The Master's New Governess (HQR Historical)

by Eliza Redgold

  It was exactly what she had feared: somebody connected to her family sat mere inches away, currently fussing with his greatcoat but soon enough likely to take a better look at his travelling companions. He might know her—hadn’t the man visited Fenwick Manor on more than one occasion? It could take him a second to fit together the pieces of the puzzle, but how long until he spoke her name and every eye in the coach turned to look at the woman fleeing from a marriage brokered by people who cared not three straws for her happiness?

  The horses began to move and the carriage creaked forward, the bookkeeper now smoothing down the knees of his trousers. Finally satisfied everything was as it should be he glanced about the carriage again—at last noticing Sophia’s stiff form seated next to the window and looking for all the world as though she wished she could burst through it.

  She screwed her eyes closed, turning her head away to conceal her flushed cheeks and the tic of fear she felt working in the muscle of her jaw. If Lord Thruxton’s man were to recognise her now all would be lost. He’d never believe she had permission to be riding post at past midnight, dressed as a maid of all things, and in his good intentions would no doubt return her to the one place she wanted nothing more than to never see again.

  For one golden moment she thought perhaps her luck had held. The man didn’t address her and when she dared open one eye she saw his gaze fixed on the floor—but then he leaned towards her and Sophia felt her lungs empty at his polite frown.

  ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am... I wasn’t sure at first, but now I think I must be right. Might you be—?’

  She felt her mouth open in a grimace of horror, hardly hearing the rest of his enquiry.

  He knows me. He knows me and he’ll try to take me back.

  The picture of Septimus’s face swam before her, handsome as ever but with cruelty etched in every line, and her throat clenched at once. To be handed back to him made her feel faint with terror. Neither Mother nor her stepfather would be in the least concerned should Septimus decide to abuse his new wife. He would be allowed to treat Sophia however he chose and the sad fate of her predecessor was enough to convince her that his choice would be unbearable.

  That poor woman will spend the rest of her life in an asylum and still she believed that a better path than to remain as his wife. Whatever Septimus did to drive her to such desperation is not something I wish to uncover for myself.

  The bookkeeper still watched her with growing unease and Sophia took a deep breath in. She would have to do something if she wanted to slip free of his dangerous concern for her, and she would have to do it fast.

  Sophia rose to her feet so quickly the man fell back in surprise, his eyes widening as she stood above him and hammered on the roof.

  ‘Stop the coach! I wish to get out!’

  The coach jerked roughly as the driver brought the horses up short, the other passengers jolting in their seats and reaching to steady themselves in alarm. The elderly gentleman called out but Sophia paid him no mind as she wrenched the door open and half fell down the step, snagging her cloak as she went but stopping for nobody.

  Her feet hit the ground harder than she’d expected and for a second she stumbled, but she righted herself and without pausing for breath waded through the scrub that edged the pitted road and bolted between the first bank of waving trees.

  ‘Miss Thruxton! Come back!’

  The words echoed in the air behind her, slicing through the quiet of the night, although Sophia didn’t stop to look back over her shoulder. All she could think was that she needed to run, and keep on running, until the light of the carriage’s lanterns was swallowed by darkness and the voices were replaced by the soft rustle of leaves in the midnight breeze.

  In every direction the forest stood about her like a labyrinth, the straight trees guarding her flight through the gloom so dense she could hardly see her hand in front of her face. Fleeing like a deer from hunters her breathing grew ragged as she blundered amid undergrowth and sharp branches that reached down to catch at her clothes, but still she kept up her blind charge, one foot in front of the other with no thought in mind but escape.

  Sophia was falling before she had the chance to realise what was happening, her dress catching and the breath forced from her body by the ground hurtling up to meet her. Rolling in a tangle of long skirts down a steep slope, she came to a violent stop against a gnarled old tree—and felt her head spin with sudden agony as pain bloomed like a flower in her left leg.

  She tried to sit up, but a grating sensation scattered stars in front of her eyes and she folded back again, chest heaving in mute despair at the hopeless predicament she found herself trapped in. Another attempt at moving was met with equal failure, all strength stolen from her shaking limbs by pain, shock and the effort of running faster and further than she ever had before.

  How did this happen? How did my plan go so badly awry?

  She licked dry lips, fighting the growing wave of fear that rose inside her. There was no way she could get up, let alone continue her aimless journey to a destination she didn’t even know.

  Lying alone in the forest with no hope of walking and too dark to find my way even if I could. Perhaps this is what I deserve for disobeying Mother and trying to cheat the destiny I was intended to have. Whatever made me think I deserved anything more, after what I did?

  How long she lay for Sophia couldn’t tell, her head swimming with pain and nausea swirling in her stomach. The leaf canopy that stirred above was thick and no moonlight slipped through to dapple the damp ground, only darkness and the whispers of the sleeping forest surrounding her as she closed her eyes and prayed for deliverance.

  * * *

  Something cold and wet pressing against her hand woke Sophia from her doze, feeble daylight casting a green haze over the forest floor. For a moment, the unexpected sensation almost succeeded in distracting her from the throbbing in her leg, before awareness set in once more to make her draw in a harsh breath.

  A scruffy-looking dog gazed at her sympathetically, raising his nose from her hand and his ears twitching backwards at her wince. They moved again as a voice came from somewhere behind Sophia’s resting place—a man’s voice, cutting through the brush to set her heart pounding with sick apprehension.

  ‘Lash? Where are you?’

  The swish of boots through long grass grew closer and Sophia attempted to push herself up from her bed of fallen leaves, desperate despite the fresh lights that flickered before her eyes as she moved. She dug her fingers into the rough bark of the tree at her back, feeling every muscle shriek from lying all night on the hard earth and her injured leg wanting to buckle beneath her as she hauled herself upright.

  As soon as she was on her feet she knew she’d made a mistake. A hot gush flowed to pool in her shoe and the crackle of pain that fluttered made her cry out before she could bite it back. By the sounds of it the stranger was still approaching, the dog at her side gently waving his tail as his master drew near, and although every instinct screamed at her to run Sophia could no more hobble away than she could have flown. The unpleasant, liquid warmth still tickled on her skin and, swaying slightly, she reached down to press her shaking hand against it—just as a man appeared around her tree.

  He stopped abruptly, dark eyebrows cinching together as one quick look must have taken in her bedraggled clothes and breathing fast and erratic. She in turn had just enough time to note the concern on his face—a handsome face, at that, she thought with a glimmer of surprise—before she saw the blood that slicked her fingers, and her eyes closed again in a dead faint that sent her crumpling back to the ground.

  * * *

  Fell Barden regarded the figure sprawled across his boots for a moment in silence. At his side Lash looked down at her likewise and the two exchanged a glance Fell could have sworn the dog understood.

  Didn’t expect to find this while looking for kindling, did
we?

  A young woman falling at his feet wasn’t something he could recall experiencing before—and certainly not such a pretty one, he saw with faint bemusement. She lay among the leaves with her bonnet half off, exposing a great swathe of fiery hair, and the bloodless colour of her face was more than countered by the scarlet stain spreading across the cream fabric of her skirts. Who she was and how she came to be unconscious in the forest he had no idea, only that she’d looked terrified to see him in the split second before she collapsed, eyes the colour of sea-glass stretched wide in fear and pain that immediately set alarm bells ringing. By the look of her she’d been out all night, muddied and bleeding in the dewy dawn with no obvious explanation of where she came from—or where she might be going.

  The dog sniffed cautiously at the red splash on the stranger’s torn gown and Fell ushered him away with the toe of his boot, crouching warily to look closer. It didn’t take a doctor to see the woman had hurt her leg, one ankle twisted at an angle, but it was the jagged slash to her shin that made him suck a breath in between his teeth. Although congealing slightly the wound had evidently opened up again at her attempts to move and with practised speed Fell staunched the worst of the bleeding with his own knotted kerchief.

  ‘No wonder she didn’t run. That must have hurt like the devil.’

  He frowned, the already-creased plane of his forehead crinkling further. She couldn’t be left where she was, that was obvious, but what should he do with her? He could hardly take her back to his modest cottage with the forge, standing some distance apart from the other houses in Woodford Common behind a screen of trees. The woman would wake soon, no doubt, and be frightened half to death at finding herself alone with him, crippled by her injury and unable to escape...

  But where else is there?

  There was nobody in the village likely to help him, he thought with dark certainty as he rocked back on his heels, hoping for a flash of inspiration. Every community had its black sheep, the one only fit to live on the fringes and draw sideways looks from the rest—and Woodford Common had outdone itself, boasting a half-Roma bastard from who knew what English father. The villagers might tolerate him now for his skill with iron and anvil, but for all his thirty-one years Fell had known how far beneath them he was considered—until he himself had come to accept his lack of value and that he would never truly belong.

  Ma had given birth to him in the forest like an animal, the village gossips were maliciously delighted to repeat time and again, a young Romani girl nobody had seen before, alone and unmarried and barely more than a child herself. It was nothing short of a miracle the parish rector had been visiting Woodford at the time and found her, later giving Ma a position in his household as a maid. That had drawn much protest among the busybodies of the community, but Rector Frost stood firm: let he without sin cast the first stone, he’d ruled, showing Fell’s mother the Christian charity some of his congregation preferred to preach rather than to practise. Essea Barden and her baby boy had been allowed to stay, Ma grateful beyond measure to her rescuer, but guarding the secrets of where she had come from and the name of Fell’s father with a determination nothing could touch.

  Fell tapped his fingers on his stubbled chin, vaguely feeling the black bristles. If only the good rector was still alive, surely he would have cared for this mysterious woman, but he had passed away long ago and his replacement had shown little interest in the illegitimate son of a former servant. In truth, there wasn’t anyone Fell trusted enough to ask for help and, with a sigh of resignation, he carefully gathered the unconscious shape into his arms.

  ‘Looks like we’ll be having a guest at breakfast today.’

  The dog stirred his wiry tail as if in agreement as Fell straightened up, the bundle of woman he carried as still and passive as a doll. She weighed next to nothing, a mere scrap of a thing wrapped in a cheap cloak and her face, scattered with an Orion’s belt of freckles, relaxed as though in the depths of sleep. Whether it was fear, pain or the sight of the blood on her fingers that had rendered her insensible he didn’t know, but Fell’s brows twitched briefly as a gleam of concern sparked swiftly into life.

  What can she have been doing, out here all alone? The night’s no safe place for a woman on her own—and especially not a woman like this.

  She was an undeniable beauty, he’d seen at once with a flicker of interest, even if his more rational side had no desire to notice. With a bright copper mane and delicate features the stranger was a rare sight and no mistake, and Fell found himself uncomfortably pleased by the feeling of warmth his soft burden spilled across his chest as he walked, a sensation he hadn’t felt since...

  Give that a rest.

  He shied away from the thought, the memories it dragged along with it nothing he wanted to revisit. Shunting the ghosts of the past back into the shadows where they belonged was second nature now, years of practice honing the skill until usually he could manage it with ease—but something about the shape of a woman in his arms again threatened to unleash the flood, snatches of images long repressed rising to break through the walls.

  Charity’s eyes were brown, not green, and instead of copper her hair was the colour of wheat.

  The memory tried to close its hands around his throat, but he flung it away, square jaw hardening in determination. One woman was quite enough to contend with without echoes of the past clamouring for his attention, too. If the stranger he carried stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in years, he’d pay it no mind, and certainly not while she lay unconscious against the rough front of his shirt. When she awoke she would doubtless be frightened and dazed, and nothing in his conduct should give her cause for additional alarm—even if the fine lines of her face tempted him to glance down more than once to take another look.

  Lash padded ahead of his master and Fell followed with rising apprehension. This wasn’t at all how the day had been meant to start. He’d wanted to gather some kindling and cook breakfast before stoking the fire in the forge, melting iron for the best horseshoes for miles. The villagers of Woodford Common might not truly accept him but they couldn’t argue with the quality of his work—the one part of his existence about which Fell felt any measure of pride. Everything else about him was submerged in the doubt, uncertainty and feelings of inadequacy he’d had, despite Ma’s best efforts, since he was a child.

  It was bittersweet when she returned to visit now. Fell could never shake a pang of something close to jealousy when she would arrive with no notice, slipping down from her horse with a cry of delight at his emergence from the forge. Ma was so sure of who she was, what she was and where she belonged, a certainty that always seemed to slip through Fell’s fingers when he tried to grasp hold of it. Neither fully Roma nor fully English, he wavered somewhere between the two worlds, never knowing where his true place lay or what identity he should adopt. Any talk about his father was skilfully dodged, but the question left a huge hole only shame and vague resentment of his mother’s impenetrable secrecy could fill, her stubborn concealment of the truth fostering tension between them even now he was grown. The taint of bastardy followed Fell wherever he went, both his illegitimacy and his Roma blood securing his place among the lowest of Woodford’s residents.

  Not that I’m not used to it by now. I’ve had long enough to see how the world works.

  * * *

  His mystery guest had grown heavier by the time his cottage reared up out of the trees in front of him, watching his approach with friendly windows beneath a thick brow of thatch. Another snatched glimpse at her face showed her eyes still closed, amber lashes sweeping on to pale cheeks to free another glimmer of appreciation Fell set firmly aside. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been a frail grandmother, or a tiny child, he would still have taken her in. The fact she fitted neither of those descriptions, but was instead the kind of young woman a more foolish man might lose his head for, made not a bit of difference.

  A ki
ck with one large boot was enough to dislodge the door and Fell stooped to enter the low building without hitting his head, crossing with only the barest hesitation to place the woman across his own bed. She lay without moving, only the steady rise and fall of her chest signalling she wasn’t made of wax as Fell awkwardly removed her bonnet, his eye drawn to the patch of darkening blood drying stubbornly on her skirt.

  That’ll need tending before anything else.

  He watched her for a moment before turning away. Hot water, cloth for bandages, rags to clean the wound... There were various things he’d require and none of them immediately to hand. With a sigh of resignation he raised an eyebrow at the dog sitting at his feet, who responded with a thump of that straggly tail.

  ‘Perhaps there won’t be time for breakfast after all.’

  Copyright © 2020 by Joanna Johnson

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  ISBN: 9781488065699

  The Master's New Governess

  Copyright © 2020 by Eliza Redgold

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.