The Wayward Governess

by Joanna Fulford

  ‘Now Uncle Marcus can teach me to ride,’ she announced.

  Chapter Seven

  The first lesson was duly arranged for the following afternoon. Claire accompanied her young charge to the stable yard where Marcus was already waiting. He smiled to see Lucy’s new costume and bade her turn around so he could view it from every angle.

  ‘Very pretty,’ he said then.

  ‘I chose the material,’ she confided.

  ‘You chose well.’ He tweaked one of her curls and then turned to Claire. ‘I’ll take her out for an hour or so and let her get used to the saddle.’ He glanced at her muslin frock. ‘I take it you’re not accompanying us today.’

  ‘No, sir. I thought it best if I did not.’ Seeing him raise an eyebrow, she hurried on. ‘This being the first time Lucy has ridden. The fewer distractions she has the better.’

  The grey gaze met and held hers in a long and level stare. Recalling an earlier conversation, she felt her heart begin to beat a little faster. Was he annoyed? However, to her relief he merely nodded.

  ‘Well, you may be right on this occasion. However, in future I shall expect you to come along, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘I do wish it.’

  Conscious of that penetrating gaze, Claire tried to appear unconcerned. However, it wasn’t easy when he was standing so close. With no little relief she watched him turn his attention to his niece, lifting her easily onto the pony’s back. She listened as he showed the child how to sit and how to hold her reins. Lucy hung on his every word.

  Once she was ready he swung onto his own horse. He looked as if he belonged there, she thought, a born horseman. There was an elegance about the tall, lithe figure, and a suggestion of contained strength. She watched him take the pony’s leading rein and touch his horse with his heels. Then they set off, followed at a respectful distance by Trubshaw. Claire watched until they were out of sight and then retraced her steps to the house.

  *

  Lucy took to the experience of riding like a duck to water and the following day saw her and Claire in the stable yard again. This time, both were dressed to ride. The Viscount made no comment on Claire’s appearance and merely greeted her with his customary courtesy.

  In fact, he had noted the habit with approval, his critical gaze taking in every detail. It was elegant and quietly stylish and, he thought, it became her very well indeed, showing off her figure to perfection. And what a figure! A man could span that waist with his hands. Even the sober colour looked good on her too, he thought, complementing her dark curls and enhancing those wonderful hazel eyes. He smiled wryly. It remained to be seen whether she could ride. He had selected a pretty bay mare for her, a willing creature but well mannered withal.

  Whatever doubts he might have had on that score were soon allayed. She had an excellent seat and a light hand on the reins. Moreover, she looked very much at home in the saddle. He found himself wishing they were alone so that she might really put the mare through her paces. For some time they rode at Lucy’s pace, but then, feeling the need for something more challenging, he reined in and told Trubshaw to go on ahead.

  ‘We’ll catch up in a minute.’ He looked across at Claire. ‘These horses need to stretch their legs.’

  At the thought of a gallop her eyes brightened. Part of her suspected he was also testing her, but she didn’t care. Once again she was aware of his regard and felt rising warmth along her neck and face. To hide her confusion she kept her eyes on the departing figures. When she judged they were far enough away she threw him a quizzical glance. He met and held it.

  ‘Well, Miss Davenport?’

  For answer she touched the mare with her heel. The horse sprang forwards into a canter. Out of the corner of her eye Claire saw the Viscount’s chestnut drawing level. She grinned. So he wanted to test her, did he? She leaned forwards a little and gave the horse its head. The mare accelerated into a gallop, her neat hooves flying across the turf. Exhilarated by the pace and the rushing air Claire laughed out loud. Behind her she could hear the thudding hoofbeats of the other horse and then a moment later saw it draw level. A sideways glance revealed a grin on its rider’s face. In that second she knew he was deliberately keeping pace and had no intention of being outrun. The two horses swept on up the slope to where Lucy and Trubshaw were waiting. Claire reined in and then leaned down to pat the mare’s neck. Lucy was agog.

  ‘It was a draw, Miss Davenport. I was watching.’

  Claire laughed. ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘I’m going to ride like that one day,’ the child continued.

  ‘Yes, but not just yet,’ said Claire.

  ‘Certainly not,’ agreed the Viscount. Then, seeing Lucy’s crestfallen expression, he softened the blow. ‘You’ll learn soon enough.’

  As they set off again he reined his mount alongside Claire.

  ‘How do you like the mare?’

  ‘I like her very well.’

  ‘I thought you might. She was a lady’s horse before, and is of a sweet temperament.’

  ‘Her owner must have been sad to part with her.’

  ‘I imagine so. However, I could hardly have mounted you on one of my hunters.’

  Claire threw him a swift sideways glance in which dismay was clearly registered. Surely he hadn’t bought the horse on her account? That was ridiculous. He must have had the animal for some time. Yet she couldn’t recall having seen her when she and Lucy visited the stables before. Furthermore, the mare was no more than fifteen hands and finely made, certainly not up to a man’s weight. As the implications dawned she felt a strange sensation in her breast. It was a feeling compounded of gratitude and alarm. He had already shown her a great deal of consideration. More than she had any right to expect.

  Although he could not follow her train of thought he could not mistake the expression of dismay on her face and he mentally rebuked himself for his clumsiness. He had meant to let her think the horse had been part of his stable.

  ‘I purchased her along with Lucy’s pony,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I shall require you to accompany my niece when I cannot.’

  The tone was cool and firm and precluded argument. Claire avoided his eye and kept her gaze straight ahead between the horse’s ears.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  It was the only reply she felt able to give. He was her employer and his wishes prevailed. More than that, she had enjoyed herself too much today to want to forfeit the chance of riding in future. Now that she was on a horse again she realised how much she had missed it.

  *

  Somewhat to her disappointment, business occupied him for the next few days so she and Lucy had to go out without him. Trubshaw was in attendance as usual but the Viscount was conspicuous by his absence. Claire tried hard not to miss him but, though it was undoubtedly a pleasure to ride, it wasn’t the same somehow. She was annoyed with herself for feeling the lack. For goodness’ sake, she was too old for what amounted to a schoolgirl crush! He certainly wouldn’t be giving her a moment’s thought. Why should he? He had hired her to do a job. If he showed her any additional courtesy it was on account of what had gone before and, perhaps, because of her connection with the Greystokes.

  That last proved a calming thought. The Viscount valued Dr Greystoke’s friendship very highly and was also beholden to Ellen for her previous care of him. He would not risk offending either by his treatment of Claire. Having got a new perspective on the situation, she cringed inwardly when she remembered her response to his kindness. What a vain little fool she must appear. As if a man like Marcus Edenbridge would look twice at a governess! Why should he? He could have his pick of all the eligible young women in the land. Mortified now, Claire resolved to demonstrate a different kind of behaviour when next they met.

  That proved to be on Thursday when the Greystokes came to dine at Netherclough. Claire was relieved to learn that they were to be the only company that evening. It meant there was no one else to note her pres
ence and perhaps mention it to others later. Her whereabouts would remain secret. She dressed with care, selecting her new lilac gown. It was simple and elegant without being ostentatious, and the colour suited her. As she had no other jewellery her only adornment was her locket. Nevertheless she was not displeased by her appearance when she looked in the glass. It should at least pass muster. Affording her reflection a last wry smile, she left her chamber and made her way to the drawing room.

  She arrived to find the guests talking to their host, but at her entrance they greeted her with expressions of pleasure, which she returned with equal sincerity.

  George gave her a beaming smile.

  ‘Good to see you, Miss Davenport, and how very well you look.’

  Ellen echoed the sentiment. ‘Indeed you do, my dear. And what a delightful gown.’

  The Viscount, listening, knew the words for truth. As he hadn’t seen the frock before he gathered it must be a new purchase. Clearly the trip to Harrogate had been productive. The colour of the fabric became her well, suiting her dark curls and fresh complexion, and his critical eye could find no fault with the cut or the style. It epitomised simple, understated elegance. She seemed to have an instinct for it. He noted that she was wearing the silver locket again. It was a pretty trinket, but amethysts would go better with that gown. Even so it showed off her figure well and, he reflected, a figure like hers should be shown off. It was beautiful. His imagination stripped away the dress and contemplated what lay beneath. He caught his breath. With an effort of will he forced the image away and his attention back to his guests.

  *

  A short time later dinner was announced. He offered his arm to Miss Greystoke while her brother led Claire in. Throughout the meal, though he kept up his part in the general conversation, Marcus found his attention repeatedly returning to Claire. Yet his critical eye could discern not the least hint of awkwardness in her demeanour, and her manners were impeccable. Far from seeming out of place, she looked as though she belonged.

  Once the meal was over the two ladies withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the men to talk over their brandy and cigars. Claire had been looking forward to having the opportunity for private speech with Ellen, and when at last the two of them were alone she seated herself on the sofa beside her friend.

  ‘Now tell me all,’ Ellen said. ‘And especially about your young charge.’

  She listened avidly as Claire supplied the details.

  ‘I am so glad that all is well. I gathered as much from your letter, but it’s always reassuring to hear it from your own lips.’

  ‘I have nothing to complain of,’ said Claire. ‘The Viscount takes a great interest in Lucy’s education and provides whatever I ask for in that regard.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘He is most solicitous about the child and seems anxious to ensure her happiness.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Ellen paused. ‘Has he said any more about finding the men responsible for his brother’s death?’

  ‘No, but that does not mean he has abandoned the scheme.’

  ‘At least he can use his position to enlist the help of the authorities. That must be far safer than adopting a false identity.’

  ‘I cannot think he will do so again, not now he has Lucy to consider.’

  *

  Had they known it, the conversation in the dining room was turning on a similar theme.

  ‘Have you taken further action?’ asked George.

  ‘I called upon Sir Alan Weatherby in Harrogate last week. He is my godfather—was Greville’s too—and is a local magistrate besides. He is most anxious to have information about the wreckers. Rest assured, if he learns anything I shall know of it soon after.’

  ‘Then he knows the truth?’

  ‘Yes. Sir James Wraxall also knew of Greville’s mission here, though not his true identity. He knew my brother by the pseudonym of David Gifford.’

  ‘Wraxall knew?’

  ‘Yes, and lent his full support to the scheme.’

  ‘I suppose he would, being a local magistrate. All the same he is not a popular man in the district.’

  ‘Magistrates rarely are popular,’ said Marcus.

  ‘Wraxall is a mill owner, too. He was the first to cut wages.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘I am glad you have chosen this way to find your brother’s killers.’

  ‘I hope the disappearance of Mark Eden didn’t cause you any difficulties?’

  ‘None at all. As you asked, I gave it out that he had gone to stay with relatives further north. I left the destination suitably vague.’

  ‘I am much obliged to you, George.’

  ‘No offence, but I rather hope Eden does not return.’

  The Viscount smiled wryly. ‘Really? I rather liked him.’

  ‘Seriously, Marcus.’

  ‘Seriously, George, so do I.’

  *

  A short time later they rejoined the ladies in the drawing room and the conversation was directed into other channels for a while. Then George suggested some music. The Viscount’s grey eyes gleamed. Recalling the story-telling episode on the way to Harrogate, he looked straight at Claire and seized his opportunity for revenge.

  ‘Perhaps Miss Davenport will oblige us with a song.’

  As he had foreseen, Claire could hardly refuse. He watched as she got up and moved to the pianoforte. When her back was to the others she threw him a most eloquent look. His grin widened. Enjoying himself enormously, he followed her to the instrument and riffled through the sheet music until he found the piece he was looking for. Then he handed it to her.

  Torn between annoyance and amusement Claire took it from him, scanning it quickly. In fact it was neither difficult nor unfamiliar as she had suspected it might be. He wasn’t that unkind, she decided. All the same she would have preferred not to be the centre of attention. Thank goodness it wasn’t a large company.

  ‘I’ll turn the pages for you,’ he said.

  Undeceived by that courteous offer she nevertheless returned him a sweet smile.

  ‘How very kind.’

  The grey eyes held a decidedly mischievous glint, but he vouchsafed no reply and merely stationed himself beside her. Supremely conscious of his proximity but unable to do anything about it, she turned her attention to the music. Then, taking a deep breath, she settled down to play.

  After hearing the opening bars Marcus’s amusement faded and was replaced by pleasure and surprise; she played and sang beautifully, more so than he could ever have supposed. He had expected competence, but not the pure liquid notes that filled the room. Her voice was clear and true and had besides a haunting quality that sent a shiver down his spine and seemed to thrill to the core of his being. He had heard the song countless times, but never so movingly rendered. When at last it came to an end he was quite still for some moments before he recollected himself enough to join in the applause. He wasn’t alone in thinking the performance good. Greystoke too had been much struck by it.

  ‘Wonderful!’ he said at last. ‘First class, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘I had a first-class teacher,’ she replied, looking at Ellen.

  ‘There can be no doubt about that,’ Marcus replied. ‘You are both to be congratulated.’ This time there was no trace of mischief in his face when he looked at Claire. ‘Please, won’t you play something else?’

  Her heart beat a little faster for he had never used quite that tone before. It was unwontedly humble. Controlling her surprise, she could only acquiesce.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Turning to the pile of music, she drew out a piece at random. It was much more difficult and she was glad of it for it meant she wouldn’t be tempted to look at him instead. However, she soon became conscious that he felt no such constraint. Her skin seemed to burn beneath that penetrating gaze and only with a real effort of will could she keep her expression impassive and her concentration on the music. Soon enough the melody claimed her and filled her soul. Marcu
s saw her surrender to it and felt all the passion of that skilled performance as he too was transported. He knew then that he was listening to something quite out of the ordinary, something that both awed and delighted, and he didn’t want it to end.

  When it did he was first to lead the applause. However, the others were not far behind him. George Greystoke got to his feet.

  ‘Bravo, Miss Davenport!’

  She received their praise with a gracious smile and then rose from the piano stool, insisting that Ellen be allowed her turn. When her friend bowed to the pressure Claire retired to a seat across the room. Marcus’s gaze followed her, but he remained by the pianoforte and presently turned his attention to his guest, consulting with her about the choice of music and then waiting to turn the pages as she played. He was, thought Claire, a most courteous host, and, seeing him now, his attentions to herself did not seem so marked at all, but rather the good manners of one accustomed to moving in the first circles. It was foolish to refine on a look or a gesture. He would treat any female guest with the same polished courtesy.

  *

  The remainder of the time passed agreeably enough until, soon after the tea tray had been brought in, the Greystokes took their leave.

  ‘It has been a most delightful evening,’ said Ellen as they stood together in the hallway.

  ‘I hope to have the pleasure of seeing it soon repeated,’ Marcus replied.

  He shook hands with George and then came to stand by Claire to wave the guests off.

  ‘Miss Greystoke is right,’ he observed as the carriage pulled away. ‘It has been a most delightful evening.’

  Claire glanced up at him and smiled. ‘Yes, it has.’

  They remained there together until the vehicle was lost to view round a bend in the drive, and then turned and walked back into the hallway. For a moment they paused, neither one speaking. Aware of him to her very fingertips, wanting to linger and knowing she must not, she forced herself to a polite curtsy.

  ‘I’ll bid you a goodnight, sir.’

  Marcus wanted to detain her, but could think of no valid reason for doing so. Instead he took her hand and carried it to his lips.