tied to pristine behavior.”

The sisters looked at each other before giggling in the manner she had anticipated dealing with all afternoon.

She folded her arms, letting herself smile now. “What is it?”

“We thought you might let us go outside,” Madeline said with a shrug, grinning at her. “To the beach.”

“If we were good enough,” Marie-Claire added swiftly. “And did our lessons.”

Abby looked from one to the other with true amusement. “You decided that I might be more amenable to going out to the beach if you behaved very well?”

Their nods were not quite identical in pattern or form, but the ripple of them was delightful.

“If you did your lessons well and did all that I asked without distraction or complaint?” Abby pressed.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Abby.” Their voices were once again in perfect unison, in note, tone, and cadence. A particular, sisterly unison that no other creatures on Earth could replicate.

And it was too much. It was adorable and conniving and brilliant and, above all else, utterly irresistible.

Sighing as though relieving herself of a great weight, Abby folded her arms. “Oh, why not?”

The girls cheered, loudly and exuberantly, throwing their hands up into the air in victory.

Abby picked up their pages and tucked them into a book that she then set aside. “Come on, we need to make sure we have the proper footwear and hats. No one wants a pink nose and cheeks before bed, do they?”

They bolted from their seats and darted for the nursery on pattering feet, their giggles unfettered in their entirety. Abby went to her room, changed from slippers to boots, and brought out her wide-brimmed hat. She hadn’t been down to the beaches yet, but the girls were eager and excited, and Abby suspected outings there were part of their favorite activities, so they would know the way.

She had not played at a beach for many years. Even then, it was perhaps only twice. She had never taken the time to simply enjoy the coast in Kent near the school. With her leg, what would be the point of it? Strolling along the water’s edge might have been a romantic idea, but damp sand would be a troublesome surface for her. Dry sand was just as difficult, but with the children, it could be all right. Stony ground was tricky as well, whether it was dry or wet.

There was really not a good version of walking along a beach with an injury such as hers, but the girls would have a pace she could cope with, and if she truly minded her steps, she would not even feel a twinge of discomfort.

And these were her most stable, protective boots, so it was her best option to safeguard herself.

The girls had their own tiny boots in hand as she moved into the nursery, so she quickly helped put them on and tie the laces. When they had found their hats, the three of them made their way down the stairs and into the entrance hall.

“Now, girls,” Abby said as she turned to face them, sweeping her eyes from one to the other quickly. “Do we have everything needed for a trip to the beach? Be truthful, please.”

They looked at each other, at their boots, their hats. Then they looked at Abby and nodded with a somberness that did not suit the nature she had come to expect from them in recent days.

It was clear that there were particular rules for such outings, and the girls knew them.

“All right, then,” Abby said slowly. “Do we need to tell Mrs. Corbin that we’re going, perhaps?”

Madeline scowled, but Marie-Claire nodded very fervently, her wide blue eyes showing all of her young innocence in her response. Not a hint of the previous scheming in it, despite what her older sister might have wished for. No duplicity or deceit.

At what age did that all change?

“Then let’s make it quick, hmm?” Abby grinned and winked at them, which seemed to settle Madeline’s discontent rather efficiently.

It was a quick walk down the two corridors to Mrs. Corbin’s sitting room, and the housekeeper insisted they take along a basket just in case they got hungry by the seaside.

With the added weight and slight complication of something on her arm, Abby’s gait was even more altered and taxing than usual. That would make matters more difficult when they got to the coast, but she should be able to manage.

They had exited the house from the kitchen side of things, though the girls walked towards the front of the house anyway, so that must be where their known path lay. In an ideal world, Abby would have walked beside them, if not ahead of them, but she no longer lived in an ideal world. She lived in a crippled one, and while that was fine for being a teacher in a finishing school, where the floors were even and stable, it was proving more trying here.

Her leg was not supposed to be an impediment on this assignment. She would need to push herself hard to make sure that it wasn’t.

“And where are you three going?” asked a low, softly accented voice that seemed to carry a smile in its tone.

Abby smiled herself at its sound and looked around, unsure where it was coming from.

“Papa!” the girls cried as they saw Mr. Bichard step into view from the front facade of the house, dressed in the perfect attire of a country gentleman, even if his cravat was a trifle loose and he wore no hat. His daughters ran to him and hugged him hard, though they had just seen him that morning.

He hugged them a moment and offered a smile and nod to Abby in greeting. “Mademoiselle Chorley.”

“Mr. Bichard,” she replied with a quick bob and a smile in return.

He looked down at his daughters with questioning eyes. “Who is going to answer my question?”

Marie-Claire, bless her, raised her hand as though they were in lessons.

Mr. Bichard fought a smile, his eyes dancing as he looked down at his youngest, and Abby was hard pressed to keep her smile contained as it was. “Yes, Mariette?”

“We were going down to our beach,” she recited perfectly. “We have hats and boots and a basket.”

Madeline audibly grumbled as she glared at her younger sister, which startled Abby. What would be so wrong with Marie-Claire telling their father the plan?

“I see,” Mr. Bichard said solemnly. “And what is the rule for going down to the beach? Madeline, I believe it is your turn to answer a question.”

Sensing she had been played for a bit of a fool, Abby tuned in to the conversation with more interest, forcing her expression to remain free of emotion.

Madeline swept one foot along the ground, keeping her head down. “We have to tell you that we wish to and go with an adult.”

“And why is that?”

“So we are safe,” she said on a longsuffering sigh. “But we are going with Mademoiselle Abby, Papa!”

Mr. Bichard nodded in agreement, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Indeed, and that would be well, except I suspect Mademoiselle Chorley has not been down to the beach yet and therefore does not know the way there nor back home. If there had been danger, she would not know where to go for help.”

Abby closed her eyes in mortification, seeing the issues at hand laid out before her like the blatant display of an unaccomplished musician within the first notes of a song.

What had she been thinking? Of course their father should have been informed! Of course she ought to have ensured she knew the way to the beach and back before agreeing to this! Of course she should not have been persuaded into an activity by children when she was still a stranger!

Idiot. She would be fortunate to not lose her position. Then what would they do about the mission?

“So what do you have to say for yourselves?” Mr. Bichard asked, setting his hands at his hips.

Abby shook her head slowly. “Sir, I can only ap—”

He met her eyes at once and cut her off with a quick flick of his fingers. “Not you, Mademoiselle Chorley. Them.” He looked down at the girls. “Hmm?”

“Je suis vraiment désolé, Papa,” both of them murmured obediently, their faces perfectly glum with the apology.

Impossibly, Mr. Bichard was now smiling in truth, his eyes crinkling. “Tout va bien. Shall we go down to the beach together now?”

His daughters gasped in utter delight and hugged him tightly, squealing as they did so. “Merci, Papa!”

“Go on, find the path, but don’t go down it,” he directed, gesturing towards the direction of the water.

The girls dashed off immediately, leaving Abby alone with her employer.

She swallowed hard. “Sir, I am so sorry, I didn’t—”

He sighed heavily and gave her a hard look. “Mademoiselle Chorley, I have already said that I did not need an apology from you, and I do not require one now. I am the one who did not take the time to show you the safest way to the beach, nor explain to you the rules I have for going there. The girls, however, know exactly what is expected of them. Please accept my apology for not giving you all of the requisite information to allow you outings to the beach when you wish it.”

“No apology necessary,” Abby murmured as she started to follow the girls. “And really, going to the beach at all was their idea. I simply agreed to it.”

“And what did they do to earn such an outing?” he asked, falling into step beside her.

Abby laughed very softly. “Behaved? Not that they do not do so normally, but they were quiet, docile, perfectly obedient angels all morning. Which, of course, made me suspicious.”

“Indeed, you were right to be so.” He chuckled once. “Very suspicious of them. But it cannot be helped when the day is like this. And I have not taken them to the beach in some time.”

“They seem to love going there,” Abby remarked as the girls waited impatiently for them at the head of the path.

Mr. Bichard nodded as he walked, his eyes also on his girls. “They do. And we used to come down often with their mother, but it has all been rather sporadic since her passing. And lately, I haven’t thought of it much. I’ve more of a head for business where the sea is concerned than the entertainment of my daughters. Without someone else to take them, they have probably felt trapped in the house.”

Abby wrinkled up her nose at the idea. “I don’t know about that. There are several other things to do in the house and about the grounds, if one is creative enough.”

He made a low sound of amusement beside her. “You presume anyone in my household has a creative mind besides you, mademoiselle. Our staff is not large, and the demands of Coutanche take up most of their time.” He laughed again, this time almost heartily. “And what is the point of having a house within walking distance of the beach if one cannot visit often?”

“You may have a point there,” she allowed with a small laugh herself. She smiled as the girls jumped up and down in excitement, almost to them now. “They are waiting so well.”

“The path is a steep one,” Mr. Bichard explained. “They know it must be done under supervision, even if it is stable.” He drew up a moment, putting a hand to her arm. “I do apologize, Mademoiselle Chorley. I did not consider… your leg…”

Abby dipped her chin for just a moment. “I ought to be fine, so long as it is not a slippery path. Slow, but fine. Please, do not be concerned. I’ve learned how to adapt to many things.”

He searched her eyes and face for a moment, then nodded, which made her breath come just a touch easier. “Very well. Will you require assistance?”

Smiling, she shook her head. “No, sir. But if you and the girls might wait for me at the bottom?”

“Of course.” He took the basket from her arm without a word, nodding once more. “Please, take your time. The path is usually perfectly traversable and without any risk, but the girls would run it and possibly do injury, so it—”

“Sir,” Abby overrode with a slight smile as his reassurances became rambling. “I can promise you, I will be fine. Please, go with the girls.”

His smile was also slight in return, and he nodded a little before moving to the girls and insisting they go slowly. She watched as he took Marie-Claire’s hand and began down the path with all the caution of a concerned parent, and let her smile fade as she moved to the path herself.

Abby was not worried about the venture; she had managed hilly trails of various inclines before. What she truly was uncertain of involved the man who was her employer.

She had yet to determine how to properly investigate anything taking place in his life. He had no discernable pattern to his days or his time, and he had yet to leave the house since her arrival. Short of exploring the house and the grounds late at night, she wasn’t certain how anything would get done. And with her being a governess during the day, she was entirely unaware of the post arriving from day to day.

And really, he did not seem the sort of man desperate for a wife, nor to wish to have anything to do with Society. But then, it would not exactly befit a man to admit any such thing to a woman in his employ.

She was going to need some clue as to where to start looking, what to start looking for, and what could possibly convince a man as gentle and kind as Mr. Bichard seemed to be to have a young woman kidnapped for his marriage.

But she had met pleasant people before who were privately the worst sort of villains. It happened all the time, and here would be just another example. Even cruel men were capable of loving their children sometimes.

And what of the late Mrs. Bichard? Everything she had heard from her employer about her could have been a complete fabrication. She would need to verify details with Mrs. Corbin or one of the maids; at least then she might have some inkling about Mr. Bichard’s true feelings regarding marriage in general, as well as his first one.

Starting down the path, Abby found the ground relatively even and well-worn, packed enough to keep her from slipping on a loose patch, even if the grade was steeper than she liked. It was awkward going, having to step down with her bad leg first, as it couldn’t bend well, and its weakness did not permit a particularly stable base for herself.

None of this was revelatory, of course. She had tested her legs to their limit over the years in her desperation to be of better use to the Convent and to Milliner. It had always led to disappointment, despite any notes of progress.

She wanted to be as she had been, not as she was. There was no victory in progress if she was not restored to her past strength and abilities.

She was walking down an incline to the beach, for pity’s sake. She would have sprinted down it once, laughing hysterically at the propulsion added to her speed and lengthening her strides. She’d have tumbled to the ground by the end and thought nothing of it. Might have even done so again for the thrill.

But now…

Abby glanced down the path to gauge the remaining distance and saw, with a jolt, Mr. Bichard waiting for her. Watching her every step. His expression was taut, and his eyes missed nothing. Was he now noticing how significant her impediment could be and debating on sending her off? Was he offended to have hired on such a cripple? Was he even now weighing the trouble of finding a new governess for his daughters?

What would she tell Milliner if that happened?