She’d begun the day with some classic literature and rudimentary French. After she’d found Andrew tucking a penny dreadful behind his Jonathan Swift, and listening to both the children reduce the language of love to the equivalent of a verbal assault, Mena decided that music and a dance lesson would provide a welcome diversion. Often she’d found the mind operated more usefully after dancing. Almost as though the music and rhythmic exercise opened pathways of thought not established on one’s own.
Evidently in the case of the Mackenzie children, she’d been mistaken.
Rhianna proved a willing and eager pupil, if not particularly accomplished. Though Andrew treated Mena with a solemnity bordering on contempt. He was, however, a brilliant musician, and played the pianoforte with effortless style and technique.
Mena was able to ascertain that they’d suffered a slew of tutors and governesses intermittently over the years. They’d been taught the basics of reading, writing, arithmetic, and history. But as they grew, their governesses had all deserted them in short order. Their knowledge of economics, refinement, conversation, etiquette, French, music theory, and the social arts was all but nonexistent.
Well, she was a viscountess, by Jove, and a gentleman’s daughter before that. She had mastered every British social policy, written and otherwise. There was no one more qualified to guide them than her. She was determined to succeed, not just because she needed this position to guard her secrets, but because the Mackenzie children desperately needed to learn what she could teach them.
And their father knew it.
“Come, Andrew,” she prompted. “Why don’t you dance with your sister, and let me play the piano? I need a rest.”
“I doona dance,” he informed her, studying his fingers curled against the piano keys.
“That doesn’t matter,” she said encouragingly. “I’ll teach you, then, while Rhianna practices her piano. We can go slowly.”
“Nay, I didna say I doona know how. I said I doona dance.” He thrust his jaw forward; his eyes alight with stubborn rebellion.
“But how are you going to impress the young ladies unless you perfect your waltz?” she tempted him.
“I have no desire to impress anyone,” he spat.
Mena glanced to the window, longing to bask in the rare autumn sunlight instead of Andrew’s dark mood. Clouds loomed in the distance, but right now the sun sparkled off the sea and illuminated the peaks of Skye. After so long in Belle Glen, she yearned to feel the warmth on her face, to wander unimpeded through the forest.
But for now, she must teach.
Gathering as much kindness as she could from behind her frayed nerves, she approached the piano and reached for the boy. “Please, dear,” she cajoled. “I confess that I’m not the best at leading, and so it’s not fair to your sister. I’m not used to dancing the gentleman’s part.”
“Ye should be,” Andrew muttered, flinching away from her. “Ye’ve the stature of one.”
Mena snatched her hand back as Andrew lunged from the bench and stalked toward the west door of the solarium.
“Andrew, doona be an arse!” Rhianna called after him.
Jani crossed the threshold carrying a tray laden with their afternoon tea. The two nearly collided, ruining Andrew’s chance for a dramatic exit and allowing Mena to recover from her astonishment at his hurtful outburst. Andrew made a rude noise at a startled Jani before attempting to circumnavigate him.
“Andrew Mackenzie.” Mena enunciated the syllables in his name as she’d heard her father do when she’d been in trouble as a girl. The enunciation, when applied with a low register, always brought her to heel. “If you don’t want me to have a lengthy discussion with your father this afternoon, you will apologize to Jani for your haste, relieve him of his tray, and bring it here.”
The room was as silent as a mausoleum as they waited for Andrew to move. The youth muttered something that must have been an apology to a wide-eyed Jani, and then took the tea tray from his hands. The threat of his father was an effective one, but not one Mena had wanted to use. This was no way to establish trust, or a genial relationship, but she couldn’t allow such behavior. Left unchecked, a boy with such terrible angst could grow into a cruel man.
And the world had enough of those already.
Andrew set the tea tray none too gently on the solarium table and stood before her as rigid as a gallows post.
“When you quit a room with ladies present, you will bow and excuse yourself first.” Though confrontation of any kind had always made her feel shaky and ill, Mena narrowed her eyes to meet his discourteous glare with one of authority. “I won’t ask for an apology, because I won’t accept a disingenuous one, but your father hired me to teach you how to behave in polite society. I intend to do my job, whether you wish me to or not.”
Repugnance gathered in his stormy eyes and his thin frame shook with rage, but after a tense moment, wherein Mena didn’t allow herself to breathe, he bowed to her. “If ye ladies will excuse me.” His voice could have dried the Nile, but Mena gave him a tight nod, and watched him march away with a sadness clenched in her heart. What made the boy so angry?
She read abundant approval in Jani’s meaningful look, but it did nothing to lift her spirits. She would rather ingratiate herself to Andrew, or at the very least have a civil interaction. Her unsteady legs gave way, and she plunked onto the piano bench without a modicum of poise or grace.
“Some tea, Miss Rhianna.” Jani’s voice was smooth as the crimson silk he wore while he poured Rhianna her tea and handed her the dainty china cup. His eyes were pools of liquid bronze as he waited on his mistress.