For weeks now, she had slept through the night. From the moment she laid her head on the pillow, she slept peacefully. When she awoke, she felt different, more light-hearted then she had in months.
Alert.
Alive.
The days at Pendragon Hall now formed a pleasant pattern. Lessons and nature walks with Rosabel. The bedside story, which Sir Dominic never missed. Her night walks and some moth-hunting, if the weather was good. And if the weather was inclement, as it had been on a number of occasions, a quiet evening in the study by the fireside, in the company of Sir Dominic. Mostly, she read by the fire while he worked at the desk, running his fingers through his hair in an unconscious gesture that she had observed was habitual to him. Sometimes they would exchange conversation before the clock chimed ten, about Rosabel’s progress, or what she was reading, or his work. Once, she had even tried to help him with the train timetable.
She watched the morning light play at the edges of the brocade curtains.
Sir Dominic’s figure by the side of the bed came back to her. That was how it had all started, when he had awoken her from the nightmare. The stern man she had first met had vanished for ever, transformed into the man who had held her so close, who had sat by the fire with her and shown concerned interest in her previous life. The unexpected connection, the sense of understanding and warmth between them had calmed her, body and mind.
She hadn’t been able to tell him much, of course. That had not changed. Nor could she talk for too long about her supposed previous employment, for that could lead to dangerous questions. She had quizzed Martha on her sister’s previous position—demanded detailed descriptions of the children just in case she was called upon to substantiate her identity. But descriptions were not the same as knowing the children, or the household. She could not be sure she would not slip up if put on the spot.
She had never foreseen such difficulties. The lie shadowed each interaction she had with Sir Dominic and it went against her nature. She had always prided herself on being straightforward and honest.
She winced. It caused her physical pain, to go against her usual truthfulness. If only she did not need to tell such a story to stay at Pendragon Hall, where she no longer felt so desperately alone. Oh, she had tried to hide it, with her chin up and her stern governess air. But she had been forced to cope with so much, on her own.
She threw back the covers and rose from the bed as lightly as if she had grown wings. She smiled at the thought. At the window she pulled back the curtains. The moon had gone and in its place sunlight dappled the lawn. It was a perfect morning. She would take Rosabel out to the woods as soon as they had eaten breakfast and they would search for butterflies, for once feeling as light and free as those delicately winged creatures.
With a spring in her step, she collected her breakfast tray with its tea and toast from outside her bedroom door and dressed quickly, for when she glanced at the small clock by her bed, she realised she had overslept. That, too, was new. As she put on her familiar grey dress, she had an unexpected urge to choose a garment with more colour.
She looked at the green evening gown in her wardrobe. It was the only dress she owned that wasn’t in a drab shade. But of course, she could not wear an evening gown during the day, she thought with a chuckle, even if it did accord so well with her new mood. Instead, she took out a piece of green velvet ribbon and wound it around her index finger.
She’d not cared to draw any attention to herself for so long. Focusing her attention on others had helped keep the dreadful sensations in her mind and body at bay.
But after a quick nod at herself in the looking glass, she rapidly bundled her long tresses into a slightly different style than usual. She still wore it up, of course, but it was not in such a strictly confined bun. Tendrils curled about her face rather than being scraped back, and she tied the green velvet ribbon around her bun in a bow, its ends floating free. She glanced at the clock. She needed to hurry. It had taken longer than usual to style her hair.
* * *
‘Good morning, Miss Wilmot.’ A now-familiar deep voice greeted her as she hastened down the stairs.
Sir Dominic stood in the hall, next to the silver tray that held the morning mail, flicking through the envelopes with his long fingers.
He looked up.
Her foot slipped. She grabbed hold of the banister.
‘Good morning, Sir Dominic.’
They never strayed beyond their formal roles as master and governess, in spite of the increasing amount of time they spent together, she realised, as she took another step down the stairs. She lowered her gaze, keeping her hand on the smooth wooden rail. Yes, better not to fall.
When she ventured another glance at her employer, it was to find him smiling at her. It was as well she had almost finished her descent, for the effect was positively dizzying. It was a smile of reassurance, almost of conspiracy, that sent a warmth through her body, but contributed absolutely nothing to her steadiness.
She felt her own lips widen in reply.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask. How are you sleeping now?’ he enquired in an undertone.
‘Much better,’ she replied. ‘Thank you. I have not had a nightmare for some time.’
‘That’s good news.’ He exhaled. ‘That night was an unusual occurrence. An aberration. I hope you know that I would not have entered your bedroom under any other circumstances, except the thought that you were in danger.’
His words reverberated within her, soothing and healing her in the same way his arms had soothed and healed her that night, as if he touched her again.
‘The brandy you had that night did the trick, then,’ he said.
It wasn’t the brandy. It was you.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say those words. She stopped herself just in time. It was the truth; she knew that. But if she said such a thing it would have sounded as if she were attracted to him, like all those other governesses.
And it wasn’t his smile that made her sway and grasp at the banister this time. It was the realisation forming in her brain.
Shocking.
Unthinkable.
‘Yes, it must have been the brandy,’ she managed to reply.
Suddenly, she wasn’t sure if she could stand upright, let alone go any further down the stairs. ‘I must have some more. Brandy, I mean. But not with you. I mean, I won’t make a habit of it.’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘It’s all right. You don’t seem to me to be one of those kinds of governesses.’
‘Those kinds of governesses?’ Her voice came out in a squeak. Had he read her mind?
‘The kind who drink brandy every night.’
‘Oh!’ Maud gave a breathless, nervous laugh. ‘No, of course not. I’m not one of those kinds of governesses. Not at all. Please, excuse me, Sir Dominic. I have left something in my room.’
She spun on her heel and disappeared up the stairs with as much speed as decorum would allow.
* * *
Dominic stared after Miss Wilmot. The ends of a green ribbon in her hair wafted after her like butterfly wings.
What had he said to send her flying away like that? After all the time they had spent together recently, he was surprised by her reaction. There had been nervousness in her again. He’d hoped that she felt more at ease with him now. Perhaps she regretted the familiarity that had developed between them in the past weeks and wanted to re-establish some propriety.
Not that there was any real impropriety between them, of course. No master and governess could be seemlier as they sat together in the evenings. They were often alone in his study, it was true, but their relationship was purely a professional one. No, he corrected himself. It was more companionable than that, but no decorum had been breached, not since he had been forced to enter her bedroom, that night he had heard her terrible cries.
It still
bothered him, that anguished nightmare of hers. The agony in her expression. He’d never pressed her to confide in him. That would have been inappropriate, even though, to his wry amazement, he had begun to confide in her. She had such a way of waiting for him to speak that seemed to bring out in him a need to talk that he’d never been aware of before. But he respected her privacy.
He was pleased to hear that she was sleeping well. The dark smudges under her eyes had almost disappeared. They’d been steadily diminishing and the roses were coming into her cheeks, just as they were to Rosabel’s. She’d looked brighter, happier—at least, she had before she’d raced off like that.
He looked down at the letters in his hand. One was half out of its envelope. It was not addressed to him, but to Miss Wilmot. He would have to tell her that the flap had not been sealed correctly, for he did not want her to think that her letters were opened at Pendragon Hall.
As he slid the letter back into the envelope, he noticed the name at the bottom of the writing paper, in a fine, feminine hand.
With love, Martha
Martha. That was Miss Wilmot’s name. He knew it from the exceedingly good references that had been provided to him. Perhaps she had a friend with the same name, or perhaps he’d misinterpreted what he read. Miss Wilmot’s letters were her own.
He thrust it back into the envelope and laid it on the silver tray, face down. The return address was an outer area of London, written in the same feminine hand. He frowned slightly, perplexed. The address was oddly familiar.
It was none of his business, yet for some reason, it bothered him.
Dominic drummed his fingers on the tray and frowned.
* * *
Maud slammed the bedroom door behind her and leaned upon it for good measure. At least it held her up.
She tore the ribbon from her hair.
She had developed romantic notions about Sir Dominic Jago.
Rushing to the dressing table, she faced herself in the looking glass.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.
It couldn’t be!
Her reflection told her otherwise.
Casting the green ribbon aside, Maud seized her hairbrush and began to smooth back the loose tendrils of hair.
With every stroke of the hairbrush she reasoned with herself. It wasn’t possible! No. She would not allow it. The very idea of being just like all the other previous governesses who had come to Pendragon Hall, of chasing the master of the house! She’d never anticipated that she would view Sir Dominic as anything more than her employer. When she’d told him that she had no interest in men, she had spoken the truth. She’d never expected her body to betray her, to react in such a way merely to his smile of greeting, as it had only minutes before.
Her hair back in its usual severe bun, she laid down the hairbrush and took an unsteady sip of water, then patted some of it on to her cheeks for good measure.
In the looking glass, her skin stayed resolutely pink.
No. No! She refused to be just like all the other governesses, infatuated with the master of the house. And he had made views about such infatuations perfectly clear. He had told her, in no uncertain terms.
She threw another splash of water on to her heated skin. After what had happened to her, she had thought she would never feel any emotions for a man. She had thought that the sensitive, precious part of her had been numbed, frozen, half-dead, unable to come alive.
Sir Dominic Jago had broken through that barrier.
The ribbon cut into her fingers as she took it up, rolled it and shut it away in the drawer with a determined snap.
She stood and smoothed her dress. She must not, she would not, under any circumstances, reveal the attraction she felt for him. Her romantic notions must be quashed, immediately. From this moment on, she would keep their interactions to the most professional and minimal level. She would not risk any further intimacy developing between them.
She would ensure an appropriate distance was kept between them now, so that her mind and body did not betray her. She would show nothing on her face. Her expression, from now on, would be severe, as befitting a governess. Not only because her professionalism demanded it, but because…
She wanted to stay at Pendragon Hall.
She would not give way to the romantic notions she had promised she would never entertain. Sir Dominic Jago must never know.
No, she would not stoop to chase the master of the house. It was essential that she revealed nothing of her newly discovered feelings.
Her hair restored to normal, she descended the stairs once more. She forced herself to move with dignity and utter steadiness, her head down as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Her resolve almost evaporated as she lifted her gaze to find Sir Dominic still in the hall. Looking at her.
‘Miss Wilmot. I’ve been waiting for you to come down again. I have something for you.’
‘What is it, Sir Dominic?’ She focused again on navigating the stairs. One, two, swish, swish. Dignified steps. Even breath. Hand on the banister. It was only when she achieved the hall that she trusted herself to look up again.
‘This letter came for you.’ He held out a white envelope. ‘My apologies, but it was already open. I do not know why. I did not open it myself.’
It must be from Martha, she realised in a flash. Oh, how she hoped her sister had remembered not to put her full name on the envelope!
She almost snatched it from him. Thank goodness, Martha had only addressed it to ‘Miss M. Wilmot’ in her neat governess copperplate.
He had obviously noted her alarm. ‘I have not intruded upon your privacy. Though the letter was open, I did no more than slide it back into the envelope. You have my word; your mail was not opened by me.’
She flushed. ‘I’m sorry. I never suspected you of prying. I was eager to have my letter. That is all.’
He made no reply, yet his eyes narrowed. There was curiosity, a puzzlement in them. He glanced at her hair, as if noting the change.
She smoothed her hair even more firmly behind her ears.
‘I am master of the house,’ he said. ‘But I would never take advantage of my position. I hope you know that.’
She raised her head and looked him full in the face.
‘I have never doubted it,’ she said honestly.
She knew that of him. It was more than an instinct. It was a truth that she felt deep in her soul.
A muscle in his jaw worked. ‘Thank you. I have formed a good opinion of your moral standards, Miss Wilmot. I am pleased to have met them in myself.’
Maud stared down at the wooden floorboards, her cheeks now burning. She couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘I am far from perfect.’
‘As am I. Perfection would be tiresome, do you not think?’
When she looked up, he was smiling at her again, the half-smile that played around his lips, a smile that demanded she return it, despite her earlier determination upstairs to encourage no further intimacy or friendliness between them. Instead, she found herself responding instantly. All her new-found resolutions to ensure her manner remained strict and professional evaporated at the sight of his smile.
‘I thought I would accompany you on your nature walk, if I may,’ he said, after a moment.
She clutched the butterfly net more firmly in her grip. ‘Oh?’
‘I have an urge,’ he said, ‘to discover more about butterflies.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
When I was wont to meet her
In the silent woody places
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
Rosabel raced across the daisy-studded grass, her ringlets bobbing.
Sir Dominic walked beside Maud as they followed close behind. He’d shrugged on a coat instead of riding away or disappearing into his study, but he wore no hat. The wind ruffled his hair i
n the breeze.
It was a relief to walk with him instead of standing face to face. The intensity of his presence could not be denied, but it was easier to withstand if he was beside her, rather than in her direct line of sight.
What was it about him? She peeped from under her bonnet, as they crossed the lawn. He was handsome, tall and strong, but that wasn’t what made his presence so remarkable. It was the forcefulness of his character, a drive that emanated from him, like the steam around his trains.
‘Miss Wilmot!’ Rosabel called. ‘I have one.’
‘Copper, I believe,’ said Dominic, as Rosabel showed them excitedly what she had caught in her net.
‘You remembered,’ Maud said, attempting to keep the amazement from her voice.
‘You must set it free, Rosabel,’ he said, after they had studied it for a moment.
‘By the daisies, Rosabel,’ Maud said. ‘Copper butterflies love daisies.’
They had gone a little way through the woods, with its primroses and bluebells ablaze, when he asked: ‘Have you followed the path all the way through the woods?’
Maud shook her head. She never walked too far alone, if she could help doing so.
‘Not yet,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve wanted to explore the woods, but I wasn’t sure how long it would take and if it was too far for Rosabel.’
‘She is a different child since your arrival, but you are correct. It would be tiring for her to do so.’ He gave her an acute look. ‘So, you don’t know what varieties of butterflies can be found deep in the forest?’
She shook her head again. It loosened the ribbons of her bonnet that were tied under her chin.
‘Perhaps you will allow me to show you,’ he murmured. ‘Netta can look after Rosabel, if you are up to a longer walk than usual.’
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yes, please. I mean, thank you. I would like that very much.’ She studied her butterfly net, as if it would supply her with some coherence.
‘I’ll take Rosabel back to the Hall. She’ll be happy with Netta.’
Rosabel tugged at her father’s sleeve.
Harlequin Historical May 2020--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 54
