“She were the vainest creature what ever lived. She ate men for breakfast - leastaways, she did until she met ’er match in the villainous Sir Richard Byrd, only that’s another whole story.” She sighed, as if hankering after this bygone era. “I could tell you a thing or two about Lady Venetia and this household that would make yer hair stand on end. It were a lot livelier then!”
The magnificent oil painting of the late Lady Venetia, commissioned by Mr Hawthorne as a wedding present, hung near the mullioned windows at the end of the parquet-floored gallery.
Poor Caro, thought Sarah, as she stared up at the proud, fiery eyes that gazed out beneath disdainfully arched brows. Although her eldest charge possessed her mother’s fine dark eyes and coal black hair all similarities ended there. The slight upturn of the late mistress’s full and sensuous mouth hinted at some private satisfaction while her sumptuous gown and rich jewels indicated a love of finery.
She wondered if Caro’s refusal to make any attempt at improving her appearance was simply rebelliousness. Well, she’d soon set the girl straight.
She also wondered if the swell of Lady Venetia’s creamy white breasts above her daringly cut evening gown still had the power to move the master when he stopped to admire the likeness of his late wife.
Sarah glanced down at her own awful gown. Last night she had borrowed needle and thread in order to launch a serious attack upon her wardrobe. Instead of dropping hemlines she’d worked hard to increase the deleterious effects of shrinkage and staining. Surely Mrs Hawthorne would remember her offer of cast-off clothes.
“My mother was the most beautiful woman in Dorset,” came a cool voice beside her, and Sarah turned to see Caro at her left shoulder staring dispassionately at the portrait. “Hard to believe when you look at me.”
Sarah hesitated, sensitive to her adolescent charge’s vulnerability. Though she’d always been confident of her own beauty, she still remembered the uncertainties of her adolescent friends and cousins. “There’s little resemblance but your eyes are finer.”
Caro arched her brows. “False flattery, Miss Morecroft.”
“What would you say if I told you I was considered a great beauty where I come from?” countered Sarah. Laughing, she added, “Your silence wounds me. But what if I told you that clothes, the artful application of my favourite Liquid Bloom of Roses and my hair styled à la Greque, instead of this unflattering topknot, would make me the toast of the town?”
At Caro’s sceptical look Sarah’s amusement grew. “Just wait, Miss Hawthorne. When I’m done you’ll see that you can be both a beauty and a bluestocking.”
Sure enough, Sarah’s ploy with a needle and thread worked upon Mrs Hawthorne’s conscience, for several days later Sarah returned to her room to find three day dresses and an evening gown upon her bed. Their flounces and furbelows screamed their decrepitude (three seasons ago!) but Sarah was as gifted with a needle in creating wonders as she was in wreaking havoc.
She was gratified by the admiration in young master Cosmo’s eyes as he greeted her on the stair the following day.
“Oh, miss, you look lovely,” breathed Harriet when Sarah entered the schoolroom; and although Caro said nothing, Sarah, who was watching her closely, registered the surprised widening of her eyes.
“All it needs is the right bonnet,” Sarah announced, stooping for the copy of The Iliad which lay upon the table. “I thought you girls might like to go into town and help me choose one.”
Harriet and Augusta regarded her as if she were mad while Caro actually choked.
“Did your previous governess never take you on shopping expeditions?” Sarah looked up from her task of selecting a passage from the text. She had surprised herself at her desire to devise a curriculum for the girls that was both instructive and entertaining.
“Oh miss, do we have to read that?” groaned Harriet.
Sarah snapped the book shut. “If society decrees that your social success depends upon your being a beauty, my job is to ensure you are at least a well-read one.”
“Governesses have not the means to go shopping,” Caro pointed out virtuously, raising her head from The Revd Huckerby’s Treatise Against Sin, ignoring Sarah’s last remark. “And Papa would never countenance such frivolity.”
“But he has countenanced a visit to the circulating library. The carriage is being brought round as we speak. Naturally we’ll need refreshment, also. And it would be foolish to walk right by a milliner’s if one happened to get in our way - don’t you think?”
The younger girls were vociferous in their agreement. And although Caro said nothing, at least she didn’t object when Sarah ushered her out of the schoolroom and down the stairs.
For the first time since she’d survived the shipwreck, Sarah was enjoying herself. The fresh spring air, the warmth of the sun on her face as they sauntered through the prosperous little town, was balm to her soul. The visit to the circulating library, however, was cursory as she chivvied Caro to make her selection so they’d have time to do the important chores – such as visit the milliners where Sarah had noticed a very pretty chip bonnet in the window.
“You can’t possibly mean to buy that?” Caro gasped when she saw the price.
“Indeed I do,” Sarah assured her. “Only I have one more errand. Caro, here’s money for currant buns your aunt was generous enough to donate to the occasion. Now I want you to look after your cousins and I’ll meet you here in ten minutes. No, you can’t come with me.”
Shameless she might be, but little girls had a habit of innocently revealing all, and Sarah’s visit to the pawnbroker’s was not something she wanted Augusta happily divulging to her mother or uncle.
With no regret she handed over her necklace in return for a sum that would keep herself in the luxuries necessary to make the following couple of weeks tolerable.
The next visit was to the apothecary’s. Caro might disapprove of her purchases: Royal Tincture of Peach Kernels, Olympian Dew and, of course, the essential Liquid Bloom of Roses. Mr and Mrs Hawthorne certainly would.
With these items carefully concealed in brown paper, Sarah gave a sigh of satisfaction and stepped out onto the pavement.
Right into the path of Mr Hawthorne.
“Good morning, sir,” she said, endeavouring to maintain her composure and wishing heartily the three girls were in tow. She was upon the point of calling them, pretending they’d disappeared round a corner, and then excusing herself and supposedly dashing after them, when he remarked dryly, “While I am glad you had delicacy enough to shield your charges from a pawnbroker’s, might I ask what supervision they currently enjoy?”
“Caro is buying the girls currant buns—” Sarah tried to sound as nonchalant as she could. “I considered ten minutes’ absence in the care of their cousin, who, after all, might be married within the twelvemonth, safe enough. And of course, as you yourself remarked, I couldn’t take them to a pawnbroker’s.”
“Not a pawnbroker’s … no.” He waited, expectantly, the sun at his back throwing his lean, athletic body into relief.
Sarah sighed. “Sir, my clothes have been ruined by salt water. As I had a necklace I was able to pawn I did so in order to make those additions to my wardrobe necessary to do honour to the family which employs me.”
Mr Hawthorne looked unimpressed. “Mrs Hawthorne, I believe, generously donated four fine gowns and shawls of her own.”
“From three seasons ago,” objected Sarah before she could stop herself.
His disapproval was palpable.
Quickly, Sarah continued, “Of course, she was very generous but—” she put out her hands, as if exhorting him to concur- “there were the other necessary additions … like a new bonnet, and slippers. And of course, gloves.”
Her defence was not having the desired effect. Mr Hawthorne was positively glowering.
“Miss Morecroft, such frivolity is not countenanced in my household. Your father assured me of your sober temperament. I paid your passage and off
ered you a home upon the death of your late mother—”
“Oh, Sir!” Sarah caught her breath in what she considered a heartrending manner. Running the back of her hand across her eyes, she darted a surreptitious look from between her fingers. Yes, this was proving a most effective way of quelling his diatribe. She could see his immediate self recrimination was genuine. “You have been kindness itself!” She hiccupped, unable to continue, for her tears were suddenly no longer feigned. She thought of her darling Papa who must be mad with grief. Guilt bubbled up inside her. Nor had she any right to deceive the decent, if somewhat grim, gentleman before her.
But how to extricate herself?
Mr Hawthorne’s frown was now one of deep concern. Taking her by the elbow he led her into a narrow alley, away from the curious looks of passers-by.
Sarah stared at her feet, encased in their ugly, serviceable second-hand boots, bit her lip and gave another hiccupping sob.
“Miss Morecroft, I apologize.”
Raising her head she was struck anew by his fine grey eyes regarding her with … compassion? She was even more surprised when he put his hand on her shoulder and said with genuine feeling, “My behaviour was unsympathetic and ungentlemanly.”
Her heart gave an unexpected lurch. To cover her awkwardness she managed a brave smile as she said briskly, “You had every right. Please, sir, if I promise never to set foot in another pawnbroker’s, may I be forgiven and fetch the girls? I must get them ready for nursery tea.”
His normally severe expression softened. The extraordinary transformation only increased Sarah’s loss of composure.
“I hope you did not pawn something that was precious to you, Miss Morecroft. I will gladly redeem it. That is, if you do in fact promise to approach me before you consider setting foot in such a place again.”
“It was nothing precious, sir.” Though her heart was beating quickly Sarah ventured a wicked grin. “Merely a trinket I happened upon during my brief visit to the ocean floor.”
“The girl is quite unlike Godby’s description of her.” Roland scowled at Mrs Hawthorne who was stitching an elaborate pastoral scene that consumed most of her daily hours.
With speed and deftness she worked the needle and coloured threads. Roland often wondered how she could spend so many hours by the fire — in all weathers — when the garden beckoned, beyond.
She picked up a skein of gold and glanced at him. “I believe excessive sea water in the system can unhinge the mind. Her manners are lax. I did warn you, Roland, but hopefully time will reveal a more sober nature.”
Roland raked his fingers through his hair as he kicked a burning log further into the fire. “I’m not about to turn her out.” He sighed. “I owe her father too much. But when all’s said and done I must act in Caro’s best interests. I cannot risk her being corrupted by a frivolous and hoydenish young woman.”
His scowl deepened as he reflected on their encounter the previous afternoon. Yes, the girl was quite unlike Godby’s description of her and Roland was dangerously discomposed. Both by Miss Morecroft, and his response to her.
Mrs Hawthorne clicked her tongue before adding, “Indeed, Caro is in the greatest moral danger … through no fault of her own.” She bent once more over her work and shook her head to emphasize her point.
Not for the first time Roland looked dispassionately at the bobbing ginger corkscrew curls which his brother had so cruelly derided before he’d married Cecily for her money, and wished his sister-in-law could bring herself to feel a little more kindness for his daughter.
“Caro is old enough to eat with us at table,” he said abruptly, ignoring Cecily’s dire prediction. He didn’t want to risk her dredging up the past, yet again. “With her governess. That way we might better observe Miss Morecroft’s manners.” Picking up a small plaster bust of a cupid wearing a seraphic smile, his frown became even more pained. “If she proves unsuitable we will have to find her another post.”
“Sit at table with my aunt and father!” With a shriek, Caro leapt up from the nursery table and threw herself against the window sill, her hands to her face. “Oh, that’s worse than anything!”
Sarah’s smile faded. “But you’ll do them such credit.” She stepped forward and put a reassuring hand on the girl’s unresponsive shoulder. “I’ll teach you how to deport yourself with confidence. We’ll turn you into the toast of the town.”
“I don’t want to be the toast of the town!” Caro sobbed. “I want to be left alone to read my books.”
It took two days before Sarah finally persuaded Caro to submit to her cache of beauty aids. Afterwards she cajoled Ellen into helping them both with their hair using tongs, a jug of water laid before the fire, and sugar to set the curls.
Sarah had again been busy with her needle and thread. The little girls had been her willing assistants, happily parroting French conjugations as they handed her the various coloured threads and other tools she needed.
Now it was the day of reckoning and she was ready. As the dinner gong reverberated through the house Sarah allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation. Then she hastened Caro to her own room to look in the tarnished mirror which rested on the chest of drawers.
“A credit to your father, don’t you think?” Her eyes raked her young protégé with pride.
Caro’s dull cheeks had been enlivened with a discreet touch of Liquid Bloom of Roses. Her best dress, once a utilitarian and modest gown of Pomona Green velvet, had been remodelled to resemble something in the first stare.
Sarah’s heart leapt with anticipation. She could not wait to present her handiwork and earn her employers’ admiration.
“Are you ready, Caro?” she asked, and was gratified by the spark of wonder in the young girl’s eyes as she continued to stare at her reflection.
“I don’t look anything like myself,” she whispered, her tone indicating this was a good thing.
“You look beautiful,” Sarah said, and meant it. “Just don’t spoil it with poor posture. You need to make your entrance with pride and dignity.” She gave the girl’s arm a quick squeeze. “Just you wait, your father will be overcome!”
As Sarah had anticipated, amazed silence greeted their entrance. She smiled demurely at her employers as she sank into her seat. Lowering her eyes to her plate she waited for the praise.
Silence.
Clearly, they were lost for words. She had obviously excelled at her self-appointed task of transforming Caro into a vision of loveliness.
Only as the silence lengthened did she feel the first stirrings of doubt. She raised her head to glance, first to her left, where Caro was cringing with unconcealed embarrassment, not daring to look at anyone, then to the head of the table where Mr Hawthorne sat.
Her heart missed a beat, then uncertainty turned to anger. What father would look at his daughter with such undisguised recrimination? As if it were a crime for a woman to try and improve herself.
But it was Mrs Hawthorne, clutching her scrawny throat, who shrieked, “Have you been using complexion enhancers, Caro?”
The direct accusation stirred Caro to retaliation. Her cheeks took on a feverish hue. “Do you mean like Mother?” she ground out. “Yes, I found them once in her dressing table drawer and decided to use them tonight.” She took an unsteady breath. “I did not realize Mother was considered such a harlot!”
Shocked silence greeted her outburst.
Caro gave a choking sob as she added, “Forgive me, Father, for daring to remind you of her.”
Sarah bit her lip, watching Caro confront her aunt and father. Both looked increasingly concerned as Caro, now in full swing, went on, “Poor Mother, it’s a good thing she’s not alive to see what a hideous creature she brought into the world. But then, how much easier it will be to eschew the vices and wickedness which brought her down. I recall you saying something along these lines, once, Aunt Cecily.”
Mrs Hawthorne turned puce. “Really, Caro, I don’t recall ever—”
But it w
as Sarah who finally took charge, saying brightly — despite having to quell her own trembling — “I read in the news sheet that the Prince Regent’s banquet for more than a hundred guests at Carlton House is the talk of the town.”
Hopefully that would deflect attention from Caro who appeared on the verge of a breakdown. Caro’s fears and insecurities must have been feeding on gossip for years. Sympathy washed over Sarah. Outrage, too.
She took a spoonful of lobster soup. “Delicious,” she pronounced.
When there was no response she glanced up again. Why was everyone staring at her as if she had somehow scandalized them as much as Caro had? Caro was glancing at her nervously. Mrs Hawthorne, even more puce now, was looking as if she’d like to turn Sarah into a lobster and then into soup. And Mr Hawthorne was regarding her as if she had already turned into, if not a lobster, then certainly something very much resembling a spiky, hideous crustacean. At least Cosmo was gazing at her with undisguised admiration. That was some solace.
Sarah raised her chin. “Sir, do you not believe Caro’s appearance tonight vastly improved? It will increase her confidence and, in turn, her chances.”
A succession of emotions seemed to flit across her employer’s face. His slate grey eyes, seemingly darker, settled disapprovingly on her bare arms before he fixed her with a cold level stare. “Clearly, Miss Morecroft, you had eyes only for the description of the Gothic Chapel in which the Royal Entourage dined; of the fifty-six haunches of venison, ninety-three brace of pheasant and two dozen turtles that were devoured. You were unmoved, it would appear, by the news sheet’s report on what I suspect you’d consider a fairly minor occurrence at St Peter’s Fields in Manchester.”
Sarah stared at him.
“An orderly meeting of fifty thousand people wished for an audience to hear their grievances. Like the high cost of bread. The average labourer breaks his back so his landlord can dine on Le jambon à la Broche and truffles, yet his wage cannot support his family.” His expression became thunderous. “Then the cavalry moved in. Eleven people were killed, and more than four hundred injured. Should we countenance such things in civilized society? Are you teaching my daughter respect for worthy values, or filling her head with frivolous nonsense?”
Lady Sarah's Redemption Page 3
