The Master's New Governess (HQR Historical)

by Eliza Redgold

  Where had she gone?

  The wardrobe door was ajar. There hung her grey and brown dresses, the meagre array of clothing she possessed. The green dress, with its imprint of leaves, swayed slightly on its peg.

  He slammed the wardrobe door shut.

  Gritting his teeth, he moved to the dressing table.

  A bundle of manuscript lay there, tied with a ribbon. The fountain pen he had given her lay beside it.

  He picked up the sheaf of papers.

  The Butterfly Fables:

  For Rosabel,

  with love always,

  from her governess,

  Miss Maud Wilmot

  Dominic exhaled.

  She’d dedicated them to his daughter. He hadn’t known she had done that.

  But then, she had given them both all she had to give.

  He gripped the fountain pen in his fist and practically ran out of the governess’s bedroom and into the corridor and down the stairs.

  ‘Have you seen Miss Wilmot?’ he snapped at the butler. He never usually spoke in such a tone.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir Dominic, but I saw her down near the gates,’ a footman piped up.

  Dominic relaxed his tense shoulders. She was on foot. She couldn’t go far.

  ‘Get Taran,’ said Dominic.

  * * *

  Maud clambered on to the train, half-blind with tears. She couldn’t stop them falling, no matter how hard she tried.

  The old lady had pressed some money into her hand. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything, my dear. But please let me help you.’

  Maud’s eyes filled with tears again.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. One good turn deserves another.’

  It had almost broken Maud’s heart to buy a one-way ticket back to London.

  ‘You’re the governess up at Pendragon, aren’t you, miss?’ the ticket master at the station had asked her. ‘You don’t need to pay the full fare.’

  ‘I want to pay full price. And I’ll need a second-class ticket, please.’ She didn’t want to be further indebted to the old lady, even though she had suggested they share a first-class compartment.

  Yet when she had looked down at the ticket in her hand, she saw that the ticket master had nonetheless given her a first-class ticket.

  He winked as he passed it to her.

  ‘This isn’t what I paid for.’ She slid it back towards him.

  ‘It’s the ticket Sir Dominic would want you to have,’ the ticket master replied. ‘He’d want us to look after you, he would.’

  Maud choked. ‘He would?’

  The ticket master nodded. ‘You’ve been doing a fine job up there with Miss Rosabel these past few months, from what we hear.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Maud had answered faintly.

  Now, the ticket clenched in her glove, she made her way to the first-class carriage where the old lady was in the corner seat. She gave her a sympathetic pat on the hand as Maud took her own seat.

  The memories came rushing back of when she had travelled in the opposite direction, on her way to Cornwall. Oh, how she wished she could turn back time! How she wished it had all been different. She held back a shudder. Seeing Lord Melville had brought it all back, the terror and fear that she had experienced. How she wished she had not been forced into such a dreadful position to have had to lie to Dominic in the first place. But he was a man, an independent businessman, not a dependent governess. He would never have been able to understand the kind of desperation that drove her to make such an error, to make such a choice. Perhaps, looking back, she had had a choice. Perhaps she could have chosen a more honourable path than disguising her identity. But she had not been able to think of another way to find employment and she had not wanted to make Martha’s life more difficult by staying with her in London and being an extra mouth to feed. Now she was going to have to go back and do just that while she worked out what to do.

  Rain began to fall, hard, loud drops on the roof of the train. Her vision blurred as she stared out the window. Her Cornish idyll. It was ending, just as it had begun.

  She twisted her fingers together. She had not been able to say goodbye to Rosabel. Perhaps it was just as well. She couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to the little girl whom she had come to love. It would break her heart. It was better for her to simply leave. Rosabel would forget her, in time.

  A puff of steam obscured the platform, then swirled away.

  She had first seen Sir Dominic Jago through such a cloud of steam.

  Tall, dark-haired, long-legged, he had worn his long dark grey coat, with a scarlet cravat tied carelessly around his neck. He often wore his cravats and ties loose; she knew that now. His hands had been gloveless, she recalled, and she had seen the flash of a gold signet ring on his right hand, the same flash of gold that glowed when he pushed back his hair from his brow, in the habitual gesture she had come to know. That was how she would always picture him, in her mind.

  From now on, that was all he would be.

  A memory.

  A picture.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she whispered.

  * * *

  The rain pelted down. His hat was off and his hair trickled rivulets down his neck. And it was nothing more than he deserved.

  It had come on suddenly, one of those early summer showers that could turn Cornwall from blue to grey in a matter of minutes.

  With his heel he urged Taran onwards. He never used a whip; he used his legs and his hands to get the best from the stallion. Now, as if they were one, he flew at speed down the long drive through the gates and on to the open road.

  There was no sign of her.

  Dominic swore beneath his breath.

  Had she cut across a field, gone cross country?

  He turned Taran and went the other way along the road, searching through the driving rain.

  Again, no one was in sight.

  Then it struck him.

  The train.

  He knew the timetable, knew every arrival and departure. The train would be pulling out of the station in a matter of minutes.

  He urged the stallion onwards again, as if, through the sheer force of his will, horsepower could match steam power.

  The trees, the landscape flew past him in a wet blur. The rain made it harder for him to see in front of him, but still he rode on, fast and hard, trusting to the horse’s senses above his own, until at last he reached the station. He slid off the stallion and ran to the railway platform.

  It was empty except for the ticket master.

  ‘Sir Dominic!’ He bowed.

  Dominic grabbed the man’s arm. ‘The train?’ It was all he could get out.

  The ticket master nodded with pride. ‘On time as usual, Sir Dominic. You can always rely on the West Cornish Railway.’

  Dominic swallowed his reply.

  ‘The governess from up at the Hall was on the train today,’ said the ticket master, eyeing Dominic’s damp clothing. ‘I remembered what you said about her deserving special treatment. I made sure that she got a first-class ticket even though she only paid for a second-class fare. I escorted her to her seat myself, sir.’

  ‘How far did her ticket go?’

  ‘All the way to London.’

  ‘She told you nothing else?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Dominic bowed his head.

  ‘I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, Sir Dominic,’ the ticket master said, glancing at Dominic’s hand upon his sleeve. ‘Giving her that first-class fare.’

  Dominic cleared his throat.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, releasing the fellow and giving him a half-hearted pat on the shoulder. ‘Miss Wilmot deserves a first-class fare, wherever she goes.’

  He had to turn away.

  Dominic stared a
t the railway tracks.

  Damn his damned punctual trains.

  The governess had flown.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pass, thou deathlike type of pain;

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

  Maud couldn’t breathe.

  She was suffocating, pressed beneath a heavy weight that she could not fight. She tried to break free, to kick, to scream.

  With a cry, she woke up, shuddering in fright.

  The nightmare. She hadn’t experienced it for so long now, those horrors. Not since Dominic had come to her and pulled her out of the terrifying dream.

  ‘It’s all right.’ His low voice had been full of a strange tenderness. ‘You’re awake now. You’re safe. I’ve got you.’ His strong arms raised her up, out of the nightmarish depths.

  She had leaned into those arms. Her whole body had known instinctively that she was safe, protected from the horrors of the dream.

  Her heart still pounding in her chest, she opened her eyes and looked around the darkened room. In the gloom the shapes of the furniture were dark and mysterious.

  It wasn’t her bedroom at Pendragon Hall.

  Sir Dominic Jago wasn’t holding her in his arms.

  He never would again.

  Instead, Maud lay half-on, half-off the horsehair sofa in Martha’s sitting room. Gaslight from the lamp post outdoors streamed into the room at the edges of the curtains and she could hear the shouts and voices outside as men left the public house on the corner. It must be past closing time.

  She had only managed a few hours’ sleep. The sofa folded out at one end to form a chaise longue, but the resulting ‘bed’ was still narrow and slippery. She had become accustomed to her large, comfortable bed at Pendragon Hall, with its down-filled pillows and mattress. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep again tonight, but it wasn’t only because of the sofa. It would be impossible for the sense of terror to abate enough for her to rest.

  And—more devastating, by far—the heartbreak that had become her living reality. Day and night.

  She would never see Sir Dominic Jago again.

  She’d arrived at Martha’s to find her sister was now quite visibly pregnant. At least Maud would be able to help with the baby, if she stayed that long, but by then room would be even more tight.

  ‘Never mind,’ Martha had said firmly. ‘You can stay as long as you like.’ But Martha had cast an anxious glance at her husband, Albert, as she’d made the invitation, and Maud knew that it was too much to ask to stay for long.

  ‘I only want to stay for a few days,’ she’d said, quickly, even as her heart sank. ‘I am sure I can get another post as governess. Or perhaps I’ll try a school, or an orphanage.’

  In truth, she wasn’t sure of finding employment at all. Perhaps she would need to go abroad to find a post. To France, or somewhere in Europe. Or perhaps she would go further afield still, to another country such as Australia, where no one knew the name Maud Wilmot.

  She buried her face in her hands. Dominic had heard all those terrible allegations about her.

  The way he had looked at her in the woods...

  Her nails dug into her forehead. She simply couldn’t bear it.

  If only she had told him the truth from the start. But once she had taken the post as governess and had begun to care for Rosabel, she had found such peace at Pendragon Hall. She hadn’t wanted to risk her new-found sense of safety.

  It hadn’t only been timid Rosabel who had benefitted from their happy days in the grounds. Maud, too, had been healed by the wild beauty of the place, the woods, the gardens—the butterflies.

  Sanctuary.

  A vivarium.

  Dominic had seemed to know that she needed to be coaxed into spreading her wings, just like Rosabel.

  How she would miss the little girl. It had broken her heart not to say goodbye. She would have to hope that the little book of stories would give Rosabel some solace.

  Stories would give Maud no solace now. Not any more.

  But it wasn’t only Rosabel who had kept her wanting to stay at Pendragon Hall. She knew that now.

  On the train journey to London, as the wheels had whirred and the steam blew, over and over in her mind she kept reliving the time she had shared with Dominic. Their first meeting, when he had made her furious and determined not to show any attraction to him, even though, she realised now, she had been attracted to him from the start. The way he’d held her in his arms, the walks in the woods, the dinner and brandy, the time they had spent together...

  And his kiss.

  She touched her lips with her finger. His kiss had been imprinted on her, deep into her soul.

  Now it all seemed like a dream.

  Like a fairy tale.

  She never wanted to tell another fairy tale again. She didn’t believe in them any more. They were lies, fantasies. She’d told the stories of Princess Swallowtail, always believing, in her heart, that she, too, would have a happy ending.

  But there would be no happy ending for her. She would be destitute, unless she could find some way to earn a living and quickly. And even if, by some miracle, she secured a job? What sort of living would it be—a half-life, emotions stifled, living in fear of a master’s domineering interest.

  A half-life, without him.

  Maud got up from the horsehair sofa and crossed to the window. She clutched the bodice of her nightgown. In a few hours, the milk cart would come, clattering down the street.

  Soon, she would have to face the day and the dismal future that lay ahead.

  Without Dominic.

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a sandwich with your cup of tea, Maud?’

  Maud shook her head. ‘I am not hungry. But don’t concern yourself with me. You are the one who needs nurturing. Let me pour you another cup, Martha.’

  Her sister lifted up her teacup. ‘It was kind of you to prepare breakfast for me. But don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t eat any.’

  Maud smiled. ‘You need your rest. And I was already awake. I was happy to do so.’

  She didn’t tell Martha, of course, that she had spent a second night on the horsehair sofa barely sleeping at all.

  There was a rap at the front door.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Martha bustled out of the sitting room and into the hall. ‘It’s probably the postman.’

  Maud glanced towards the sitting room window. She could just make out a dark hansom cab drawn up outside, a rather smart carriage, from the little she could discern through the lace curtains.

  She heard the front door open. Then came Martha’s voice, sounding more high-pitched than usual.

  Then another voice.

  Maud froze, her teacup in her hand.

  His voice.

  His very faint Cornish accent, warming the clipped enunciation of a gentleman.

  Martha reopened the sitting room door. She stood there for a moment, blocking the entrance. Her pretty forehead was drawn into a frown. ‘Maud. There’s a visitor for you. It’s—’

  ‘I know who it is,’ Maud faltered.

  The teacup clattered on to the saucer as she laid it down with shaking fingers.

  Sir Dominic Jago entered the sitting room.

  His gaze sought hers. She could not tear her eyes away. He stood there in the doorway, completely oblivious to her sister, and simply looked at her with his dark eyes.

  The small room suddenly seemed even smaller. Her breath came short and fast. She was suddenly aware of how tall he was, as he stood in the doorframe, or perhaps the high ceilings and vast rooms of Pendragon Hall had altered her sense of proportion. Yet he did not seem at all discomfited by his surroundings, for, after an eternity, he seemed to recall himself and turned to smile at Martha.

  ‘I hope you do not mind me ca
lling unannounced,’ he said. Beneath the courteous tone, his voice was husky, even a little deeper than she remembered. ‘I’m sorry to intrude.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Martha replied, though clearly flustered, as she smoothed her apron gently over her stomach. ‘Might I offer you a cup of tea, Sir Dominic?’

  He lifted the carpetbag he held in his hand. ‘I do not wish to intrude on your hospitality. I came to bring your sister’s belongings.’

  He turned to Maud, who was still seated as if frozen in place, by the tea table. She had never imagined he would come himself.

  ‘I received your letter of resignation,’ he said. ‘I would like to have a few words with you, if you will permit it. Please believe me—I have no wish to discomfit you, Miss Wilmot. None at all.’

  Maud inclined her head. She could do no more.

  Her sister looked from one to the other, her eyes resting searchingly upon Maud’s face.

  Then she nodded. Martha lifted up the tea tray. ‘I’ll just clear the tea things.’

  Dominic bowed and moved aside as Martha bustled out into the hall.

  The door closed.

  Dominic turned and looked directly at Maud.

  Her eyes drank him in. He looked the same, the sculpted jaw, the dark, brooding eyes. But there were shadows beneath them now, as if he, too, hadn’t slept. Yet that sense of suppressed purpose, of energy around him, remained palpable.

  He, too, took her in, his gaze running over her. Yet his face revealed no expression that she could make out; his emotions reined in.

  ‘I never expected to see you again,’ she whispered.

  ‘Did you not think I would come? I did not expect to find you gone. I thought you would wait for me at Pendragon Hall.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She twisted her fingers, over and over. ‘I tried to explain in my letter. I couldn’t stay.’

  He studied her for a moment, taking her all in. Maud wished for a fleeting moment that she’d taken more care with her hair this morning. What would he see before him? A drab woman in a grey dress, her hair scraped back into an unbecoming bun and her eyes ringed with shadows, no doubt. She’d seen them in the looking glass that morning.