She picked it up and revelled in its smooth weight. The point was sharp, but not too sharp, and it wrote so effortlessly, the ink flowing thick and smooth. She’d known it the first time she’d set it to paper, as she’d signed her name under her employer’s keen gaze.
No, Martha’s name.
The sharp nib of the pen nicked her finger. Quickly she laid it carefully back on the dressing table. In place of the indigo ink she’d used up last night, a drop of red beaded upon the pen’s tip. She was at Pendragon Hall under false pretences. But she would set aside all her concerns tonight.
About everything.
‘You pretend to be a moth…but I think you may be a butterfly.’
Had he really said that to her?
She stared at herself in the glass.
He meant it. Every instinct told her he was telling the truth.
Her entire body seemed to tingle. It had been numb for so long. She had answered yes to his invitation, before she had asked herself whether it was wise.
She peered closer at her face in the mirror, at her pink cheeks. They had admitted an attraction to each other, she thought to herself, vexed, but she was behaving as if she were being courted. She rubbed at her cheeks, but that only made them pinker.
She’d fought against her romantic notions.
It had become infatuation.
She had fought against infatuation.
It had become so much more.
Now that she knew she had developed such a flurry of feelings for him, was it sensible to dine with him?
It was not. She knew it. Such powerful feelings were exactly the kind sensible governesses ought to avoid, especially for a man such as Dominic Jago.
Yet she felt it, deep within her; the current growing stronger and stronger, pulling her towards him. It could not be denied. She would cherish this moment of feeling so alive. Since her last position as governess, she had been only half-existing. She would not deny the flourishing force within her now, or pretend it wasn’t there.
Maud took a deep breath.
She frowned as she surveyed what lay in front of her on the dressing table. She had no jewels. None to wear around her neck, or on her wrists or fingers. Jewels were not for governesses. Yet she still wanted to add something more to her attire.
An idea came to her. Casting aside the dress, she seized her wrap and hurried out into the garden before it became too dark. The woods were not far. She was sure she would find what she was looking for.
* * *
Maud stood outside the great wooden doors that led to the dining room of Pendragon Hall. It seemed strange never to have entered a room when she had lived in the house for months, but the occasion had never arisen. She had her meals upstairs or with Rosabel, or occasionally, if she was asked especially, she ate in the servants’ hall below stairs, but she was always careful never to overstep her welcome or lower herself in the staff’s estimation. They would be shocked if she became too ‘familiar’. She knew the unwritten rules.
She was breaking the rules now.
She smoothed the bodice of her green dress. The décolletage dipped lower than her usual grey dress.
Suddenly she felt uneasy. Was she being too impulsive? Having dinner with the master of the house was unheard of for a servant or a governess. She still couldn’t believe that he had invited her in such a manner, as if he truly wanted to get to know her.
Taking another deep breath, she put her hand on the round doorknob. The brass was cool and smooth. The door swung open as if a butler had been waiting on the other side. She gasped. It was not the butler holding the door most courteously open for her, his white gloves ushering her in. Instead Dominic stood in front of her.
‘I dismissed the servants for tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘I have arranged for a private supper, if that is acceptable to you.’
She nodded her consent. It had worried her. She wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to be at ease with all eyes upon her.
But he’d thought of that.
‘I expect we’ve already caused a great deal discussion below stairs,’ she said. Netta and the other servants had been giving her curious glances for weeks. They all knew she spent some of her evenings reading in the library, with Sir Dominic present, but no one had asked any questions.
‘I expect so, too,’ he replied. ‘But that is not our concern. Is it?’
She shook her head.
He bowed slightly and she stepped into the room, her legs not entirely steady. She lifted her head to examine the room. She could not meet the gaze of her host quite yet. He evidently felt no such inhibition. As she took in the elegance, the unexpected formality and the quite intimidating size of the room, a part of her burned with the touch of his gaze upon her.
It was panelled in part with dark wood, like the library, with granite walls and mullioned windows. At one end of the room there was a fire lit—there was often a chill in the air, even in springtime, in Cornwall.
Tiny goose pimples crept over her arms. He was still looking at her, silent and intense.
She drew a breath and turned to face him.
She focused on his clothing. Yes, that was the safer option. He, too, was formally attired, wearing his tailed dinner jacket with the crisp white shirt and the black tie, dressed as formally as when he had gone to dinner at Trevose Hall, with Averill Trevose. The notion suffused her like April sunshine. Her goose pimples disappeared. He had dressed that way for her.
It made her glad that she had worn her green dress, even if it didn’t have hoops. She touched the oak leaves in her hair. She had bound them into her usual chignon.
‘I see you have made use of your knowledge of botany.’ He smiled. ‘You look like a wood nymph, Miss Wilmot.’
She touched them again lightly. Perhaps it was ridiculous, to have put leaves in her hair, but she didn’t have anything else.
His smile vanished as a darker expression came into his eyes. ‘The effect is charming, if I may say so.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, after a moment. ‘I hope you do not mind. They belong to you, after all.’
‘The woods are at your disposal,’ he said quietly. ‘Day and night.’
Again, that current wavered between them.
‘Allow me.’ He moved aside and indicated the long dining table. The tablecloth was snowy white. The candles in their silver holders glowed.
Two places had been set at one end of the table. That at the head of the table was set before a large carved chair, almost a throne. At its left was another place, evidently awaiting her.
Maud burst out laughing.
Dominic raised an eyebrow. ‘What is it?’
‘The table,’ she said. ‘It’s so long. It must seat more than twenty people. I’m sorry. It just looked rather funny to have only two people sitting at that long table. And that chair.’ She pointed to the head of the table. ‘I believe you’ve misplaced your crown.’
To her relief, he chuckled. She’d been worried for a moment he might have taken offence.
He rubbed his head. ‘The crown gives me a headache.’
The smile that flashed between them seemed a living, growing thing.
Her glance skittered away. It was too much, too real, this ease, this sense of shared pleasure, between them. Surely she was deluding herself.
‘One thing we do not lack here at Pendragon Hall is space,’ he continued in a more normal tone, as if sensing her discomfort.
‘Perhaps the table will be full again one day,’ Maud said.
‘That would make me the father of twenty children, Miss Wilmot. I think that is a few too many, even if they have an excellent governess.’
He crossed to the end of the table. The fire, lit near that portion of the table, outlined him in flickering light.
‘Allow me, if you please.’ He drew out the chair for her. She ha
d to move entirely too close to him as she slipped into her seat. All senses dimmed to the awareness of his tall form behind her, his gaze upon her, his sheer physical proximity. She sat down as if in a dream and then spent a tense ten seconds adjusting her shawl to rest at her elbows rather than upon her shoulders. Anything to wrench her attention away from utter absorption in him.
‘May I offer you some wine?’ He indicated a crystal wine jug with a silver top. ‘There is white wine of the German variety for our first course and a rather fine claret to accompany the lamb.’
‘Oh!’ Maud said, flustered.
‘Are you as unused to drinking wine as you are to drinking brandy?’
‘I am unused to being served,’ she admitted.
His half-smile curved. ‘I am quite capable of serving you, Miss Wilmot. I can pour wine, among other things.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She lifted her wine glass. ‘I will have some wine. Thank you.’
He took the glass, his fingers lightly brushing hers, filled it and replaced it on the table.
‘What kind of table did you have in your home growing up, Miss Wilmot?’ he enquired, after he had filled his own glass and taken a seat. They had begun to eat the Cornish crabmeat terrine.
‘Not one this size,’ she said. ‘It was round and made of oak, with legs that twisted like barley sugar.’
‘Is your sister a storyteller like you?’
‘No, but she’s a governess, as I’ve mentioned before. She always wanted to be one.’
‘Did you?’
The directness of his question startled her.
She shook her head. ‘No. But butterfly-chasing does not earn a living. And I cannot be a burden upon my sister. That would be unfair.’
Maud checked herself. ‘Do you know the story of Beauty and the Beast?’ she asked, to change the subject away from Martha.
‘Indeed. I have not read the tale to Rosabel, but I am familiar with it, I believe. It is the tale of a young woman who lives in a large house with a beastly gentleman. Was the young lady a governess?’
Maud burst out laughing. ‘I don’t think so. And you are not to suppose that I imply you are a beastly gentleman. But do you know who wrote the story? Or who translated it into English, at any rate?’
As he lifted his wine glass, he shook his head.
‘The author was a governess,’ Maud told him. ‘Or should I say, the translator. Her name was Madame Leprince de Beaumont and she wrote and published educational guides for young ladies. They were called Moral Tales. She did not make up the story, I understand. It is an old French tale. But she was the one who made it well known in England.’
‘Is that so?’
Maud hesitated. She had become so used to keeping secrets, it was hard to reveal her dreams.
‘Madame de Beaumont is a hero of mine,’ she said, after a moment. ‘I would like to do something similar. I don’t expect I’ll ever have the opportunity, but if I could I would like to publish tales for children that could be shared among governesses.’
‘That is your ambition?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘It would be so helpful, you see. If governesses could share materials, it would make it easier for us. In my previous post…’ She hesitated. ‘I mean, I often had to stay up at night preparing lessons. If we had ready-made resources, they would be very useful indeed.’
‘I must say I had never thought of that. It is an admirable idea, Miss Wilmot.’
‘I have teaching methods that I think other people might benefit from.’ Now she had started to tell him, she couldn’t stop. She had never confided her ideas to anyone, not even her sister. ‘Other governesses might use my methods, if I could find a way to communicate them. They are ways of teaching that you have seen with Rosabel. I believe all children, even girls, should be outdoors as much as possible in the fresh air. But that doesn’t mean that they would not be learning at the same time.’
‘I’m learning a great deal just listening to you,’ he said.
She flushed. ‘I’m talking too much again.’
‘Not at all. I invited you to dinner to get to know you, Miss Wilmot. I’m glad to hear about your ambitions.’ He laid down his glass. ‘I’m pleased you feel you can confide in me.’
After they had served themselves from the large silver dishes that had been left on the side, he brought up the subject again. ‘If you do decide to pursue your dream, perhaps you can bring a proposal to me.’
‘To you?’
‘As a business venture,’ he explained, as he poured her a new glass of wine, a claret to accompany the lamb.
‘You would consider backing me in my business venture?’ she asked.
‘Why not?’ he asked, amused. ‘I presume the publications you mentioned would be sold for money.’
‘Yes, I suppose they would.’
‘It would take some calculations, but I dare say it would be an excellent investment,’ he said. ‘Selling stories would probably not in the end work out to be much different from selling train tickets.’ He smiled. ‘And if you wish I could offer you a good rate to carry your publications from Cornwall to London.’
She laughed aloud. ‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘Life is easy, once you get started. It is thinking about things that is always difficult and holds us back. Action propels itself.’
‘Like a train,’ she said.
‘Exactly. Like a train.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Once it is started, it’s difficult to stop.’
Maud took a hasty glass gulp of the red wine.
‘Be careful with that,’ he said, ‘if you’re not used to it.’
‘I am quite all right.’ She thought for a moment. ‘You’ve been kind enough to listen to my ambitions. What of yours, Sir Dominic? For the railway?’
‘Ah. Are you sure you want to hear? I know that railway talk is not usually considered appropriate for the dinner table.’
He’d told her that his first wife, Sarah, had been uninterested in the railway.
‘You could never bore me,’ she said quietly.
The silence that she had begun to appreciate between them hovered over the table.
He took a mouthful of wine. ‘Very well. Let me tell you my plans. In the summer, the train becomes very busy, with holidaymakers going to the seaside. Have you ever bathed in the sea, Miss Wilmot?’
She shook her head. The curls she had left out on either side of her head brushed against her cheeks. Normally, she pulled her hair back so severely, but now the light strands danced against her skin. It felt most frivolous.
‘Sea-bathing is something to look forward to, if you wish to try it,’ he said. ‘I would be most pleased to convey you and Rosabel to the seaside.’
The thought of bathing in the sea was even more frivolous than her evening’s hairstyle. She had seen, in a magazine, an advertisement for a most daring bathing costume that came only to the knees, with pantaloons underneath it.
‘Do you swim?’ she asked.
‘Indeed. I have done so since childhood. And you?’
She shook her head.
‘Then it will be my pleasure,’ he said, ‘to teach you something.’
Maud took a hasty sip of wine.
‘Sea-bathing is a most healthful pastime, I believe,’ she said.
The corner of his mouth quirked. ‘It is also most enjoyable, Miss Wilmot. And the Cornish coast is spectacular.’
Maud touched her cheeks. She was sure they had flushed. She could not allow herself to dwell on the thought of sea-bathing with Dominic Jago.
‘Do your trains run along to the coast?’ she asked, making a slight change of subject.
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘Currently there are two separate lines. My goal is to make them meet. One day, we will have a straight run to the coast. But that will take considerable inve
stment.’ He glanced down the long table. ‘Would you like to see the most valuable item we transport from Cornwall to London on the train? It’s right here, on the table.’
She glanced down the long snowy tablecloth, mystified.
He showed his half-smile. ‘It is in plain sight. Right in front of you.’
‘I can’t work it out,’ she confessed, after staring at all the silver pots and dishes for a time.
‘Have you eaten a saffron bun since you have been here?’ he queried. ‘They are bright yellow in colour.’
She nodded. ‘Why, yes. They’re delicious.’
‘They are also called revel buns,’ he told her. ‘They have long been used for feast days in Cornwall.’
He leaned forward and lifted a small silver pot from near the salt dish and pepper caster.
Lifting the lid, he slid it over to her. ‘Do you know what this is?’
She shook her head.
‘It’s saffron,’ he replied. He lifted out one of the fine, orange-red strands. ‘It is the stigma of the crocus flower. It is grown here, in Cornwall. It’s a rare spice—the most expensive on the market.’
‘I had no idea,’ she said. ‘Rosabel and I have enjoyed saffron buns on our picnics out of doors, but I admit, I enjoyed them without enquiring any further.’
The stigma glowed in his hand. ‘Saffron can be added to food, or to wine. It’s said to increase—pleasure. It’s long been used in marriage customs here in Cornwall, for good luck.’
‘Oh.’ Maud felt herself flush.
He dropped the saffron stigma back into the pot and slid it away.
‘There is Cornish cream, too, of course,’ he said casually. ‘We also take that to London, packed in ice. I believe they are quite partial to it at the palace.’
‘The Queen?’
‘Possibly.’ He grinned. ‘You can eat like a queen tonight, too, Miss Wilmot, if you care for some cream with your pudding. I believe we have been left a fine syllabub.’
‘I’m not sure I can eat any more,’ she confessed.
He looked at her directly. ‘Will you join me in the study for another nightcap of brandy?’
Maud nodded. She wanted the evening to last as long as possible. ‘I would like that.’
Harlequin Historical May 2020--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 58
