The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  She returned the shirt to the trunk, nestling it against Maria’s christening gown, and leaned back. The Greythornes had destroyed her family, but they would not destroy her.

  Mr. Twethewey had given her a brief escape in that moment with his lie about Sophy, but she could not avoid Thomas. Once he sensed fear or avoidance, he would exploit it.

  She stood, brushed her lilac skirt, and pinched her cheeks for color. She drew a slow breath to calm her nerves before she returned to the ball. Yes, she was scared. Terrified. And once she faced Thomas again, there would be no turning back.

  * * *

  From the great hall music pounded. Shouts and laughter echoed. The night was growing late, and the guests were growing rowdy. Jac should be in the great hall or billiards room entertaining his guests. But he stood alone in the darkened drawing room, attempting to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

  Mrs. Greythorne said she’d return to the ball after checking on Sophy. Surely by now she’d figured out that Sophy didn’t need her. And yet minutes had stretched to nearly half an hour. Jac paced the room, pausing periodically to glance out the north door so he could see the staircase coming from the west wing.

  The rumors swirling about her sickened him. Just hearing her name on Colliver’s lips incited the urge to punch him.

  Jac didn’t believe the stories.

  Perhaps because he didn’t want to believe them.

  But Colliver was right about one thing—the villagers were talking. He’d seen how they cast sideways glances at her. They saw her as a threat.

  When he looked at Mrs. Greythorne, he no longer saw just the governess tasked with caring for the children. He saw a lovely woman with depth and vitality of spirit. With each passing day she was creeping further into his thoughts. His consciousness. Maybe even his heart.

  It was dangerous territory.

  Finally she descended the stairs, and he jogged into the darkened corridor. “Mrs. Greythorne. Please. Might I speak with you?”

  She stopped and turned her gray eyes on him. In the corridor’s shadow, he saw that there was no laughter in them, no brightness. When he’d first glimpsed her this night with Simon, she appeared vibrant—laughing and light. But now she looked tired. Dark circles beneath her eyes replaced the rosy cheeks, and her smile, which earlier seemed easy and effortless, now appeared forced.

  “Where’s Thomas?” she asked, breathless. “Have you seen him?”

  “He didn’t think you’d come back down, so he said he was leaving. He asked me to pass along his regrets and to tell you he’d contact you soon.”

  He tried to interpret her shifting expression. Was she happy? Relieved? Sad?

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, her shoulders drooping ever so slightly, and glanced over her shoulder as if someone might jump from the shadows.

  After several moments she turned her face fully to him. “I owe you an apology.”

  He almost laughed at the odd statement. “Whatever for?”

  “I didn’t know Thomas would come here. I didn’t even know he knew I was here.”

  “Mrs. Greythorne, this is your home.” He kept his voice low. Steady. “You’re welcome to visit with your family, certainly. Besides, the Frost Ball is open to all.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  He waited patiently. Silently.

  She drew a deep breath, as if trying to organize her thoughts. “The other day, when you said the villagers suggested that my name was associated with free traders, I should’ve been more forthright.”

  He swallowed, steeling himself for what could pass her lips.

  “I wasn’t honest with you. Not completely. If you want me to leave, I understand. I—”

  “Mrs. Greythorne.” His words silenced her. “There is no need for you to go anywhere.”

  Her brows drew together. “But you don’t understand. They—the Greythornes—can be dangerous, and they want me to—”

  Upon impulse he placed his hands on her shoulders, gently, to draw her attention.

  She snapped her mouth shut. Confusion clouded her expression as she looked to his hands.

  He did not remove them. Instead, he bent to meet her gaze directly, refusing to let her look away. “Mrs. Greythorne. I don’t know what happened with your family, and frankly, it doesn’t matter to me. You belong at Penwythe Hall. I—I can’t imagine it without you now.”

  Her eyes were wide. Her lips were pressed together firmly, and her jaw twitched, but she did not look away.

  As much as he wanted to leave it at that, he knew he couldn’t. “Be that as it may, I respect your privacy, but my primary concern is my nieces and nephews. I need to know they’re safe and that Mr. Greythorne does not mean you—or them—harm.”

  Moisture formed in her eyes, and her head swung slowly from side to side. “I—I—” A tear blazed down her smooth cheek.

  The urge to wrap his arms around her was strong, to comfort her until the tears stopped. But he resisted. He dropped his hands from her shoulders to retrieve a handkerchief from his waistcoat. He offered it to her, and she accepted it and wiped her cheek.

  He softened his voice to barely above a whisper. “If you need help, I will help you, but you must be honest with me.”

  After several moments, she lifted her head. “I do believe that my brother-in-law may be involved in some deceptive activities. In fact, I’m certain of it. I—I don’t trust him.”

  “You’re referring to the rumors we spoke about earlier this week.”

  “They’re true.” Her voice cracked and she lowered her gaze. “I don’t think the children are in danger, but I might be. I’ll leave by dawn.”

  “I’ll hear of no such thing.” His words rushed out. Unchecked. Protective. “You’re safe here at Penwythe Hall. I promise you that, but I thank you for telling me. We cannot fight something we are not aware of, and I’ll not let you fight this alone. Besides, the children—they have lost so much, and you are their rock. They rely on you. And so do I.”

  Chapter 24

  Dawn’s wet, chilly wind whipped around Jac and Andrews as they traversed the open courtyard.

  A raindrop plopped on Jac’s cheek, then on his hand. The gray light creeping across the sky signaled an end to the long night. Even as they walked, carriages rumbled away from the courtyard, returning tired guests to their homes.

  Jac wanted nothing more than a long rest. But it was not to be—for now they had a new problem to contend with.

  Andrews muttered low as he walked next to him past the stables and toward Penwythe’s entrance. “What a blight on the night Thomas Greythorne was.”

  It was true. News of Thomas Greythorne’s presence at the Frost Ball spread like an uncontrollable wildfire. Jenkins, an excise man from the north, recognized him. Gossip and chatter wagged on everyone’s tongues, which had been loosened by ale. “This is a predicament, Mr. Twethewey, if I can be blunt.”

  “I spoke with Greythorne myself,” Jac added, determined to fill Andrews in on the details before they were interrupted. “It was after midnight. You were right—Mrs. Greythorne is related to him. By marriage.”

  Andrews slowed his steps, his eyes widening in the pale light. “What will you do about it?”

  Jac stopped to face him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she can’t stay here.”

  “Why not?” he shot back, resuming walking. “She’s given no reason to think of her as anything but decent and helpful.”

  “That’s how women are, don’t you see?” Andrews shook his head. “They seem one way, and then they change and a completely different side comes sweeping down from the blue, catching all males off guard.”

  Jac huffed. He’d not tell Andrews of the fear he’d seen in Mrs. Greythorne’s eyes or the panic evidenced in her mannerisms. It would only add to his condemnation. No, Jac wanted to protect her. He would protect her. “She was in Randall’s household for three years. She’s
the victim of circumstance, ’tis all.”

  Andrew snorted, his fair hair fluttering in the morning’s threatening wind, and he lowered his voice. “You sure your personal feelings aren’t clouding your judgment?”

  “What?” Jac scoffed.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time a beautiful woman swayed a man’s opinion. With that pretty face, large eyes, and dimples, she’s the sort that could work her way into a man’s emotions with the man being none the wiser.” Andrews halted and tapped Jac on the arm to get him to do the same. “We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we? I saw something between you and Mrs. Greythorne. I don’t know what, but something. I’m no romantic, but I can read people. And, well . . .”

  “You’d best stick to estate business and leave my personal life out of it.”

  “Like it or not, your personal life is estate business.”

  As they walked along in silence for several moments, Andrews’s words clanged in his head, like the echo of a pistol shot long after the bullet had been discharged.

  Was he allowing his feelings for her to cloud his judgment on this matter? He’d dismissed other workers for much less than a rumor. But then again, he’d never felt this strange connectedness and inexplicable tie to a woman before. It was more than just reliance on her in regard to the children.

  Andrews gripped Jac’s forearm. “Look.”

  Jac followed his gaze down the small alley between the stable and hay barn. There stood a man. He wore a hat, but the blond hair fringing his high collar was unmistakable. It glowed white, even in the morning’s low light. He was speaking with another man.

  “That’s him—Greythorne—isn’t it?” Andrews hissed.

  Anger flared within Jac, heating his face and chest. “Yes.”

  “I thought he left hours ago.”

  “So did I.”

  They stood in the shelter of the stable’s shadow and watched. The wind carried the indecipherable whisper of their voices, then Greythorne handed a packet to the other person, who tucked it into his coat.

  Andrews and Jac exchanged glances. There was no way to know what was in that packet, but a known smuggler exchanging anything on his property spelled naught but trouble. After the men shook hands, Greythorne glanced left, then right, then retreated through the narrow space and disappeared behind the stable.

  The other man, a tall silhouette in the darkness, walked toward them.

  Jac anchored his feet, preparing for what may come. His heart thumped as the man approached and the light illuminated his features.

  Mr. Simon.

  Without a thought of how to proceed or what he would say, Jac stomped toward the man.

  Simon’s head swiveled in his direction, then his dark eyes widened. For the first time since his arrival at Penwythe Hall, the man’s stony composure fell, and he looked like an animal trapped without any hope of escape.

  Jac clenched and unclenched his jaw. “In my study. Now.”

  * * *

  “What business did you have with Thomas Greythorne?” Jac demanded even before the three men crossed the study’s threshold.

  Dawn’s growing pewter light reached into the chamber, but outside the window the clouds churned bitterly.

  Simon stood in front of the cold fireplace, his cravat askew and his dark hair tousled. He locked eyes with Jac, and a smile toyed on his lips. “Can’t see what my personal business would mean to you.”

  Andrews shifted and leaned against the doorway, blocking the chamber’s exit.

  Jac crossed the small room to see Simon’s eyes more clearly. “You’re aware that Thomas Greythorne is Mrs. Greythorne’s brother-in-law, are you not?”

  Simon shrugged. “And?”

  Beads of perspiration gathered on Jac’s brow, despite the chilly air. “I understand that he’s not to be trusted. I don’t have the time nor the inclination to investigate the matter. That’s not my business. But what is my business is a man in my employ who associates with a smuggler.”

  Simon’s brow puckered, and his dark-brown eyes narrowed. “That’s a lofty accusation to make about a man you don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t really matter, does it? I don’t want him on my property, nor do I want my nephews’ tutor having clandestine meetings with him in the alley like a villain. If you’ve any care for your position here, I suggest you tell me why you were lurking in the shadows when you were supposed to be caring for my nephews.”

  Simon’s jaw twitched. “So you’ve taken to spying, have you, Twethewey?”

  Jac stepped closer, pointed his forefinger at the flagstones beneath his feet, and glared at Simon. “This is my property. Everything that happens on it is subject to my scrutiny.” Jac snatched the corner of the packet sticking out of Simon’s coat. Before Simon could stop him, Jac bent it open. Banknotes abounded.

  Jac slammed the packet back against Simon’s chest. “I want you out of Penwythe Hall. Now.”

  “You would have me leave the boys after what has transpired with their father? For what? Because of what I do in my personal time?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been plotting my dismissal since the day I arrived.” Simon’s face reddened, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Steerhead’ll hear of this.”

  “Tell Steerhead whatever you like. He’s not master of Penwythe Hall, nor is he the children’s guardian.” Jac nodded to Andrews. “Mr. Simon is leaving the premises. Please see that he’s escorted to his chambers to gather his things. I don’t want him speaking with the boys. He’s to be gone within the hour.”

  Chapter 25

  He’d found her.

  They’d found her.

  The morning following the Frost Ball, Delia still couldn’t believe it. The fears that had been swirling within her ever since her return to Cornwall were ugly and raw now, unleashed by the very man who had control over them.

  She wrapped her blanket tightly around her shoulders and stepped from the bed to the window. Instead of drawing it closed, she allowed the invigorating air to rush in, and she filled her lungs with its earthy scent. A silver mist hovered over the primrose garden like a sentry standing guard.

  If only protection from the Greythornes could be so easy.

  She’d been a fool to return to Cornwall.

  She’d tried to deny it, but the truth blazed now.

  Upon Randall Twethewey’s death she should have taken her meager savings, gone north, and opened a school—and left the Twetheweys in her past. But she hadn’t wanted to leave the children, and now even more was at risk.

  And then there was Mr. Jac Twethewey.

  His expression the previous night had been difficult to discern. He’d been reassuring and calm, but he’d also spoken of concern for his household’s safety. He knew enough of the truth, and he’d proven himself a clever man. He’d put the pieces together, like the puzzles he and the boys had assembled the other night.

  A soft knock sounded at her door and she turned. “Yes?”

  The latch clicked and the door swung on its hinges. There stood Alis. “Mr. Twethewey has asked to see you right away, Mrs. Greythorne.”

  She could feel the blood drain from her face.

  He was going to send her away.

  She should have known that his encouraging words of help had been nothing more than a hasty reaction and that ultimately he’d change his mind.

  For who would want a smuggler’s widow around his charges?

  She nodded in response to Alis, then allowed the maid to help her don a simple tan gown of printed muslin. Alis brought fresh water to the basin, and with trembling hands Delia washed her face, cleaned her teeth, and pulled a brush through her hair.

  Each second brought more certainty that she would be leaving this house—leaving her Sophy, Hannah, Julia. The boys. Tears began to form before she even completed her toilette.

  Once dressed, she descended the winding staircase and made her way through the corridors and the great hall, which were still strewn with the evide
nce of the previous night’s festivities. All was quiet, eerily so, as she approached Mr. Twethewey’s study.

  She drew a deep breath before she lifted her hand to knock.

  The sound of shuffling papers coming from within ceased. “Enter.”

  Even though the hour was early, Mr. Twethewey’s desk was alive with writing utensils and evidence of a breakfast eaten while working, the scent of sandalwood mingling with wood smoke.

  He looked up as she entered. He’d not slept, evidenced by the fact that he still wore his dress coat of green wool. His black hair fell in a lock over his forehead in wild waves, and the scruff on his jaw gave him an almost roguish appearance.

  Trying not to stare, she searched his expression for any hint as to what calamity was coming, but his lips formed a tight line, and the small lines framing his eyes were unreadable.

  He motioned toward the chair in front of his desk. “Mrs. Greythorne. Please, be seated.”

  She did as she was bid, fidgeting with the silver pendant around her neck. They’d both let a bit of their guard down the previous evening, sharing personal thoughts and feelings in the corridor’s protective shadows, but now they were back in reality, where decorum and manners must prevail.

  Discomfort crept in during the ensuing silence.

  She was alone with him, but she did not want to be.

  She garnered her courage. This moment was uncomfortable, but it would be even more so if she did not address the topic hovering between them. “Mr. Twethewey, about what happened last night, I—”

  “I did not ask you to come here to talk about last night.” His curt words sliced the harsh silence. He kept his eyes focused on the stack of papers he was shuffling. Finally he placed the papers in a pile and folded his hands atop them. “I wanted to speak with you about Mr. Simon.”

  She winced at the unexpected name. “Mr. Simon?”

  He fixed his gaze on her. “I’ve terminated Mr. Simon’s employment. He left Penwythe this morning. He’ll not be returning.”