Dangerous Lord, Innocent Governess

by Christine Merrill

  No matter how sure she was of the truth, until she could prove it to Tim, there would be no marriage, no chance to redeem her reputation. Her only hope was to slip away, leaving Miss Collins behind, as a crab leaves a shell. She could go back to London, to her old life. And with no likelihood of seeing Tim or the children. For when had she seen them before?

  She pulled out the contents of her trunk, ready to repack it, and Sophie’s sketches fell in a cascade of horror on to the wooden floor. She could hardly bear to look down. If she left, what was she to tell the children?

  She would go to Lily and explain. She would tell her that she had ill family to attend to. The girl was the oldest, and might fill in the details on her own. She suspected something, just as Adam and Penny did. So Daphne would explain, as gently as she could, that Miss Collins could not stay with them. But that they were to be good for their father, and Sophie was to be allowed to draw, no matter what the subject…

  She looked down at the sketches. All Clare, all in the same dress. It was the dress she had died in, if Sophie’s first sketch was to be believed. And with the toe of her slipper, she rearranged the two papers in front of her. And picked up the first drawing, to put it last.

  When viewed thus, in order, the angles came right, and the story fell into place. Clare at the top of the stairs. Clare angry. A hand, holding a bit of torn cloth. Her shocked expression, as she lost her balance. Clare falling.

  Clare dead.

  Daphne pulled off her wrapper, and washed and dressed quickly. She ignored the breakfast, and the schoolroom, leaving the children alone without explanation. If she took time to explain, someone was sure to convince her that what she was about to do was wrong.

  She went straight down to the conservatory, back to Tim.

  He was sitting beside his work table, with a light breakfast and tea cup laid on a napkin on the bench beside him. He rose with his tea cup held in a hopeful gesture, as though he had forgotten the way they had parted only a few moments ago, and thought she might have returned to dine with him.

  She reached out and caught him by the hand, pulling him off the bench and away from his tea. ‘You must come with me. To the children. Right now.’

  He rose easily at the mention of the children, obviously worried. ‘Is there a problem? An accident?’

  ‘No, they are well. But they know, Tim. They know everything.’

  His brow furrowed in confusion.

  ‘The night Clare died. They saw it happen.’

  The china cup fell from his numb fingers and shattered on the slates. ‘God, no.’

  ‘It is true. Sophie saw everything. She has been drawing it, over and over for me. But I did not understand. The others either saw as well, or they know what she has seen. They are afraid to come to you. So you must go to them and ask.’

  He looked at her as though she were mad. ‘Ask them? They have suffered enough. They should not have to tell what they know. The truth would be enough to hang their father. I can live with the punishment. But I cannot die knowing that they will feel responsible for my end.’

  ‘That is not what will happen. I am sure. If they saw anything at all, they will be able to tell you that it was an accident, just as Adam decreed.’

  He laughed. ‘The accident was a polite fiction. We all know that. Adam feels guilty for allowing himself to be seduced by my wife. He thinks he can make things right between us by covering up my crime. It gains nothing to make the children relive a night they would just as soon forget. And if you care at all about my welfare or my sanity, then do not force them to denounce me.’ His voice trembled. ‘No wonder they could not stand to be with me. I will send them from here, as soon as I am able. And once they are gone, I will see to it, one way or another, that justice is served in the matter of Clare’s death. But do not make them play a part in my downfall.’

  ‘That is not what will happen at all. The truth is nothing to be afraid of. I am sure of it. Why are you always so intent upon taking the weight of this upon yourself? Why do you never place the blame upon Sophie’s father? For he had as much reason to wish Clare dead as you did. I doubt Penny would be so patient, living next door to her husband’s lover.’

  ‘You think Adam did this?’ And then Tim let out a bitter laugh. ‘What utter nonsense.’

  ‘You are too quick to protect him, after what he did to you. I understand that your friendship is deep, and that he can be a most personable and pleasant man. But that is no reason to let him free of his crime.’

  ‘Crime?’ Now Tim was truly laughing. ‘Adam is guilty of many things. He has been by turns a drunkard, a rake and a wastrel. He cuckolded me, as did half the men in London. But his respect for the law holds no equal. He would be physically incapable of breaking it to rid the world of my wife. Even if she threatened him with exposure, as I know she did.’

  ‘Did you not read the letters that I stole? She was going to Adam on the night she died, and taking their daughter with her. And he would not have wanted her, now that he was married.’

  ‘Was she now?’ He shook his head. ‘Then, obviously, you are mistaken. For he had no daughter by her, nor was he likely to get one. She was not pregnant when she died. At least not by him, for they had not been together for several months.’

  ‘But Sophie…’

  He laid a hand upon her arm. ‘Was another man’s child. I suspect she belongs to a drawing master, if such talents are a thing that can be inherited.’ He laughed again, and for a moment, he seemed sincerely light-hearted. ‘Clare must have been quite angry with me if she was threatening to go to him at the end. The man was penniless, and ran like the wind when it became apparent that he might have fathered a child. From time to time, Clare made such idle threats and left the letters around to frighten me. She knew how much I loved the girl. But the idea that she might leave the comfort of our home to live as a Bohemian, with her artist…’ He laughed. Then he sighed, as if he was trying to expel all the grief in his body in one great breath. ‘Daphne. If the circumstances were otherwise, I would be grateful for your naïve trust in my character. If only I had met you twelve years ago, before I met Clare. I would gladly trade the wealth I gained from my first marriage for a chance to have a love such as yours, willing to put such blind faith in me. But I swear to you on all that is holy, I was the only one in the house on the night she died. The servants would have noticed had there been a guest and remarked on it. They might have cared enough for her not to reveal the names of her lovers. But they care enough for me not to hide the identity of a murderer.’

  ‘All you have are guesses and assumptions. The children have the truth,’ she said.

  ‘It does not matter to me if they do. I forbid you from talking to them on the matter of their mother’s death. If not for my sake, then for theirs. Let them forget.’

  ‘Forget?’ She laughed in his miserable face. ‘Now you are the one who is being naïve. They are not going to forget, Tim. It does not matter what I say or do, they are still living the night their mother died. Sophie especially.

  Have you seen her drawings? Blood and death. It has taken weeks to get her to draw anything but her mother’s corpse. Would you have me take her pens away, or punish her as the last governess did?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then let them tell you what they saw. Even if it is bad, at least it will be honest. They should not have to go through life afraid of stairs and watercolours, and strangers. For God’s sake, Tim, they should not have to be afraid of you. No matter what they might say, you would never love them less, would you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Now, they live in continual fear of your rejection. They think that you mean to send them away because you no longer want them.’

  ‘That is not true.’

  ‘But they reason like children. They do not understand that they were not to blame. They think you want to be rid of them and refuse to believe otherwise. Go to them. Go now. Tell them it is not so. And ask them for the truth.’
r />   He wavered.

  ‘We will go together,’ she offered, placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘I will be there to help you. But it must be done, for their sake, for yours, and for ours.’

  He stared at her, and his eyes held the same shocked confusion that the children’s did. ‘And if helping them means I lose you?’

  She smiled. ‘You will not lose me.’

  ‘I will if I hang for murder.’ He ran a hand through his hair and gave a shaky laugh. ‘It was all so much easier to contemplate ending my life, knowing that the day for the deed had not arrived. But you would have me do it now, after I have found a reason to survive.’ His face was grey with fear and shock, but he rose from the desk and squared his shoulders. ‘And I am so vain that I cannot let the woman I love see my cowardice. You say I am hurting the children by my inaction. And I must trust you on this, for you are their governess, and know more than I about the minds of children.’

  The truth stuck in her throat. The time was coming when she would have to admit that she knew far less about children then he did. But not now. For now, she only knew what was right. ‘They are your children, Tim. You know what is best for them. In all save this one thing.’

  His shoulders slumped, and she knew that she had defeated him. ‘Very well, then. Let us go to them and be done with it. If they have been suffering because of my inaction, then I would not have it be for one moment more.’ He went to the door, and opened it, waiting politely for her to pass through. She followed him to the main stairs, and he paused at the foot for a moment, just as he always did. Then he offered her his arm, and began the ascent. His steps were steady and unhurried, but she could see in his eye the desire to turn and run, to hurry, or to tarry. It was a struggle for him to make the trip appear ordinary.

  At last they reached the top of the stairs and he escorted her down the hall, still holding her arm. And she wondered for a moment if it was for her protection or as a way to gain strength from the contact. She could see the housekeeper approaching from the other end of the hall, and the hitch in her gait as she saw the master arm in arm with the governess, about to talk to the children.

  Emotions flickered across the woman’s face. Shock, disapproval and then thoughtfulness. She gazed again at her employer, as though considering both the past and the future. And then she gave a small smile of approval, and continued on her way as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  If Tim noticed, he made no mention of it. But it set Daphne somewhat at ease to know, if they survived the afternoon, she would not have Mrs Sims as an adversary.

  He paused at the door of the schoolroom as though he still considered it possible to turn back. And then he opened the door and stood before the children.

  Daphne could see by the looks on their faces that they instinctively sensed the difference in the adults and were confused by it. Without a word, the older children took a half-step towards their little sister.

  ‘Children?’ Tim looked at them for a moment as though he had never seen them before. He was staring at the worried looks on their faces, the set lines around their mouths and the frightened look in Sophie’s eyes, as though it were all registering on him, fresh. Then he dropped Daphne’s hand and went to them, down on one knee so that he might not be over-tall for the little one. ‘It is time for us to talk.’

  ‘About what, Father?’ Edmund was curiously formal. Daphne suspected it was a ruse to buy time, for it was apparent that he knew exactly what the subject was to be.

  ‘About the night…’ Tim swallowed. ‘The night your mother died. Daphne seems to think that you saw the…when I…when she fell.’

  She looked at them all, her eyes travelling from face to face. Giving them a look that was all kindness and implacability. ‘Tell your father.’

  ‘If you have a secret?’ Tim smiled down at them, as if to reassure them, but there were lines of strain around his mouth. ‘Whatever you are concealing, I am sure it will be better if we face it together.’

  ‘Don’t send Sophie away,’ Lily blurted, and then silenced herself after a glare from Edmund.

  ‘And why would I do that?’ Tim smiled again, this time with incredulity.

  Sophie took a step away from him, as though afraid, and said, ‘Mama fell.’

  His smile became a rictus, and he flinched. ‘Yes, little one. I know. And I am very sorry.’ He said it carefully, not knowing how to proceed. ‘But because Mama… fell…it does not mean that I am angry with you, or that you are in any danger from me. Or that I do not love you very, very much. I just think that you would be better off if you were in school, and away from here. You will find, once you try it, that it is very pleasant. And you will have such fun that you will not miss this house, or your old father, very much at all.’ The last words rang false, as did his smile. For it appeared that it was difficult for him to hold even the sad parody of a grin that he had managed before.

  Sophie’s lip began to tremble.

  ‘Do not punish her,’ Lily blurted again, and reached to gather her little sister to her. ‘Send us away, but let her stay. She is so small. And she did not know. It will not happen again. She knows better now.’

  ‘This is not meant asa punishment,’ Tim said hopelessly. ‘When you are older, you will see. It is for the best. There are people better suited to take care of you than I, darling Sophie.’

  Sophie was crying in earnest now, large tears sliding silently over her round cheeks. Daphne reached to comfort her, but the children closed ranks, just as they had from the first. Lily hugged her little sister and Edmund stepped between father and sisters to protect them, as though he were already the man he would become, and a match for his father. He squared his shoulders and shouted, ‘Just because she is not yours, does not mean that you should not care for her.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Tim demanded. But Daphne was sure that she knew. Where else would they have got the truth, but from their mother?

  ‘She is not yours,’ Edmund repeated. ‘And so you mean to punish her, even though it is no fault of hers how our mother behaved.’

  Tim took a deep, shaky breath. ‘I do not blame you, any of you, for the problems between your mother and myself. And I am sorry you had to witness what you did, at the end. It was wrong to subject you to that. I think, in sending you to school, that it would be better if you were removed to an atmosphere that would be less unhealthy.’

  ‘School?’ Edmund said bitterly. ‘We know the sort of school you want to send Sophie to. A madhouse is no place for a little girl.’

  ‘Madhouse?’ Tim said, helpless. ‘When did I ever…?’

  ‘Let us take care of her,’ Lily pleaded. ‘She is no trouble. She doesn’t eat much and she’s not a bother at all. And she will never hurt anyone again.’

  ‘Again?’ Now Tim was truly puzzled. ‘Children. No more games. And no more nonsense about the madhouse, not even in jest. I never meant to send Sophie there. You must tell me what has frightened you so. Tell me exactly. For I truly do not understand.’

  ‘Mama fell,’ Sophie said again. And the two children looked at her in horror, as though she were not stating the obvious.

  And suddenly, the meaning of the pictures became clear. And the strange angles of the drawings, as though they were from the perspective of a small child who was only drawing what she had seen right in front of her.

  ‘Tell your father what happened that night,’ Daphne prompted. ‘For he knows less about it than you think he does.’

  Tim flinched again, as though he did not want to know the truth, after all this time. And then he said, ‘Tell me. I need to know what happened, children. I need to know the truth.’

  Edmund looked at him, sullen and in challenge. ‘After you fought, Mother was angry. She said that you had sent her to pack her things and get out of your sight. And she came here and told Lily and me that she wanted no part of us any more. We were our father’s children, and you could keep us. But that Sophie was none of yours, and so she must go as well. Because y
ou would not want her, once Mother had gone.’

  Tim took a deep breath. ‘I did not mean for her to do that. She was being hurtful.’

  Lily gave a small nod. ‘We did not want her to take Sophie and we called for you, but you did not come.’

  Their father let out a small moan of pain.

  ‘And she took Sophie by the arm, and dragged her out onto the landing.’

  ‘It was hurting her,’ Edmund said quietly. ‘So she cried and fought.’

  ‘Mama fell,’ Sophie said again.

  And Daphne could see the scene in her mind, in horrible clarity. The children crying, and mother and daughter struggling at the top of the stairs. Clare’s dress ripping. And the horrible moment when she knew that she could not stop herself from falling.

  She turned to Tim. And she could see the moment when he understood, as something inside him released that had been held tense since the moment of his wife’s death. His features struggled between relief for himself and agony for his children. He reached forwards and pulled Sophie into his arms. ‘It was an accident,’ he murmured. ‘Only an accident. And no one’s fault at all. Is this what you have been afraid of, all this time?’ He hugged her tight and murmured into her hair, ‘I am so sorry, little one. So sorry.’ He looked over her head, to the other children. ‘I did not understand.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ whispered Sophie.

  ‘And you will not, sweetheart. You will stay safe and happy, right here. Isn’t that so, Miss Collins?’ He looked to her for confirmation, for she could see that the little girl had turned her worried expression to her, probably fearing her response.

  ‘Of course that is so, little one.’ And she smiled encouragement, although the truth was horrible. ‘Where else would you belong but in your home?’

  Sophie seemed to slump a little, to become even smaller than she was, as though she wanted to climb into her father’s lap and stay for a very long time. But there was a hesitant smile upon her face, as though the worst had happened, and she had begun to suspect it might be all right, after all.