Caroline jerked away from the earl in what must surely have looked a guilty manner.
Lady Braithwaite, the mother of the earl and of Caroline’s pupils, swept into the room and deliberately closed the door.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
His lordship cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Of what mother?” he asked impatiently. “Miss Grey has been upset by news from home.”
“And that necessitates you sending your sisters away and cuddling her with the door closed?” her ladyship snapped.
“Oh for the love of… Mother, the door was not closed!”
“Then how come I had to push it open?” she retorted.
“The window is open.” Caroline gestured toward the open casement. “The draught must have blown the door. Forgive my weakness, my lady, my lord. If you will excuse me, I—”
“Society is unforgiving, Miss Grey,” the countess interrupted. “And where my daughters are concerned, I do not allow myself the luxury of ignoring appearances. Whatever the truth of your grief—or your designs upon my son—you are dismissed.”
Caroline’s mouth fell open. Her ears sang with shock. She barely noticed Lady Braithwaite’s regal exit, merely stared after her, speechless.
“Braithwaite!” the countess snapped.
The earl swore beneath his breath. “Excuse me,” he said grimly to Caroline. “Wait here.”
As he strode after his mother, Caroline doubted she was capable of doing anything but staying where she was. Slowly, she sank back into Lady Maria’s chair, wondering how on earth this could have happened.
From nowhere, from nothing, she was without a home, a post, a future. Without a reference, she had little hope of a respectable position in another household. She would have to spend the last of her money journeying to her mother, and then who would pay Peter’s doctor…?
This is not fair!
But she’d known for a long time that life was rarely fair. Not to the powerless.
Oh, but she would miss those bright, lively girls she’d grown to love.
She swallowed. I will not cry again. I will not.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she was summoned by a maid to the earl’s study. Straightening her shoulders, she lifted her chin and determined to keep her dignity for the final interview.
“Don’t close the door, for God’s sake,” the earl said as she entered his study.
She was relieved that the countess wasn’t present. There would be less temptation to give in to fury.
“I’m so sorry for this, but the devil’s in it that I can’t change her mind right now.”
Of course, he couldn’t. She was surprised, almost touched, that he had apparently tried. But the countess, already smarting from being overruled on Lady Serena’s marriage to the impoverished Marquis of Tamar, would not give in a second time in a month.
“I have obtained you a stay of execution until tomorrow morning,” he said, with an apologetic twist of his lips. “Which at least gives me time to warn Benedict of your arrival.”
“Benedict?” she repeated, bewildered.
“Mr. Benedict at Haven Hall.”
Haven Hall… A flash of memory distracted her—a tall, grim figure striding from the trees, an ugly scar, livid and jagged, across a swarthy, frowning face.
“I spoke to him the other day,” Lord Braithwaite explained, “and he is in need of a governess.”
“Why?” Caroline blurted.
“He has a daughter, and I’m sure he’ll accept my recommendation.”
“But I’m not sure I can,” Caroline said in panic. “Haven Hall, sir!”
The earl waved that aside. “Rumor and nonsense. He’s just a little eccentric, but a perfect gentleman and extremely well educated. Besides, it shouldn’t be for long.”
She regarded him unhappily. “You expect me to lose that position, too?”
“Well, yes, in so far as I expect you to come back here.”
She blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He gave a lopsided smile. “Contrary to today’s evidence, my mother is neither an unkind nor an unjust woman. She is merely subject to temper and impulse—as well as being most stern about the proprieties. You must know she was angry with Serena when she sent her up here last month, only then, nothing would do but that we had to rush up here after her because she acknowledged her mistake. In a week or so, she will acknowledge her mistake toward you, too, and I hope you will come back to us.”
Caroline seemed to be spending a lot of today with her mouth open. She closed it.
“My sisters will miss you, Miss Grey,” he said uncomfortably. “They love you, and they certainly seem to learn a great deal more from you than their previous governesses. My understanding is that you also were happy in the position.”
“I was.”
“Then with your permission, I will merely loan you to Benedict and his daughter and reclaim you for my sisters in a week or so. By which time, hopefully, Benedict will have found a permanent governess for his own daughter.”
“I never even knew he had a daughter!”
Braithwaite shrugged. “I doubt anyone knew. He brought his own servants with him to the hall. I gather neither he nor they associate with anyone in Blackhaven, so no one really knows anything about him at all.”
And yet you will send me there like a lamb to the slaughter.
“However, he has recently employed a cook who is a Blackhaven woman,” Braithwaite continued cheerfully. “She used to work in our kitchen and is an excellent person. You may trust her implicitly.”
“Oh, good.”
He cast her a sidelong glance, as though suspecting her—quite rightly—of sarcasm. But he let it go. “As I say, I’m sorry for this, Miss Grey, but I hope we may make it right in the end.”
She met his gaze. “Then I wonder if I might ask a favor? I need to send something to my mother.”
“I shall frank it for you.”
As contented as she could be, in the circumstances, she left him to pack her meagre bag.
*
Lord Braithwaite had told her to order the gig when she was ready to leave, but having gazed upon the sleeping faces of his sisters for what could be the last time, she found she needed to walk off her anger.
She had neither asked for nor wanted the earl’s sympathy, and his mother must surely be an imbecile to imagine any impropriety in such an innocent moment. She seemed to regard Caroline suddenly as some kind of designing hussy, a siren in a drab grey gown and damaged boots, quite set upon getting her claws into Lady Braithwaite’s precious son. So now she was to be parted from the pupils she’d grown so fond of, disrupting their lives and her own.
It was a long walk to Haven Hall, but not the first time she’d taken the path. Then, she had just been walking in the autumn sunshine, unaware of where her feet had taken her until later. The hall itself had only been glimpsed between the trees, its tenant unidentified, even after he’d confronted her.
Her stomach tightened in memory of that encounter. She must have looked somewhat foolish and timid to him. But in truth, there had been reason for her nervousness. Strangers in the neighborhood had recently attacked Lady Serena and were hiding smuggled goods in the castle cellar—goods rather more dangerous than the illicit French brandy so familiar in Blackhaven. So, when she’d heard the unmistakable sounds of someone in the wood, seemingly paralleling her own path, she had been understandably alarmed.
Especially when she’d walked back the way she’d come, and still the crackling of twigs and swishing of branches had followed her. At last, the sound of breath panting louder than hers had compelled her to face the danger head on. After all, she’d doubted she could outrun it.
“Show yourself!” she’d commanded, halting and glaring into the trees. A huge, grey wolfhound had loped out of the undergrowth, wagging its tail. She’d never seen anything quite so large look so unthreatening. But her relief had been short-lived, for hard on the heels of the dog had com
e a large, scarred man, so casually dressed that she couldn’t tell his class or occupation. Swarthy and unshaven, wearing a battered wide-brimmed hat, he could have been a gentleman, or a farm laborer, or even a poacher. Or, with that scar, Lady Serena’s villainous attacker.
“What do you want?” she’d demanded, as the dark eyes regarded her with annoyance.
His black eyebrows flew up. “A rabbit for dinner. What do you want?”
Although his voice had been rough, at least his accent had been that of an educated man.
“Peace to walk undisturbed,” she’d retorted, although her ill-nature had been immediately diluted by the wolfhound pushing its great head under her hand. Without meaning to, she’d stroked the dog and even smiled at it.
And when she’d raised her gaze to its owner, he was staring at her with grim, secretive, unblinking eyes. A thrill of fear had twisted through her. At least, she’d supposed it to be fear.
However, apart from the dominating scar running right across one side of his face, he was not an ill-looking man. Perhaps in his mid or late thirties, he was tall and straight, his features harsh but even, his hard, grey eyes compelling, and his lips fine. She’d wondered if he ever smiled. Certainly, he hadn’t at her. Instead, his gaze had flickered over her like a lash and returned to her face. He hadn’t looked impressed. She’d wanted to step back from him, to run, but something, whether fright or mere refusal to give in, had kept her rooted to the same spot, her hand still on the dog’s great head.
“Peace,” the stranger had repeated with a twist of his lips. “Here? I suggest you look elsewhere. Good afternoon.” And he’d whistled for the dog and strode back into the trees. His gait seemed more uneven than the rough ground warranted, as though he were lame—or drunk.
The wolfhound, with a farewell lick at her mended gloves, had trotted off after him.
For some reason she couldn’t fathom, the brief encounter had troubled Caroline, even after Lord Tamar had guessed the identity of her scarred man as the tenant of Haven Hall. Mr. Benedict, according to Lord Braithwaite. Mr. Javan Benedict, whose daughter was called Rosa. There was no Mrs. Benedict, the earl had said.
That was all she knew of him for sure. But as she walked, she couldn’t help remembering all the rumors about him, for after her brush with him, she’d made a point of listening to the servants’ gossip and even asking the odd question in Blackhaven.
According to some, he had murdered his wife. Others said he kept her locked up in one of the rooms at the hall. Others said she had given him the scar on his face, or that her lover had caused it during a duel. Someone else had told her he stole children, a rumor which could, Caroline supposed, have come from the sudden discovery of the daughter who lived with him.
Then, on top of all those personal rumors, some said Haven Hall was haunted by the tragedy of its owners, the Gardyn family, and that its tenants were all either scared away or driven insane by the ghosts. Terrifying noises and unearthly visions in the vicinity of the hall had been reported for years.
Caroline discounted rumors. And yet, whether or not the man she’d encountered close to the hall had indeed been Javan Benedict, she could not help being alarmed by the prospect of the coming meeting. Lord Braithwaite had told her Mr. Benedict expected her and that, subject to an interview, she would be engaged for a trial period. This did not comfort Caroline. She didn’t want to be farmed out to strangers and strange children while she waited for Lady Braithwaite to forgive her for something she hadn’t done. She wanted to be teaching Maria and Alice and Helen…and enjoying the occasional company of the newly married Lady Serena who had become something approaching a friend over recent weeks.
But that was not an option. She could go home with no reference. Or she could go to Haven Hall and try to earn one. She would not even think of the countess’s forgiveness. She began to wonder, in fact, if she might not forgive Lady Braithwaite.
By the time she reached the overgrown drive, her meagre carpet bag of possessions felt as if it weighed a ton. Worse, the rain had come on half an hour before, and the wind had blown her bonnet off her head, playing havoc with her hair. If she had to come here, she would have preferred not to turn up on the doorstep looking like a drowned rat or some waif from the poor house.
The hall was even less comforting than the grounds. In the rain, covered with dark ivy and framed by filthy grey clouds, it looked even grimmer than its tenant. If Caroline had been fanciful—which she hoped she was not—she would have shivered with foreboding. Her current trembling was due merely to the cold and damp. Truly.
She trudged up the broken, weed-strewn path to the front door and lifted the knocker. Covering her uncertainty, she knocked rather too loudly for civility, but having done it, she couldn’t take it back. She stepped away and waited.
It seemed to take a long time before the door opened with a painful creak of hinges. An ill-dressed, dark-visaged manservant regarded her.
“Caroline Grey,” she said as briskly as she could with water running down her face. “Mr. Benedict is expecting me.”
The manservant didn’t trouble to hide his grin of amusement at her appearance. But at least he stood aside to admit her. She took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.
“One moment, Miss,” said the servant, after he’d swung the door closed behind her. He crossed the wide, wood-paneled hall to what seemed a very distant door. Despite his unconventional dress for a butler, he had a straight, vaguely military bearing.
Clearly, she wasn’t meant to follow him, so she used the time to squeeze what moisture she could out of her hair, cram some loose pins back in place, and drag her bonnet from her neck back onto her head. That way, she could pretend she was not staying, that there was still some alternative to this situation.
At least the inside of the house looked less dilapidated than the outside, although the wall panels and the table beside her could have done with a dusting.
The manservant didn’t vanish for long. He reappeared outside the distant door only moments later and beckoned to her. Feeling as though she took her life in her hands, she walked toward him. She tilted her chin for courage and sailed past him into the room.
It appeared to be a dining room, the table set for luncheon. A girl of perhaps nine or ten years old sat there gazing at Caroline, an angry lady of perhaps forty winters at her side. A gentleman, presumably Mr., Benedict, had his back to the door, standing about halfway between Caroline and the table.
As Caroline halted just inside the door, the angry lady sprang to her feet, snatching up a whole cake from the table. She hurled it with force and fury, straight at Mr. Benedict.
Caroline gasped, for the woman’s aim was true, and she was sure the cake, plate and all, must hit him. But he simply ducked, and the plate flew over his head, shattering against the wall only inches from where Caroline stood.
Cake dripped down the wall and landed among the rest of the crumbs and broken china on the floor.
In the silence, Caroline turned her bemused attention to the scarred face she recognized. His gaze lashed her. Then he turned his back and walked to the table, his stride uneven as she remembered from their first meeting.
“Marjorie,” he said quietly.
The lady glared at him in defiance, her chest heaving. And then, muttering, she stalked around the table until she stood beside him. Together, they walked directly toward Caroline, who stepped smartly aside—away from the cake.
The lady, misery rather than fury staring out from her face, didn’t so much as glance at her. She seemed to be held together by a very fine thread.
Mr. Benedict deigned to flick another glance in Caroline’s direction. “I’ll be with you directly. Please sit down. Eat, if you wish.”
At least he didn’t comment on her disheveled appearance. Perhaps he was hindered by the cake dripping down his wall.
Chapter Two
Fighting a strange sense of unreality, Caroline crossed the room to the table. The child stared at her
curiously.
“You must be Rosa,” Caroline observed. “I’m Miss Grey.”
The girl nodded but said nothing. She was a pretty child, with thick, black hair and large, brown eyes.
Caroline hesitated. She had had nothing to eat all day and was ravenous after her long walk. “May I join you?”
Again, the girl nodded.
Very conscious of her rain-soaked cloak, Caroline sat on the edge of a chair, and taking an unused plate, helped herself to cold meat, cheese, pickles, and bread and butter.
“How old are you, Rosa?” she asked pleasantly, between mouthfuls.
The girl didn’t answer. Perhaps she didn’t hear, so concentrated did she appear to be on Caroline’s face. Caroline let it pass, and since her companion was not inclined to talk, she merely ate and hoped the child would get used to her. After that, she could teach her good manners.
The girl picked up the bread on her own plate and began to nibble.
When she heard the approaching footsteps that heralded Mr. Benedict’s return, Caroline hastily swallowed the food in her mouth and rose in time to see him limp into the room.
“Miss…Grey, is it?” he said, unexpectedly offering his hand.
“Yes.” Her hand seemed to vanish inside his large fingers. They felt rough in texture and strong, though his grip was brief and firm rather than harsh. His eyes betrayed no recognition that they’d met before.
“Javan Benedict. This is Rosa.”
“So I gather.”
Gesturing for Caroline to be seated, Mr. Benedict casually ruffled his daughter’s dark head as he passed and sat beside her.
He frowned at Caroline. “Take off your wet things, Miss Grey. Did the Braithwaites not provide you with a suitable conveyance?”
“I chose not to take up the offer. It wasn’t raining when I set off.” With difficulty, she untied the wet ribbons of her bonnet, then stood to remove her heavy cloak. Unexpectedly, Rosa took them from her, and with a quick smile at her father, ran to the door.
“Make sure they’re dried off,” he called after her.
“Thank you,” Caroline murmured. Stupidly, without the cloak and bonnet, she felt defenseless, vulnerable.
Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8) Page 22
