Once at the cottage door, Delia rapped her knuckles against it.
The aged maid eyed her curiously once the door was open. Instead of being shown to the parlor, the maid ushered them to the back garden, and as they rounded the corner, Delia drew in her breath at the sight.
Wild and free, the garden boasted an explosion of color and living things. Butterflies added dots of floating color to the sky above, and the hum of hovering bees blended with the rustling leaves, creating music, soft and soothing. Upon closer inspection, the garden was not a haphazard collection of plants but a deliberate pattern of rhododendrons, magnolias, and roses. The mosaic stood in vibrant pink and purple contrast to the greenery around it. A sweet, familiar fragrance hung in the air.
A giant tabby cat slinked from the low boxwoods. It stopped at the sight of them on the brick path, as if frozen solid, its large gold eyes fixed on them in alarm.
“A cat!” Sophy immediately attempted to step toward it.
Delia held her hand firmly. “You don’t know that cat. It might not be friendly.”
“La, that’s naught but ol’ Cyrus,” the maid interjected in amusement, hands propped on her hips. “He’ll not hurt the little girl none. I’ll fetch Mrs. Angrove.”
Delia released Sophy’s hand as the maid retreated, and the child fell to her knees next to the cat.
After several minutes Mrs. Angrove appeared in the doorway. A worried expression darkened her face, and her gaze shifted from Sophy to Delia. “My dear Mrs. Greythorne, I do hope nothing is amiss.”
“Of course not!” Delia stepped toward Mrs. Angrove and offered her the steadiness of her arm. “We only came to pay a call.”
Mrs. Angrove’s look of apprehension melted to one of relief. “Oh. Well then.”
Delia guided her toward the table, noting the tidy nature of Mrs. Angrove’s hair. Not a single silver strand was out of place, and her gown of green silk was neat and pressed. As subtly as she could, Delia motioned to Sophy to come and greet her aunt, and she stepped back to allow the girl room. “I hope we are not intruding, Mrs. Angrove.”
The older lady chuckled and accepted a kiss on her cheek from her great-niece. “My goodness, Mrs. Greythorne. At my age I will take any and all visitors. I am happy not to be forgotten.”
The words struck a chord in Delia’s heart. Was Mrs. Angrove lonely?
Mr. Twethewey said he visited here every day, but Delia glanced around the area. Trees were her only neighbors, the flowers her only housemates.
The cat trotted forward at the sound of its owner’s voice, and Sophy reached down to pet his back as he passed.
“Ah there, I see you’ve become acquainted with Cyrus.”
Sophy knelt once more, and the cat curled against her. “She’s pretty.”
“Well, she is a he”—Mrs. Angrove’s voice danced with humor—“and he is very happy for anyone who will pet him.”
Mrs. Angrove sat at the table and turned back to Delia. “So tell me, why have you come to call?”
The directness of the question might have unnerved some, but Delia found her frankness refreshing. Delia said nothing but joined her at the table and unwrapped the painting.
“What have you there?” Mrs. Angrove accepted the framed piece and angled it to get a better look. A smile crept across her face, evidence of a memory budding to life. “Where did you find this?”
“In the west wing. Mr. Andrews told me you painted it.”
“So I did. Many years ago.”
“It is quite beautiful work.”
“You flatter me.” She chuckled. “As I said, my husband was fond of the gardens, and if I wanted to be in his company, I had to find a way to enjoy spending time in the gardens as much as he did. I couldn’t bear digging in the dirt, no, so I brought a paintbrush with me. He dug and I painted.”
“You are quite the artist.”
“I was quite the artist.” She placed the painting on the table and leaned back in her chair. “I’ve not painted since my husband died.”
They sat in silence for several moments, watching Sophy dangle a flower above the cat and then giggle as he batted it with his paw.
Mrs. Angrove broke the silence. “I told you that after my husband died I didn’t want to live at Penwythe Hall because it held too many memories. That was true, but there was another reason. When we first lived at Penwythe, William’s mother lived here, in this very cottage. He created this garden—everything you see—just for her. It was small, but he spent so much time here tending it for her. I feel closer to him here than anywhere.”
The maid brought out the tea, and Delia waited until the beverages were poured and the cakes laid out before she proceeded. “I must confess that I came here for a selfish reason. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Mrs. Angrove’s pale-blue eyes sparkled as sharp as her wit. “Oh? A selfish reason that requires forgiveness. Sounds intriguing.”
Delia smiled and lowered her teacup to the table. “It is about your art. While at Easten Park, an art master would instruct the girls when he was making his rounds. He’d stay with us for a few days each month, and the girls always enjoyed it. Would you be willing to teach them what you know about painting?”
Mrs. Angrove waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, my dear, I’ve nothing to teach.”
“But surely there are some skills you could impart. Besides, I know they would enjoy spending time with you. I’ve been attempting to teach them about the flora and fauna of the area, and this would be a wonderful way to teach them botany and other such knowledge.”
Mrs. Angrove looked at her more closely. “Painting is a feeling. An extension of who you are. I must say that you’re quite confident in your role and quite decided in your goals for the girls. You must care for them very much.”
“I do. And I hope it wasn’t presumptuous to come to you directly. Mr. Twethewey said to make myself at home, and at Easten Park I would have no problem pursuing a new instructor.” Realizing what she had said, she straightened. “Oh, not that I think of you only as an instructor. I just meant—”
Mrs. Angrove threw back her head and laughed heartily. “I like you, Mrs. Greythorne. I like you a great deal. This is what Penwythe needs—a woman to keep things moving. Men get lost in gardens and orchards and the sea and the like. But you see it as I do. People, ah, people. That is where the true success lies.”
Mrs. Angrove turned to observe Sophy, who was seated on a small tuft of grass amidst the lilies. The cat nestled in her lap, and she dangled a long piece of grass for the cat to play with. Mrs. Angrove’s gaze softened in the way a mother’s gaze would when she looked at her child. “I would like very much to spend time with the girls. Bring them to the garden early in the morning. The light is the most pleasant then. I will ask Jac to find my paints and palettes.”
Satisfaction, warm and rewarding, spread through Delia. This was what the children needed—to start building foundations and friendships. To start a new way of life with new goals and new passions. She never wanted them to forget their life at Easten Park, but there were opportunities here—opportunities for happiness and growth, if they would but accept them.
* * *
Jac was late. Normally his visits to his aunt were much earlier in the day, but he’d lost track of time. He glanced heavenward and increased his pace. The afternoon sun was starting its descent.
His aunt would be upset.
She was lonely, he knew. Few neighbors matched her social status, and as such, she had few visitors. Occasionally the vicar and his wife would call, and a handful of spinsters in town would take tea with Aunt Charlotte, but for the most part, she spent her time in isolation, alone with her memories at Fairehold Cottage. Hopefully now that the children were at Penwythe, they might visit her.
He quickened his steps until he was at the cottage gate. Soft, feminine chatter and a child’s laughter rose above the leaves’ soft rustle.
He bypassed the front entrance and followed the brick path back to the g
arden, where he found his aunt and Mrs. Greythorne seated at a small table and Sophy lounging on the lawn.
“Uncle Jac!” Sophy jumped up and ran toward him, her dark hair windblown and her cheeks flushed with the day’s warmth. She bumped into him, grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward her. “Guess what? Aunt Charlotte has a cat, and he likes me. He likes to eat catnip; it makes him do the silliest things. Aunt says catnip is like magic and puts cats in a trance. Can you imagine?”
He smiled at the amazement in her face.
“The catnip makes a lovely tea, but Cyrus here likes to eat the leaves,” Aunt Charlotte said. “I’m glad you could make it today. I was wondering where you were.”
“I’m sorry I’m late.” He kissed his aunt on the cheek and bowed toward Mrs. Greythorne. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Greythorne turned her face toward him. “Mr. Andrews told me that your aunt is quite the artist. The girls had an art instructor at Easten Park, and I thought in light of the transition, Mrs. Angrove might be willing to share her knowledge with the girls.”
“Excellent idea.” He sat at the table and snuck another glance toward the governess. She was lovely in her gray gown and with her russet hair gathered at the nape of her neck.
He’d noticed the interest in Andrews’s eyes when he’d watched the governess from the orchard a few evenings prior, and now to hear that he sought her out during the daytime hours was disconcerting. “So Andrews suggested that you come here?”
“Well, he didn’t suggest it exactly; he merely told me of your aunt’s talent. I do hope it was all right to bring Sophy here.”
The conversation took its normal turn. His aunt was eager for news of the progress with the granite crusher, and he shared updates on the drainage ditches in the north orchard and the new pond. He told her of the new hedgerows that replaced the overgrown brambles and told Sophy of the family of rabbits that had made a home there.
Before long, an hour had passed, and the clock inside chimed the hour.
Mrs. Greythorne straightened. “Sophy and I had best be returning to the other girls. By now they should be done with their needlework, and Sophy still needs to see to her reading.”
Behind him, Sophy groaned. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Then you must come and visit Cyrus and me tomorrow,” Aunt Charlotte suggested. “We get very lonely out here, don’t we, Cyrus? You will be just the remedy he needs.”
Sophy smiled and jumped to her feet, swiping the grass and leaves from her black skirt. Then, with all the impulsiveness of youth, Sophy scurried to her great-aunt and planted a kiss on her cheek.
As Sophy turned to depart, Jac noticed leaves clutched in her hand. “What are those for?”
“It’s catnip. For the cats in the kitchen. Do you think they’ll like it?”
He laughed. The thought of Mrs. Bishop dealing with cats and catnip was amusing. “They’ll adore it. I’ll accompany you back, if you don’t mind. It’s getting late and I’m expecting a call from Colliver.”
They said their good-byes, and as they exited the garden, Jac fell into step beside Mrs. Greythorne as Sophy ran ahead.
He was alone with her.
They’d spent the better part of an hour in each other’s company, and during that time he’d thought of little else than the rumors regarding Mrs. Greythorne’s husband. He needed to discuss them with her, for the sake of the children’s security.
Though the words felt thick on his tongue, he managed to keep his tone light. “There is something I wanted to talk with you about. And it is of a rather personal nature, but I still feel it warrants discussion.”
She glanced upward. “Of course.”
“Apparently something is causing quite a commotion in town.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Your name.”
Chapter 18
Delia’s heart raced within her chest. Suddenly the linen of her high-necked gray gown felt far too warm for such a spring day and her straw bonnet seemed too heavy.
My name.
His simple statement erased the calmness she’d enjoyed just moments before.
“My name?” She gave a little laugh, doing her best to hide the concern in her voice.
“Yes, your surname. Greythorne. It’s brought to mind an event in the past.”
She knew exactly to what he was referring—the raid near Bran Cove.
After her husband—and the others—died that night, the story spread far and wide throughout Cornwall, had meant, no doubt, to be a deterrent to any who would consider choosing the same path. She shouldn’t be surprised that someone would recognize it.
She stole a sideways glance at him. He looked so calm. So collected. The topic did not have the same effect on him. Why would it? To him, it was just a story—a faraway tale of fateful events.
“Apparently several years ago a band of Greythornes was believed to be at the heart of a smuggling ring on the south coast. One or maybe more of them were killed in a specific raid, and this is what the villagers remember. Living so close to the sea, the locals here are very sensitive to the dangers of free traders. Our little town has been burned by the effects of it, and they are wary.”
She held her breath, waiting for him to say something else, but he remained silent.
She wished it were easier to find fault with him, but he had been kind to her since their arrival, and he’d been attentive to the children. To her surprise, she cared what this man thought of her. She did not want to lie to him, nor did she wish to deceive him. But she was no fool. She was not about to place her trust in someone she had known for such a short time.
“I’m not suggesting you were in any way involved, but I wanted to make you aware of the rumor.”
How surprised he’d be to know the extent to which she was acquainted with the events of that night. She had a choice in this moment. She could tell him the whole truth and be done with it, or she could allow this misperception to continue.
Delia managed to mutter, “Thank you for letting me know.”
They continued down the path, their silence broken only by the seabirds that had found their way inland and Sophy’s excited chatter over the flowers growing at the tree line. The secret Delia wanted to hide from could not be outrun. It kept cutting her off at every turn. The secret festered within her like a painful, raw wound that could not be healed.
Mr. Randall Twethewey may have overlooked her past to allow her to be governess to his children, but she was now living under Jac Twethewey’s roof. Even though her compensation came from the trust, he had the power to oust her from her position—a position she dearly loved and desperately needed.
* * *
Hours later, night fell and her charges slumbered in their beds, giving Delia the privacy, at last, to read her letter from her sister.
She had pulled one of the more comfortable wingback chairs from the sitting room into her bedchamber and positioned it next to the hearth. After lighting two candles, she wrapped a warm woolen shawl around her shoulders, tucked her legs up to her chest, and leaned her head against the chair’s back. Once settled, she slid her finger under the wax seal to pop it open, wishing she could talk to Elizabeth face-to-face instead of through letters.
Oh, how she missed her sister.
Not only that, how she missed the aspects of her life that had been closed off to her all these years since her departure from Greythorne House. Now simply being in Cornwall made her crave her childhood home even more.
She unfolded the letter and angled it toward the candlelight. The faint handwriting was much weaker than in her last letter, much shakier. Delia had pretended not to notice the decline in her sister’s penmanship. Delia rarely received a letter from her brother, but even those had increased and he’d become more vocal about his concern for Elizabeth.
Delia pushed the thought away and squinted to see her sister’s pale writing.
My dear Delia,
Words
cannot describe my shock at hearing of Mr. Twethewey’s death. What terrible news! It is nothing short of horrific to have a life taken from one so young. I have not been at ease ever since, for I keep thinking of those poor children and how devastated they must be.
Delia read on, reveling in the contents about her brother’s children, her brother’s most recent sermon, and a little about villagers whom Delia would remember from their childhood. The letters were much the same, but the constancy and familiarity of them made them comforting.
The time has come to end this letter, dear Sister, as I always do. If there is anything pleasant to come out of this horrible business of death, at least it has brought you back to Cornwall. I do hope you will visit. Everyone here would so like to see you, and I think you will be surprised at both how much has changed and how much has remained the same. I need not tell you how often I think of you. You are in my prayers, dearest Sister, today and every day. I hope you are finding your peace and your place.
At this, tears blurred her vision and Delia lowered the letter. If she could, she would take the burden of illness from her sister. Elizabeth had never been well, never known freedom of health and vitality of life. Even so, Delia refused to confront her sister’s mortality. Her husband’s and daughter’s mortalities. Her own mortality and her role in the larger scheme of life.
Her sister was praying for her. She knew it. Elizabeth’s faith had always been stronger than hers. Perhaps if Delia had leaned on her faith more, the realities of the past few years would have been different.
She angled her head so she could see out the window to the slice of night sky and white stars. A gentle gossamer cloud floated over the moon, the light of which limned the cloud in a silver glow.
Why she had not prayed more, she didn’t know. Fear seemed to be the dictating force in her life, especially since the loss of her family. Perhaps that was why. Fear knew no bounds and came in so many forms: Fear of what the future held. Fear of more loss. Fear of opening her heart and finding pain. Fear that if she did pray, her words would not be heard.
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 12