Dominic gripped the jar.
As they watched, Rosabel ran out into the sunlight.
* * *
A twig snapped.
Maud shrieked.
‘Miss Wilmot!’
An owl screeched as she spun around, her boots slipping in the soft grass. Her breath came in jagged, painful gasps.
Her shawl fell back from her head. ‘Sir Dominic!’
He bowed slightly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I seem to be making a habit of it.’
She drew her shawl tight. Her whole body shook. ‘I didn’t hear you come up behind me.’
‘I can see that.’ He cast an eye over her as she stood before him.
She became aware of the rise and fall of her bodice as she clutched the shawl. Her heart was still pounding, her breath coming fast.
He stepped back. ‘I meant no cause for alarm. I noticed a light here in the bushes and recalled what you told me about moth-hunting.’
Maud glanced around. She hadn’t gone right into the woods, just stayed at the edge, among some of the oaks and blackthorn bushes. ‘Is there any difficulty in my being here?’
He shook his head. ‘Not in the least. I merely thought I would take the opportunity to thank you for what you did for Rosabel today.’
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ Maud replied as she counted her breaths, trying to slow them.
‘We both know that there is.’ He studied her. ‘Are you all right now?’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I mean, you surprised me.’ Her breath still came in those painful, jagged gasps. Tremors tore at her body like fingers. Ever since what had happened, as she now thought of it as a way of both trying to deal with it and keep the memories at bay, she had become easily startled. She jumped if someone entered the room unexpectedly, or even at a loud noise. Her nerves were strained, she knew, fluttering like a butterfly in a net.
He stood silently as she tried to regain her composure, his face half in darkness, half in lamplight.
Maud lifted her head to let the cool night air fan her face. ‘I didn’t mean to shriek.’
He pushed back his hair from his brow. His signet ring gleamed. ‘You gave the night owls a run for their money.’
He continued to study her, as if trying to assess her reaction. ‘If I may say, you don’t seem the type to startle easily.’
‘What type do I seem?’
His mouth quirked. ‘I am still making you out.’
Her stomach fluttered. His scrutiny was unnerving.
‘Miss Wilmot,’ he said, after a moment, ‘I believe we got off to a bad start and I am sorry for that. I am in your debt for what you have achieved with Rosabel in such a short amount of time.’
Maud drew back, stunned. She had never expected him to say such a thing.
‘Rosabel’s achievements are her own,’ she protested.
‘That is very modest of you, Miss Wilmot, but it is not entirely the case. You have more than proved your competence as a governess.’
‘Thank you,’ she said simply. It was what she taught her charges. To accept a compliment with grace. But it was more difficult, coming, as it did, with an apology from Sir Dominic Jago.
‘Changes make things difficult for Rosabel,’ he said. ‘After having lost her mother, new governesses, one after another…’
She nodded.
‘I understand,’ she said gently. More than he realised, perhaps.
He exhaled. ‘I believe you shared my pleasure at witnessing the butterfly emerge.’
‘I believe I did.’ She couldn’t deny it.
He glanced over to where she had placed the lamp carefully on the ground. ‘I have never seen moth-hunting before.’
Maud pointed to the lamp. Even burning low, a variety of moths were drawn to it, some of them large, some small, in shades of brown, white and grey. They fluttered around it now. It silvered their wings. ‘Moths are attracted to light, of course, and I can only catch them at night. They are interesting to compare to butterflies.’
‘I needed some air myself tonight,’ he admitted. ‘The railway is keeping me busy.’
‘Surely the railway doesn’t run at night,’ Maud said lightly. He’d said something similar to her about butterflies.
His smile was fleeting in the lamplight. ‘Trains need more than coal to keep them running. They need money. The West Cornish Railway Company needs other investors and needs them urgently. I am committed to connecting Cornwall to the rest of the world. The line has to expand, in both terms of track miles and more carriages and customers, or it will fail, taking away opportunities for all the workers and travellers, along with trade. The West Cornish Railway lacks funds and it is my job to find it. Failure is not an option, Miss Wilmot.’
‘It’s a big responsibility.’ It explained why his light was so often burning in the library, late at night.
‘Many people depend on me. It’s important for me to increase work and prosperity in Cornwall. My father was not a man of business and Pendragon Hall needs more than rents to keep going. I have been working hard to not only improve my father’s estate but the lives of all those nearby. There have been Jagos in this area for centuries. Once, they were tenant farmers, not landowners. I do not forget that. I have a horror of taking advantage of those who work for a living.’
He exhaled. ‘The railway needs my full attention at this crucial stage. Investment is essential if it is to reach its full potential, and investors must be found and cultivated. I must admit, it is the part of the business I like least, but unless money is found to ensure the prosperity of the line, my hopes and dreams for the railway may never come true. We need investors urgently.’
‘The West Cornish Railway is a fine train line,’ she protested. ‘Surely investors will be keen to support it.’
‘That is very kind of you to say, but there is little money here in my county and Cornwall has always struggled to gain English investment.’
‘You speak as if Cornwall and England are two different lands.’
‘To a Cornishman they are,’ he said. ‘We are accepted by English, but also not accepted. Not quite.’
‘Like governesses,’ Maud said. ‘We, too, are outsiders. Between stairs.’
‘I had not thought of it that way. Then we are alike, it seems.’
Silence fell over them again, like a net. She felt no wish to break it, as the moths fluttered by.
Nor, it appeared, did he. It was some moments later that he bowed. ‘I have imposed upon your leisure time. I will wish you goodnight, Miss Wilmot. Happy hunting.’
He vanished into the darkness.
Maud stared after him. What he’d told her about the railway line explained a great deal. He was a hard-working man, a driven one, committed to the people who relied upon him.
But it was a heavy burden to carry alone.
Picking up her lamp and net, she slowly made her way back to the house.
CHAPTER FIVE
’Tis a morning pure and sweet;
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
Dominic leaned back on his horse. ‘Whoa, Taran.’
On the gravel drive he paused and looked across the lawn to where Miss Wilmot and Rosabel were busy with their botany activities, as they had been every morning, without fail, for the past few weeks. Her unusual methods had continued to work. He had now become accustomed to stopping and watching them before he rode off to spend most of the day at the railway office, just as he had become accustomed to spending the early part of his evening in the nursery listening to Miss Wilmot tell one of her butterfly fables.
He had to admit it had become a most pleasant pastime.
This morning, he had been observing them more closely than usual. Usually, they carried butterfly nets with long wooden handles. Rosabel’s was some inches shorter than the governess’s n
et. Miss Wilmot’s also appeared to be adjustable. She was able to lengthen or shorten it with a sharp flick of her fingers, as if she were fly-fishing. At first, she had spent a great deal of time demonstrating to Rosabel how to leap and jump to make the best use of a net, much to Dominic’s hidden amusement. He had almost laughed out loud at one particularly adventurous swipe through the air, but he’d restrained himself. She hadn’t looked much older than Rosabel, with her enthusiasm and energy as, with her net aloft, she almost flew through the air.
It was in sharp contrast to the reserved, almost reproving manner with which she treated him, even after their nighttime encounter. He could not fault her behaviour in that regard. There was a distance between them that, to his amazement, he almost regretted. His initial warning had been entirely unnecessary, he realised, with some chagrin. She did not seek him out. She kept any conversation with him to a minimum. Each night she told her tale, bid Rosabel goodnight and vanished into the cocoon of her bedroom.
But his daughter was thriving under her care. Miss Wilmot had proved to be a gift and he had been able to relax in that regard, at least. Rosabel’s increased appetite, pink cheeks and general air of happiness showed that the new governess’s routine was continuing to make a difference. Miss Wilmot was much more than a good storyteller. She possessed that rare gift of being able to enchant children into learning. The stories she told each night were full of charm, but they also carried information, and usually held an intriguing lesson that would lead Rosabel out of doors the next day.
He had become intrigued himself.
As well as butterfly-catching, the pair of them seemed to spend a great deal of time hunting for caterpillars, or at least that was what he presumed they were doing. It was something he had never thought he would see Rosabel do. But there she was, digging among the bushes and plants and emerging with her white pinafore covered with dirt, her normally neat ringlets a mass of wild curls. Miss Wilmot was often not much better. She, too, was not averse to diving into the undergrowth, and, as it had this morning, her bonnet generally fell back completely, revealing curls that rivalled Rosabel’s ringlets in a shade that he now saw had warm reddish lights in the sunlight.
This morning there had been even more activity than usual. Netta, the nursemaid, and other kitchen staff had been going to and from the Hall, carrying more glass pickling bottles and jars, with Miss Wilmot directing their placement in certain areas of the garden. From the smiling response and interest of the servants, he gauged that the new governess was far more popular than any previous governess had been. She also seemed entirely unaware that there was foliage in her hair.
Dominic slid off the stallion’s back.
* * *
‘Watch me, Miss Wilmot!’ Rosabel ran across the lawn, her butterfly net aloft. The sun beamed down on grass that still held the faintest touches of morning dew.
Maud laughed. ‘That’s right, Rosabel. Keep chasing them!’
On the gravel drive that led to the large iron gates, she had seen Sir Dominic astride a black stallion, a huge animal with a glossy coat. He often stopped and watched them, she’d noted, before he rode away. But this morning he’d turned the horse, dismounted and led it across the grass.
When he reached her, he pulled up the horse beside him with a casual turn of his wrist.
‘Good morning.’ He bowed. His riding coat was as black as the horse’s mane, but his head was bare. ‘It’s good to see Rosabel so often out of doors. I must congratulate you on your methods.’
Maud nodded stiffly. Even though she had been at Pendragon Hall for a few weeks now, she made sure she never sought out Sir Dominic. He came and listened to her telling of The Butterfly Fables each night, but she carefully avoided being in his presence at all other times. It was imperative, in the circumstances. She must be certain not to lower her guard.
‘Butterflies are more often out in the morning,’ she said now.
‘As is Rosabel, of late.’ He moved the reins from one leather-gloved hand to the other as the horse shifted. ‘I am continuing to enjoy listening to her bedtime stories.’ His mouth curved in that half-smile again. ‘You are something of a Scheherazade, entertaining us with her tales of one thousand and one Arabian Nights.’
‘I do not seek to be an enchantress, Sir Dominic,’ she replied with severity. What, did he think her a modern Scheherazade, luring her king into love by means of bedroom tales? He might think she had designs upon him, or, heaven forfend, romantic notions. She had no intention of implying any such intentions on her behalf. ‘Nor, I believe, did Scheherazade. She was simply a woman who had the power of storytelling.’
‘Forgive me.’ Amusement gleamed in his dark eyes. ‘I merely meant to praise you for your teaching methods.’
Maud lifted her chin. ‘I am fully confident in their merit.’
He sketched her a small bow. ‘You have already proved their worth, Miss Wilmot. Please do not think I have any complaints.’
‘Papa! Miss Wilmot!’ Rosabel raced over to them, the butterfly net now cupped in her hands. ‘I’ve caught a butterfly!’
Maud clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, well done, Rosabel!’
Rosabel danced with excitement. ‘Is it Princess Swallowtail?’
‘Let’s look. Gently now.’ Carefully, Maud took the net and covered the hooped steel top with a white cotton handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. She loosened the net, giving the butterfly room to move.
‘It is a small blue butterfly,’ she said. ‘A male. His Latin name is cupido, named for Cupid, the little god of love. He is a good friend of Princess Swallowtail’s. Look at the colour on his wings. He is one of the tiniest butterflies in England.’
‘He’s so small,’ breathed Rosabel.
‘Yes, but he’s a good flier. Shall we keep him or set him free?’
‘Surely Cupid should fly free,’ murmured Sir Dominic.
Rosabel nodded.
‘Very well.’ Throwing off the handkerchief, Maud gave the butterfly net a shake. The dark blue butterfly fluttered momentarily in the net, then caught the opening and flew across the lawn towards the woods.
Rosabel clapped her hands in delight.
‘Bravo, Miss Wilmot,’ Sir Dominic Jago said. ‘Another success.’
‘It was Rosabel who caught the butterfly,’ Maud responded.
‘I wasn’t referring to the butterfly,’ he replied.
Maud glanced up at him.
His eyes were on Rosabel, pink-cheeked and laughing, before his gaze met hers.
Understanding flashed between them.
Instantly Maud broke the connection.
‘Shall we go and see if we can find some other butterflies in the woods?’ she asked Rosabel quickly. ‘We don’t need to go far.’
‘You can go as far as you wish, Miss Wilmot,’ Sir Dominic said. ‘Pendragon Woods are part of the estate.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We’re going to have a picnic in the woods, Papa,’ Rosabel said. ‘Miss Wilmot says that everything tastes better out of doors. Can you come, too?’
He smiled at his daughter. ‘Another time, I hope, if Miss Wilmot will allow it.’
‘Of course,’ Maud replied.
He bowed again.
Maud took Rosabel by the hand, the butterfly net in the other. She was aware of him still standing with his horse as they walked away.
* * *
When they returned from the woods a little later, there was no sign of Sir Dominic Jago. Not that she had been looking for him, she reproved herself.
A carriage had drawn up at in front of the house, and, with the help of a footman, a woman was descending, her hooped taffeta skirt swaying in the breeze. The fabric shimmered as if it were the ocean itself.
Maud sighed. The dress was so beautiful. With Rosabel’s hand still in hers, she moved closer, across the lawn.
The woman turned. She was probably the most fashionable woman Maud had ever seen, even in London, she thought, half-dazzled. Her hair was dark and her long-lashed eyes were an unusual blue-green, a light turquoise that matched the velvet of the ribbons that held her black cape.
With an imperious, gloved hand, she beckoned.
Maud stiffened. She disliked being summoned in such a way, but it would be rude not to respond. She had to be careful, always, to be polite to visitors to the house. It was part of the role of a governess.
The woman looked Maud up and down as they drew near, as if Maud were a specimen on a pin. ‘You must be the new governess. Dominic has mentioned you.’
Maud inclined her head. Governesses did not curtsy or bob, in general, but she always aimed to be courteous. ‘Yes. I am Miss Wilmot. How do you do?’
‘I am Averill Trevose.’ The other woman’s voice was crisp and high. ‘Soon to be mistress of Pendragon Hall.’
CHAPTER SIX
When all my spirit reels;
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
Maud almost dropped the butterfly net.
So, Sir Dominic Jago was engaged to be married. No wonder he had been at such pains to tell her that he did not want governesses chasing after him. But it still came as a shock that he had not informed her of his impending wedding.
Yet why should he? she chided herself. He was not required to disclose his personal affairs to her.
‘My apologies,’ Maud said. ‘I wasn’t aware that Sir Dominic was engaged.’
Two red spots appeared on Miss Averill Trevose’s cheeks.
‘Our engagement has not been formally announced, not that it is any concern of yours. I am mistress here in all but name, and soon I will have that, too.’ She spoke with all the assurance of a woman who always got what she wanted. Maud knew that haughty tone. She’d come across it in her previous employment—it emanated from women who wanted their desires met instantly, who expected Maud to fetch and carry for them, even though her role as governess was not that of a general servant.
Averill tossed her glossy ringlets. ‘I told Dominic that I could take charge of employing his servants. He has had such trouble with governesses. How they chase him! But I understand you are something of a bluestocking.’
Harlequin Historical May 2020--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 49
