“A nutcracker? No, don’t tell me.” She shoved her spectacles up, ebony ringlets bouncing upon her silken nape. “That must be a severe blow to the head.”
“Near enough,” drawled Ribber Rufus, who then leaned so close she must have been able to feel his breath. “And how about a…famble in the dandle, Miss Griffin?”
Her hand lifted to her lips and she…giggled.
Scowling anew as Seth realised she had no need of his rescue, he continued to the decanters, where Kian also lurked.
“Well,” his old friend began, “yer governess is causing a sensation.”
“Hmm.”
“And Rufus has taken a shine to the bonnie lass.”
“Hmm.”
“A canny idea to have her as hostess.”
“Hmm.” Actually, no, it wasn’t. Rufus did indeed appear smitten and for some reason, Seth found that quite irritating.
“Ribber Rufus is particular when it comes to the ladies,” his friend wittered on, “and he looks enamoured…and she also.”
Seth swivelled. “It’s her job as hostess to be attentive.”
Kian held up a palm and grinned.
A trill of giggles, a rumble of fierce laughter and Seth gritted his teeth.
“Does yer lass Chloe like Miss Griffin?”
“Very much.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?” he groused.
“Och, Seth, yer a mite tetchy tonight. Have another wee brandy.”
He glared at the poured liquor and its shimmering burnt amber hue.
Indeed, he’d enjoyed this evening but vexation prickled his neck, and seeing all his friends had also brought old memories, both good and bad, to the fore.
“Seth?” a seductive female voice whispered at his side. “You promised to show me the ballroom?”
His gaze lifted from the brandy and stretched across the room to settle upon Miss Griffin.
That molten gown, which would blend perfectly with his own waistcoat, highlighted her flushed cheeks and creamy décolletage, tendrils of dark hair brushing her gilded bodice.
Gold and black – riches and sin, the beautiful day and wondrous night, enticing him like no other.
She glanced up and their eyes collided.
Noise ceased.
Desire surged.
To stride over and…
A hand pressed to his shoulder. “Seth?”
Miss Griffin twisted away.
The moment moved on; the jabber of friends resumed; Kian scrutinised his liquor.
“Yes, Miss Figstone?”
“The ballroom?”
He blinked. “But of course.” And he swivelled to proffer an arm, aware he was walking in the wrong direction.
Chapter Ten
“Every man feels a respect and an awe in the company of a virtuous and lovely woman.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“I do hope you’ll visit us in Cheshire. You’d be most welcome.”
“Thank you, Mrs Dewhurst,” enthused Matilda. “I’ve never been north before.”
The lady and her champion sauntered into the rainy night, and smothering a yawn at the lateness of the hour, Matilda waved until they ascended the hackney.
Mr Finlay remained the last guest, still nattering to Mr Hawkins in the hall, and she fidgeted, desiring her slumber post-haste. Mercifully, her employer strode to the stand to collect the Scotsman’s hat, cane and gloves, so Matilda took her chance. “Mr Finlay, I must bid you good night.”
“And to yer also. Never have I had such an agreeable dinner at Seth’s roost. All due to the bonnie hostess, I reckon.”
Matilda blushed beneath his scrutinising blue gaze and–
“Ahem.”
She turned to her employer, who prodded Mr Finlay none too kindly with his accruements.
Mr Hawkins loitered with a distinctly rumpled demeanour. Fine lines of strain etched his brow and a tinge of stubble darkened his jaw. Sans jacket, his linen sleeves were rolled back to the elbow revealing muscled forearms, that burnished waistcoat half-unbuttoned, gold fob watch peeking from his pocket and cravat dishevelled.
Handsome and rather dangerous looking.
“Miss Griffin?”
She shivered. “Yes, Mr Hawkins?”
“I would appreciate a moment of your time if you are not too fatigued? We could convene in the library? I will be but a moment.”
Matilda nibbled her lip. If she’d been in attendance at a society ball and such a request had been made, worry would have beset her – a rake of the Season set to seduce in the library, but this was Mr Hawkins.
And doubtless he’d already done his seducing for the night with Miss Figstone.
Not that it mattered.
In the least.
He was her employer and nothing more.
“Certainly,” she replied, disguising her yawn.
A tight nod and he spun to Mr Finlay, who, for no good reason she could fathom, winked at her.
She meandered up the staircase for the library, a curious assortment of emotions churning within – pleasure at the success of the evening, to be sure, but also its opposite. Regrets and a lingering sadness had intruded as she’d bid farewell to their guests.
Perchance the laughter, after so much concern for her future, had brought other, deeper emotions to the surface. For the occasion had reminded her of all that she’d lost, of all that she would no longer have.
As governess in future households, she would be expected to play an invisible role, speak only when spoken to, be on her best behaviour at all times and never laugh too loudly or distract a gentleman’s attention.
A woman of two worlds – servant and society – yet not fully accepted in either.
She was spoiled within this household, where Ton rules did not hold sway. Befriended by the housekeeper and indulged by her agreeable employer and his charming daughter with ices, museums and…companionship.
Two lanterns still bathed the library in a golden glow, the open cabinets of books welcoming her with their warm-coloured bindings and scent of leather. No quarter was given to sculpture or art, though one lone mirror did hang over the fireplace reflecting the velvet curtains of green drawn firm against the sodden night. She ambled to the round mahogany reading table to peruse a small volume, its pages laying open.
Whenever she had visited the library, be it morning or night, a different book had sat waiting as though its reader had not a moment since departed the room.
And not books that she supposed most gentlemen would read of an evening – on carriage maintenance, angling or pistol polishing – but novels and poetry by Rousseau, Byron or Scott.
Tonight it was Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene.
She roamed to a chestnut bookcase and caressed the ornate spines for bedtime reading.
Byron? Too romantic.
Blake? Too sad.
Her hand faltered upon the essays of Michel de Montaigne – an antique leather-bound book, and she removed it from its slot, breathed in the pages and brushed the golden gilding.
Father’s favourite.
After dinner, he’d oft recited these philosophical essays in the original French, Mother listening intently to his deep restful tone, herself flicking through drawings of the Molucca Islands.
She’d been sheltered, certainly, in her upbringing, and many a night she had wished to be elsewhere, exploring an exotic island or in the trees with her birds, yet now Matilda wished she’d relished those peaceful hours with her parents, taken from her all too soon. Philosophy had not been her own inclination, but she missed their presence and guidance and…
She missed them.
“Miss Griffin? Are you…”
A pristine white handkerchief was thrust before her and she realised that two fat tears were trundling down her cheeks, that her employer had silently stalked into the library. “I… I am quite well, Mr Hawkins. Merely tire
d, I think.”
“I apologise then, most sincerely, for keeping you from your bed.”
Twisting, she took the handkerchief from his hand and dabbed at her face. Mr Hawkins’ eyes were narrowed in concern – intense and striking.
“No, not at all. I’m unsure sleep would be forthcoming in any case.” And Matilda made to replace the book.
A broad hand stayed her own for a moment. “Have you a taste for philosophy?” Then let her slide it home.
“Not really, but it was my father’s favourite.”
“Ah, I see.” And she had a feeling he truly did see. “It was remiss of me not to enquire before, but I assumed your parents died long ago.”
“Three years this autumn,” she replied, holding the handkerchief out to him.
Mr Hawkins accepted the soggy bundle with nary a frown. “Not that long at all. I am so sorry. Was it illness?”
Matilda swallowed, never having spoken at length to anyone about her parents’ death.
“No… I do not wish…” Her words trailed off, unsure what she wished for.
“If you do not wish, Miss Griffin, then that is your prerogative, but I cannot abide seeing my governess in such distress. So if at any time you wish to share, I do have broad shoulders.”
Matilda gazed to those shoulders, as mighty as Atlas’ to bear the world. Forever she had assumed to be self-contained, taught to restrain emotion, but tonight, she…she hurt.
Her gaze flicked up to his face, half-shaded in the lantern light, rough, stubbled and with that scar, but also calm, sincere and with that kindness.
Cousin Astwood had shown little care for her parents’ death, the vicar had advised her to bear the grief with stoic valour as such was the transience of life, and one great-aunt had declared it a blessing they’d at least gone together…
Maybe.
But it hadn’t felt like a blessing to Matilda.
The wind gusted outside, a swash of rain pelting the velvet curtained window.
“I… I always…” She bit a lip to prevent a tremble. “Why do the days you most want to remember – full of joy and fun – evaporate in one’s memory like a summer’s cloud, and yet days you wish never to recall – ones of grief and tragedy – cling like a bitter and befogged winter’s night?”
He released a long leaden breath. “Perchance, to remind us that life is short? So as not to take it for granted?”
“Yes, that might be true.” Matilda rubbed the heel of a hand to her chest. “I lost my whole world in but a moment. Everything. My parents, home, future. I tell myself that such is fate, yet…why must fate be so cruel?”
Mr Hawkins shook his head. “I wish I knew.”
And she was aware that sadness was not confined to her alone, that her employer had also lost a beloved wife.
“My parents went to Kingston to attend a lecture. I merrily waved them off and hurried back inside, dare I say, gl-glad they were gone so I could return to my atlas of the South Sea Islands, but…”
The handkerchief returned to her cheek, caressed in silence.
“There was a collision with a racing phaeton and they…my parents perished at the roadside. I was told Mother died swiftly, but Father… He was gravely injured by shar…shards of wood.” Whenever possible, she suppressed the visions that such recollections caused, but tonight she let them sorely flood over her – her delicate mother crying out, her gentle father in so much pain, tended to by strangers as their life ebbed from them in a dank Kingston lane, and she prayed once more that God had taken them with all speed.
“Miss Griffin… Forgive this forwardness,” he whispered as his broad palm lifted to cup her jaw. “And I know words can never be enough but… I am so deeply sorry.”
She tipped her head, gazed into his eyes and nodded her gratitude, drawing comfort from his sincerity. “I believe I’ve never fully…felt their loss, never been given time to feel their loss. Astwood took over with undue haste, clearing my parents’ bedchamber before it was cold. I removed all their personal diaries to the attic, and one day I hope…I hope to retrieve them.”
“You need only ask and I would help you with that.”
Through blurred eyes, Matilda surveyed his firm lips but gentle regard. “I do not know why I feel like this tonight. I apologise, for I had a joyous dinner and your friends are all so charming.”
“Memories,” he murmured, “can seize one at the strangest of times – a scent, a picture, your father’s book or seeing old friends. You have both my utmost sympathy and…understanding, Miss Griffin.” A soft sigh escaped his lips.
His hand still lingered and although the impropriety of their closeness was beginning to intrude, she found she didn’t much care for once.
Miss Pikesworth’s Guide to Etiquette had been wrong about everything else, after all.
Instead she faintly rubbed her cheek back and forth in his rough palm, not knowing whence her boldness had come from.
For a brief moment, Matilda thought she saw a flash of intense…fire flare within Mr Hawkins’ eyes, but then it extinguished and he drew away.
He ran that same hand across his own jaw, the rasp noticeable over the soft patter of rain outside, before he turned to survey his books. “I asked you here as I wished to express my thanks for all your hard work tonight. It was not an easy task that I requested of you.” His fingers brutally tugged at his hair. “And you were…perfect.”
A shroud of pleasure wrapped her inner sadness. “Oh, thank you, Mr Hawkins. If truth be told, I was a little nervous.”
“You’d no need. Also…” Spine rigid, he fiddled with a bookend upon the shelf. “Rufus… Not knowing your situation with family and suchlike, Rufus asked me as your employer if he may call upon you, but I replied you were your own woman for asking, and that what you did on your free days was your own business.”
Rather stunned, Matilda spluttered. “Well, he’s awfully nice but…” Indeed, no curious sensation of any kind had overcome her in his attractive company, no desire to rub her cheek upon his palm or share her deepest sorrows. “I’m not drawn to him in that way.”
“Because he is an ex-prizefighter?”
“Not at all.” She frowned at the back of his gold waistcoat, the lacing accentuating his slender hips. “I like him of course, but…” How best to explain it? “I do not feel the same attraction which you evidently have for Miss Figsto–” She bit her tongue. “Not that it is any of my business.”
Mr Hawkins twisted to her and tilted his head. “You believe myself and Miss Figstone to be entangled?”
“Well, I noticed you did disappear together.” Matilda’s gaze slunk to her feet, spectacles sliding down her nose. “She’s a beautiful lady.”
“She is indeed, but I took the chance tonight to tell her that although I enjoy her company, I do not feel we would suit.”
Matilda’s eyes flicked up.
“Miss Figstone…” Tugging at his cravat, he sighed. “To be truthful, she reminds me too much of my wife.”
“I see.” Except Matilda didn’t, and she nudged her spectacles back up.
Seemingly aware of her confusion, Mr Hawkins ambled to the decanters and poured two glasses.
“Perhaps this witching hour,” he said softly with a resigned smile, “promotes in us confession. For my wife, you must understand, Miss Griffin, deserted me for a highwayman.”
It carried the air of a comedic play, yet her employer’s shoulders were taut, lines bracketing his lip, no amusement to his profile.
She’d conjured images of a loving marriage, her employer so very content, a wife easing his fighting pains and cheering him on, only to succumb to the lung disease or a tragic accident like her parents.
“Is she…is she still alive?”
A shake of head and he prowled towards her, proffering the glass. “No. One year after she left us, Bow Street caught up with the highwayman; there was a pistol exchange and she was caught in the crossfire.”
“I-I’m so sorry.” She took t
he glass and sipped, its burn gliding down her throat to aid the cold in her chest.
His lips curved to a grim smile. “I mourned her the day she died just as much as when she left me. Does that make me a fool?”
“No!” And without thought, Matilda laid a hand upon his bare forearm, felt heated skin, wiry hair and the thrum of muscle. “It makes you faithful and constant, and any woman would be blessed to have such devotion.”
And she meant each word.
Ever since her first day of employment, she had considered Mr Hawkins a balanced, secure man, one satisfied with life. But she supposed everyone had their sorrows – it was just that some were better at hiding them.
“My wife left us while I was training. Abandoned a six-year-old Chloe with a letter and a penny doll as substitute.”
“How awful.”
But Mr Hawkins shook his head and rubbed his nape.
“I grew up in the Rookery, Miss Griffin. A cruel place where fists rule and the only law is survival.” He grimaced. “Being a fighter who’d won a few minor contests, girls paid me attention, but Samantha was like a bright star within that squalor – yet didn’t she know it, knew how to twist the lads around her finger with a wink. In the throes of raw youth, I pursued her, and she gave of herself freely, but I was the one caught. You think your Ton world strict? Try explaining a kiss away to an Irish mother with an iron skillet.”
“You married?”
He shrugged. “At scarce seventeen, neither of us knew any better, quite frankly. And we were both…browbeaten, for want of a better word. Maybe I could have refused, but…”
“You loved her.”
He nodded, gaze flat and empty. “I loved her vivacity and generous nature. I loved her beauty and she made me laugh. I wanted her and so I had her. Samantha was fond of me enough, said she loved me.” The contents of his glass were slugged in one. “I promised her I would get us out of the Rookery. Together.”
Matilda’s hand tightened upon his forearm, and he abruptly stared down as though unaware she was still clutching him. He’d been lost in a far-off world – of youthful dreams and a future all planned.
With a soft inhale, Mr Hawkins gazed up. “But… We hardly knew each other in truth. Samantha… She viewed the fighting world as excitement and roaring crowds, medals and adulation, whereas for me it was a way out. I wished to save every penny, she wanted to spend. I needed to sit in at night and recover from my busted ribs, she yearned to dance in the ale-houses. I was dead with exhaustion and she was so full of life.”
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