The nursery was as Spartan as she had feared, the expressions of her charges hardly compensation. Not one to be daunted by a trio of little girls, Sarah swept past them to the window.
“First lesson, girls! There’s a difference between staring, and paying attention,” she said, softening her stern tone with a smile as she turned. Despite the appalling deprivations she’d have to endure, there were compensations, she decided, her optimistic nature rising above the gloom. It could even be fun: the erudition of three sponge-like little girls. It gave her a sense of power she was unused to at home, despite her privileges.
“Yes, miss.” Their blank looks were replaced with curiosity. Even Caro did not look quite so hostile.
“And while we’re waiting for the sumptuous fare about to be laid before us, you can tell me what you’d like me to teach you. I’ve no doubt I’ll be the best governess you’ve ever had.” She warmed to her task. She loved to learn. Now she’d find out if she were as gifted in imparting her knowledge. “I’m an authority on all the graces, with a special passion for the classics and, believe it or not, Caro, the sciences.”
Harriet looked down at her exercise book where she’d drawn a stern-faced insect wearing a monocle and lisped, “I want to learn about worms, and Mama says Caro’s going to need a lot of help if she’s to catch a husband.”
“Worms? We’ll make a worm farm, then.” Sarah spoke above Caro’s protests. “As for Caro-” Her tone was thoughtful. Caro glowered and mumbled something incoherent as she stared down at her empty place setting.
“Enunciate, Caro.” Sarah spoke crisply. “All I caught was the word ridiculous, and I do concur, it’s a ridiculous notion you’ll never catch a husband. Certainly you’re no beauty but that’s sure to change. I was at my most unprepossessing at sixteen, and I remember girls far worse off who turned into veritable swans and waltzed off with nabobs and dukes.”
“You didn’t hear, Miss Morecroft,” Harriet piped up as nursery tea — predictably, egg and toast — was served. “Caro doesn’t want a husband, but nobody ever listens.”
“Not want a husband?” Sarah frowned as she took her seat at the table.
“Finding a husband is not life’s most noble pursuit,” mumbled Caro.
“Noble? There’s nothing noble about securing a husband but unless one intends to be a nun it’s a young woman’s most important enterprise. A girl must use all her wits and wiles to ensure she is as well-placed as possible.”
“Caro wants to be a blue-stocking,” said Augusta.
“Will you be of independent means some day?”
“What?” Caro was clearly affronted.
“Unless you are,” said Sarah patiently, “an indulgent husband who will grant you the latitude to pursue your intellectual leanings is a far more desirable proposition to playing unpaid servant to those in the household who feel they have a legitimate claim upon your time.”
“You’re not married,” Harriet pointed out, “and you’re much older than Caro.”
Caro sounded triumphant. “So if there aren’t enough of the good ones to go around—”
“There are,” Sarah interrupted. “In fact, during my first Season out I found the perfect husband after turning down half a dozen manageable suitors.”
“But you didn’t marry him, did you?” Despite herself Caro looked interested.
“He died on the Peninsula two weeks before our wedding day.” Sarah toyed with her food. She was dismayed to have experienced only the slightest pang recounting this distant chapter in her life. Not so long ago she’d believed she’d never get over it. Could she really have lost her heart? Certainly, she’d lost it to Captain Danvers, seven years ago. But was she now so old she was immune to the heady sensations that accompanied being in love?
When the girls pressed her she was tight-lipped. For one thing, she was not sure what the Hawthornes knew of Miss Morecroft’s history. For another, she hadn’t the heart to pursue the topic. Her first love had ended in tragedy, her second in disappointment. James, her distant cousin whom she loved like a brother, had betrayed her by supporting her father’s cork-brained quest to marry the two of them off to each other, simply because James was next to inherit Lord Miles’s title and estate.
“Not another word on the subject!” Sarah rapped upon the table for silence. “Life contains many disappointments.”
“You must be very brave, Miss Morecroft.” Admiration shone from Augusta’s serious dark eyes. “You’re not scared of spiders, are you? You wouldn’t even be scared of Master.”
“Your dog?” asked Sarah, and Caro giggled.
“My father,” she said. “Everyone’s scared of him.”
“Goodness.” Sarah frowned. “Nobody should be scared of their father. Why, mine’s the world’s most terrible ogre but I’m not scared of him. Or rather, I wasn’t,” she amended, hastily.
“You defied him?” whispered Caro, round-eyed as she fidgeted with her lilac sash, her food untouched before her.
Lilac! Shuddered Sarah. Only the most unfeeling guardian would dress a girl of Caro’s colouring in such a shade. Transferring her attention to the girl’s intense expression, Sarah said, “Not outright. That would have been to no purpose.”
“Then how did you manage such a thing?” Caro strained forward as if the question were of the greatest importance.
Sarah chose her words, carefully. Caro might not be such a lost cause, after all. “You have to work out how a person thinks.” She smiled. “Learn cunning, while all the time appearing ever so meek and obedient. They think they’re getting their way when, really, you’re getting yours. Or, at least, you’re not completely giving into them. Take these eggs, for example,” she added, gaining inspiration from the soft-boiled eggs that were growing cold in front of them. “Pass the charcoal, please, Harriet.”
Perplexed, the girls watched as Sarah drew a face on her egg. She pushed it towards Caro, together with the charcoal.
“Now draw the face of whoever frightens you most in the world.”
With great deliberation Caro pencilled in sideburns, a head of wavy hair, adding a smart cravat before touching up Sarah’s attempts at a face.
“You’re quite an artist.” Sarah’s tone was admiring. “Obviously this is a man of consequence. Now, face him squarely and tell him what you feel. Then chop off his head!”
The girls looked at Sarah, horrified.
“I couldn’t possibly,” gasped Caro.
“If you can’t even tell it to an egg, small wonder the man himself reduces you to a quivering jelly. You’re hardly going to get your own way if you lose your nerve every time he looks at you. So go on, face your egg sternly and tell it what you really think. Come now, Caro. Say: “I despise the way you…”
Caro hesitated. Then taking a deep breath she hissed, “I hate knowing you’re ashamed of me, that you’re so concerned at the impression I make upon people who in your opinion matter but who I don’t ever want to see again. I hate the way you ignore me, think I’m ugly and stupid-”
“Right! Well, I’d be surprised if your egg hadn’t got the message-” Sarah cut in. Caro’s voice had risen alarmingly. “Perhaps now is a good time to cut off its head.”
“So I cut off your head! Like this! So I don’t ever suffer the agonies of your ill opinion again!”
Seizing the bread knife, Caro sliced it through the air, wielding it with as much enthusiasm as any London executioner.
In shocked silence they all watched as the egg shot out of its cradle and hurtled through the air towards the door, levelling off at chest height … at the precise moment the door opened.
And as nursery dinner made contact with the immaculately clad torso of the handsome gentleman Sarah had made eyes at earlier that day, Caro cried out in anguish, “Father!”
Chapter Two
SILENTLY, THE OBJECT of Sarah’s earlier admiration - no longer so immaculately attired - stared at the mess of yolk that now adorned his striped waistcoat.
&nbs
p; “Such dreadful timing, sir!” muttered Sarah, seizing a napkin and dabbing at the sticky yellow patch. Conscious of the hard muscle beneath the two thin layers of clothing, and the fact that her enthusiasm in righting the damage was compounding the awkwardness, she stopped.
He removed the napkin from her grasp. “Miss Morecroft, I presume?” Studying her through cool grey eyes, the gentleman tossed the linen upon the table.
Sarah was stunned into silence. No man had ever spoken to her like this. Like some erring minion. She could feel her cheeks burning. “My apologies for the egg upon your waistcoat, sir, but it is decidedly me who has it upon her face, since I put Caro up to it.”
To her dismay the joke fell flat. Obviously the gentleman had no sense of humour. None of the sensual merriment she was accustomed to in her usual dealings with the opposite sex shone from his handsome, ascetic face. And indeed, it was a particularly fine face.
“Surely playing cricket with eggs falls within the domain of high-spirited young scamps, not gently nurtured young ladies?” He continued to frown at her, almost as if he couldn’t make her out. “I hope your curriculum, Miss Morecroft, takes account of the station in life to which these young ladies aspire.”
Sarah hung her head. “Yes… Mr Hawthorne.”
“I came to welcome you into the household that was once your father’s home.” Again, no smile to soften the effect of his earlier rebuke. “I was sorry to hear of your misfortunes, Miss Morecroft.”
“Thank you.” She could not raise her voice above a whisper. Guilt stabbed at her once again. She was wicked. She would get her come-uppance, though at least she need not fear exposure from this quarter. The real Sarah Morecroft had been a child when her father had taken the family to India.
“And, while I appreciate your honesty in acknowledging your influence behind my daughter’s uncharacteristically hoydenish behaviour, I suppose I should be glad your recent traumatic experiences have not sapped you of all spirit.”
Sarah’s gratification at what she’d interpreted as reluctant admiration was short-lived. There was not a jot of appreciation in his look as he scrutinized her. How dare he sweep his eyes over her with such scant regard, as if she were simply the - well, the mousy governess?
Glancing at a clearly mortified Caro, she felt a surge of anger replace her guilt. Yes, her own father might shout and try to cow her, but he peppered his fiery words with reluctant praise for her beauty, wit and intellect, damning her at the same time for not having been born a son.
Mr Hawthorne’s tone still carried a warning as he put his hand on the door knob to leave. “Caro will have her come-out next year. Your father presented a very persuasive case for my employing you, Miss Morecroft. I trust you’ll not disappoint his memory.”
“Sir— ” Desperate to detain him so as not to be abandoned to the girls in such a humiliating manner, Sarah strove for a disarming combination of entreaty and contrition. “I realize what a great debt I owe you for the opportunity to prove myself as tutor to your children, especially Caro whom I consider has great potential—”
“—For improvement, yes,” Mr Hawthorne cut in. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dinner guests are waiting. I merely put my head in to welcome you to Larchfield. I, too, have every confidence Caro will make a shining debut in another six months-” he levelled a meaningful look at Sarah – “provided her new governess can impart the many accomplishments with which I was assured she was endowed.”
The door closed. Three seconds of shocked silence was broken by Caro’s plaintive wail, “He despises me!” as she plunged out of the room.
Harriet and Augusta exchanged looks, the latter remarking, dryly, “Uncle Roland wasn’t very nice, was he?”
Nice? Sarah was furious. What callous brute would dismiss his daughter in such a manner? But diplomacy was her ally in desperate circumstances and she managed a dismissive, “Your uncle is probably not feeling quite himself,” before she went in search of the distressed Caro.
Sarah’s indignation had assumed monumental proportions by the time she finally retired to her poky little bedchamber, after trying to soothe Caro. She’d made some headway, but of course, what gains could she make when they’d barely met?
Mr Hawthorne was a monster. A cold, emotionless brute, completely derelict in the discharge of his paternal responsibilities. The way he’d treated the new governess was little better.
She tore out the pins securing her unflattering topknot with a serious of vicious tugs in line with her righteous anger, then shook out her hair. Mr Hawthorne would change his tune when she was done. In three weeks, as he acknowledged Caro and the miracles his new governess had wrought, he’d be begging her to stay.
Then her anger drained away. Covering her face with her hands, she slumped over the dressing table. It was a terrible thing to impersonate a young woman who’d died. And she was being justly punished.
The candle guttered, sending lonely shadows dancing upon the walls. Everything was hideous, alien. No elegant Argand lamp by which to read the classics or a thrilling romantic novel. No witty conversation, Madeira or tempting delicacy to round off the evening.
Yet this was the way governesses lived and it was her choice to have joined their ranks. Though, frowning, she thought that surely her own series of governesses had been pampered and spoiled. Then she recalled that they had had rooms just like this one and she’d not given a thought as to whether they might wish for surroundings less austere.
No point thinking about what could not be changed, she decided, as she returned to the trunk. There was no maid to tidy up after her and she needed to find a home for the last of the garments littering the floor. Perhaps that impertinent nursery maid had a brood of brothers and sisters and would be glad of them, she thought. She’d rather go naked in a blizzard than suffer the feel of such coarse, ugly material against her skin.
As Sarah pushed the threadbare garments to the bottom of the trunk her hand came into contact with a hard object. A book, by the feel of it. Intrigue quickly turned to scepticism. No point in pulling it out if Sarah Morecroft’s taste in reading matter was as deplorable as her style.
But of course curiosity got the better of her and, taking a seat on the bed once more she flipped to the flyleaf and studied the neat, heavily looped writing. Miss Morecroft’s diary.
“So how do you find everything?” Once again, there was Ellen’s inquisitive little nose poking around the door after the most cursory of knocks. Without waiting for a reply she bustled across the room and settled herself upon the spindly chair beneath the window. Clearly she expected all sorts of confidences Sarah had no intention of sharing, though Sarah conceded in the next moment she might at least learn something of this strange household and her odd employers. Straightening up to sit on the bed and tucking the diary she now couldn’t wait to read under her pillow she asked, “When I met Mrs Hawthorne I assumed she was married to the master.”
Ellen giggled. “Lord, no! He thinks her the silliest thing under the sun, not but what he’s always ever so civil.” She grinned, clearly delighted to find herself custodian of knowledge Sarah would want, and need, to know. Tucking a strand of lank brown hair back into her starched white cap, she went on, “Mrs Hawthorne married Mr Hawthorne’s older brother, Mr Hector, only he died seven years ago just afore Augusta was born.”
“What happened to Mr Hawthorne’s wife?”
A cunning look crossed the nursery maid’s face. “Died in the same accident as Mr Hector. Mrs Hawthorne’s kept house for the master ever since.”
Sarah, still discomforted by her meeting with her employer, was intrigued. “So Caro is Mr Hawthorne’s only daughter. He seems very hard on her.”
“That’s because Caro’s mother was a trollop!” Clearly, Ellen enjoyed a bit of gossip. “She were running off with dashing Mr Hector when the carriage went off the bridge and they both was drowned. Not that it were the first gentleman she ran off with what wasn’t her husband. Anyway, the poor master’s terr
ified Caro might have inherited her mother’s loose morals. She didn’t inherit her beauty, that’s for sure.”
Good Lord, poor Mr Hawthorne. Sarah frowned, calculating as she surmised, “He must have married very young.”
“Just come into his majority.” Hugging herself, Ellen leaned forward. “You ready to hear a tale of dastardly doings?”
Sarah decided not to dignify this with an answer, although she managed an expression that was mildly interested. Fortunately, it did not take much encouragement to set loose the nursery maid’s tongue.
“When Caro’s mother — Lady Venetia as she was called then — met Mr Hector he were affianced to Mrs Hawthorne. As you can imagine, the mistress were as much a beauty then as she is now.” She sniggered. “But she came with a great fortune whereas Lady Venetia was penniless. But so beautiful! You can see her portrait in the gallery.”
She sighed, then added matter-of-factly, “Only good thing to say about ’er, really. Anyway, she begged Mr Hector to choose her, instead. Oh, he was tempted, but the money talked louder and he and Mrs Hawthorne were married.” Ellen made a moue, parodying the late Lady Venetia’s apparent disappointment before continuing, “So poor, spurned Lady Venetia turned her attentions to Mr. Hawthorne, the master, as is, now.” Her eyes darted to the door and she lowered her voice. “Word was that Lady Venetia’s reputation was ruined with all her carryings-on. And that young Mr Hawthorne’s honour — which was a great deal stronger than his brother’s — was prevailed upon. Anyway, the poor man was smitten so it didn’t matter what she’d done, and besides, he had money enough. A rich inheritance from a doting aunt. So he married her … to his eternal regret for there never was a less loving or grateful wife.”
Sarah hoped she did not appear as intrigued as she was. What a delicious scandal. It was hard to imagine the austere man who’d presented himself just now in the nursery smouldering with passion for a heartless beauty.
“What was she like?”
Lady Sarah's Redemption Page 2
