‘Of course,’ Maud replied.
He bowed again.
Maud took Rosabel by the hand, the butterfly net in the other. She was aware of him still standing with his horse as they walked away.
* * *
When they returned from the woods a little later, there was no sign of Sir Dominic Jago. Not that she had been looking for him, she reproved herself.
A carriage had drawn up at in front of the house, and, with the help of a footman, a woman was descending, her hooped taffeta skirt swaying in the breeze. The fabric shimmered as if it were the ocean itself.
Maud sighed. The dress was so beautiful. With Rosabel’s hand still in hers, she moved closer, across the lawn.
The woman turned. She was probably the most fashionable woman Maud had ever seen, even in London, she thought, half-dazzled. Her hair was dark and her long-lashed eyes were an unusual blue-green, a light turquoise that matched the velvet of the ribbons that held her black cape.
With an imperious, gloved hand, she beckoned.
Maud stiffened. She disliked being summoned in such a way, but it would be rude not to respond. She had to be careful, always, to be polite to visitors to the house. It was part of the role of a governess.
The woman looked Maud up and down as they drew near, as if Maud were a specimen on a pin. ‘You must be the new governess. Dominic has mentioned you.’
Maud inclined her head. Governesses did not curtsy or bob, in general, but she always aimed to be courteous. ‘Yes. I am Miss Wilmot. How do you do?’
‘I am Averill Trevose.’ The other woman’s voice was crisp and high. ‘Soon to be mistress of Pendragon Hall.’
Chapter Six
When all my spirit reels;
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
Maud almost dropped the butterfly net.
So, Sir Dominic Jago was engaged to be married. No wonder he had been at such pains to tell her that he did not want governesses chasing after him. But it still came as a shock that he had not informed her of his impending wedding.
Yet why should he? she chided herself. He was not required to disclose his personal affairs to her.
‘My apologies,’ Maud said. ‘I wasn’t aware that Sir Dominic was engaged.’
Two red spots appeared on Miss Averill Trevose’s cheeks.
‘Our engagement has not been formally announced, not that it is any concern of yours. I am mistress here in all but name, and soon I will have that, too.’ She spoke with all the assurance of a woman who always got what she wanted. Maud knew that haughty tone. She’d come across it in her previous employment—it emanated from women who wanted their desires met instantly, who expected Maud to fetch and carry for them, even though her role as governess was not that of a general servant.
Averill tossed her glossy ringlets. ‘I told Dominic that I could take charge of employing his servants. He has had such trouble with governesses. How they chase him! But I understand you are something of a bluestocking.’
Maud’s corset tightened, seemed to clamp her chest. ‘I support women’s education, yes,’ she managed to reply.
‘I suppose some women need an education,’ said Averill, in a dismissive, almost pitying tone. ‘Especially if they have nothing else in life.’
Maud bit back her retort.
Miss Trevose’s black ringlets fell over her shoulder as she bent towards Rosabel, who had been listening to the conversation, wide-eyed, all the while pressed against Maud’s grey skirt.
Maud reached to put an arm around her and draw the little girl closer in. It was entirely inappropriate for Miss Averill Trevose to have mentioned the possibility of marrying Rosabel’s father in front of the child, she thought indignantly. Miss Trevose obviously had no consideration for how it could affect a child to hear such news, especially a child such as Rosabel. Still, it was none of her concern who Sir Dominic Jago chose to marry.
Averill gave Rosabel a smile that didn’t warm her blue eyes.
‘I’ve come to take Rosabel home to Trevose Hall with me for the day,’ she cooed. ‘I thought we ought to spend some time getting to know each other better. Would you like that, Rosabel?’
Rosabel shrank back.
Averill rolled her eyes. ‘It is absurd that a knight’s daughter should be so shy. She must learn to take her place in society. Her disposition is much too nervous.’
Maud bit her tongue. She loathed hearing children criticised in their presence. Rosabel was shy and sensitive, it was true, but there was nothing wrong with that. She would become more confident, even in new situations, if she was allowed time and care. She had already made such excellent progress. Maud did not want it undone.
Averill held out her hand. ‘Come along now, Rosabel.’
Rosabel shrank even further behind Maud’s skirt.
Averill exhaled in exasperation. ‘Come along, I said.’
One look into Rosabel’s white face and pleading eyes was enough for Maud.
She thought quickly. ‘My apologies, Miss Trevose. Sir Dominic left no instructions for Rosabel to visit you today, or any other day, for that matter.’
Averill drew back, her elbows bent. Her cooing demeanour had vanished. ‘Don’t be impertinent! He didn’t need to leave instructions. Dominic will entirely approve of Rosabel coming with me.’
Maud felt Rosabel’s small hand grasp tighter in hers. ‘I cannot allow Rosabel to leave without Sir Dominic’s permission.’
‘I’m quite certain that Dominic,’ Averill emphasised the use of his first name, as if underlining their intimacy, ‘would have no objection to my taking Rosabel out for the day. He can collect the child later.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Maud said with a calmness that belied her inner anger at Rosabel being described as if she were no more than a parcel to be picked up, ‘I have been given no explicit instructions. Until I receive Sir Dominic’s permission for you to take Rosabel, I cannot do so.’
She would not. Not with Rosabel quivering beside her.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Miss Averill hissed.
‘In any case,’ said Maud, ‘there are Rosabel’s lessons to think of.’
Miss Averill tossed her head. ‘Surely her lessons can wait.’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Maud squeezed Rosabel’s trembling hand. ‘Come with me, Rosabel. We must finish our botany lesson.’
Rosabel peeped out from behind Maud’s skirt. Relief was obvious on her pinched face.
Fury at being thwarted flashed in Averill’s stunning blue eyes. ‘Dominic shall hear about your impertinence. I’ll have you dismissed.’
Her skirt whirled as she turned her back on them both and stalked back to the carriage.
Still holding Rosabel’s hand, Maud raised the butterfly net and walked across the lawn towards the woods. Rosabel’s hand was not the only one shaking. Rarely had Maud met another woman to whom she had taken such an instinctive dislike.
There was no doubt that Miss Averill Trevose was a beautiful woman, but there was a coldness to her that chilled Maud’s heart. Was this the kind of woman that Sir Dominic wanted to marry? Was she soon to become Rosabel’s mother?
Maud’s heart sank.
She had thought that her position as her governess was secure.
Far from it.
* * *
‘Miss Wilmot?’
Maud smiled down at Rosabel, who lay tucked beneath the bedclothes, her teddy bear beside her. She had just finished listening, wide-eyed, to the latest adventures of Princess Swallowtail.
The bedtime story had started later than usual. Almost a week had passed since the unfortunate interlude with Miss Trevose, and Maud had allowed herself to hope that it had been forgotten. Each night, when Sir Dominic Jago appeared in the nursery, and, with no words spoken, took a seat on the other side of Rosabel’s bed to listen to Maud’s tale, she had exp
ected him to raise the matter, but he had not.
Tonight, however, the nursery clock had chimed seven and he had not appeared. Perhaps he had lost interest in her storytelling. Maud suppressed an odd pang at the thought. She had begun to listen for his approach in the corridor outside, had come to recognise his tread. It had become part of the evening ritual, his being there, listening intently. He rarely spoke. But tonight, she had been forced to start the new instalment of the story without him. She and Rosabel had both become engrossed in the adventure.
‘What is it, Rosabel?’ she asked the little girl now, with a stroke of her hair. It was dark, almost black against the white pillow. The same shade as her papa’s.
‘What colour are your stockings, Miss Wilmot?’
Maud drew back with a chuckle. ‘Why, Rosabel! That’s a funny question.’
‘When she came to visit Pendragon Hall, Miss Trevose said you had blue stockings.’
‘Oh, I see! So she did. How clever of you to remember. That’s what some people call governesses and women who like books and learning.’
Rosabel clutched her teddy bear. She cocked her head in its pillow nest. ‘Do you have blue stockings?’
Maud laughed. Rising to her feet, she lifted her skirt a few inches. With a flourish, she raised one leg for Rosabel’s inspection.
‘Why, they’re black,’ said Rosabel, disappointed.
And well darned, Maud noted ruefully, as she cast her eyes down at her ankles. They had been mended more than once, and the wool, once thick, was now threadbare, providing little more than a shadowy outline of her legs.
‘Good evening.’
Maud turned sharply, one foot still aloft. Off balance, she tottered and nearly fell. As it was, her skirts flounced most indecorously. ‘Sir Dominic!’
He stood by the nursery door, lounged against its frame in his now-familiar relaxed, yet taut, posture, his eyes fixed upon her.
‘Look, Papa,’ said Rosabel. ‘Miss Wilmot doesn’t wear blue stockings!’
‘So I see,’ he murmured.
Maud dropped as if shot into the chair by Rosabel’s bed. Her legs, just a moment ago wafted aloft, now refused to hold her up. There was no way he had not fully taken in her darned stockings and well-polished but worn button boots. Her cheeks burned.
His lips lifted, stretched. White teeth appeared, followed by a dimple.
Heavens above, Sir Dominic Jago possesses dimples.
She couldn’t help it. She found herself smiling in return. A giggle rose. No! She clapped a hand across her offending mouth.
‘Miss Wilmot says she is a blue stocking, even though she hasn’t any,’ Rosabel confided.
‘Who knows, maybe she keeps her blue stockings for Sunday best.’
The dimple lingered. One more trait he had passed on to his daughter. She wished he would put it away. It was most distracting.
Maud lifted her chin. ‘I own no blue stockings, Sir Dominic. I have no need to. It is what I am. I know some people use the term in a derogatory way, but it is one I am proud of.’
His lips curved. ‘I must confess I also admire bluestockings, Miss Wilmot.’
‘Can we buy Miss Wilmot some blue stockings, Papa?’ Rosabel asked.
His lips curved further. ‘If she would like some.’
‘I don’t need new stockings,’ Maud managed to say.
If only he hadn’t seen hers, so old and darned!
Fortunately, he did not pursue the subject.
‘I’ve come to say goodnight to Rosabel, if I may,’ he said smoothly. ‘Have you finished your story? And your...um, demonstration?’
Maud nodded, mute with embarrassment.
Leaving his place by the door, he entered the nursery. Tonight, he was dressed in a dark, long-tailed dinner jacket and a shirt of pristine white, a black bow tie expertly tied around his throat. There was no denying he was a most attractive man. It stunned her that she found him—or indeed, any man—physically attractive. It rippled over her skin, like a warm breeze. She had dismissed any such idea from her mind—and her heart. That part of her life was gone, or so she’d believed. Yet her eye was drawn to the way the formal garments only seemed to emphasise his masculinity.
‘You missed hearing about Princess Swallowtail tonight, Papa,’ Rosabel reproached him.
‘So I have. I was delayed at the railway.’
‘Princess Swallowtail only just managed to escape from the Red Emperor,’ Rosabel said.
‘Is that so?’ Sir Dominic glanced at Maud. ‘I regret to have missed such an exciting instalment.’
It was merely an expression of politeness. What seemed like a flicker of interest in his eyes was a mere trick of the lamplight. He, truly sorry to have missed her story? Certainly not. Railway magnates were not interested in fairy tales.
‘You must hear the rest of the story tomorrow night,’ Rosabel said.
‘I hope I am there to do so.’ He smiled at her. ‘But tonight, I am going to dine at Trevose Hall.’
Oh. He was going to dine with Miss Averill Trevose. Her time at Pendragon Hall was over, before it had really begun.
Maud moved to the nature table and began to tidy the leaves and twigs that had been left over. The insect homes were supposed to have stayed in the schoolroom, but Rosabel had begged to be able to keep them in her bedroom, and the entire nature table had been brought in.
A fern shredded beneath Maud’s fingers. There was no chance she would still be employed as Rosabel’s governess when Sir Dominic heard about what had transpired. Maud was in no doubt that Miss Averill would cast her in the worst possible light. She would be instantly dismissed.
Her fingers tightened around a sharp-edged twig. For a moment she wondered if she ought to say something, to tell her side of the story. No, she decided. She would not stoop to that.
After all she had gone through to get the post, the risk of losing it was devastating. The butterflies, the woods and gardens, the beautiful rambling old house. And Rosabel. Sweet, shy Rosabel, who had ventured out of her cocoon under Maud’s gentle tutelage. All she had gained over patient weeks would be lost in an evening’s spiteful tale-telling. And Sir Dominic. No, she would not think of him.
She glanced over towards where he stood beside Rosabel’s bed. To her consternation, he met her gaze.
Immediately she turned away and gathered up more fern fronds.
He would have no choice but to take Miss Trevose’s side. After all, she was about to be his bride. He would not take the side of a governess. No employer ever did. No employer ever would.
Her eyesight blurred as she stared at the insect homes. She wouldn’t see the caterpillars grow, or any more butterflies emerge. No, she would be told to pack her bags. Tomorrow, perhaps. In the morning, before Sir Dominic departed for the railway, he would call her before him. She would have to fold her grey and brown dresses and her green gown into her old carpetbag and make her way back to London.
She didn’t even have enough money for a return train fare. Her ticket to Cornwall had been one way and she would be unlikely to receive any wages, in the circumstances. Somehow, she would have to find a way to travel back to London and hope that Martha could take her in.
To her horror, a tear slipped down her cheek, like a caterpillar trail, followed by another, then another.
‘Are you quite well, Miss Wilmot?’
Maud started. Sir Dominic had moved to stand beside her at the table.
‘Oh!’ Keeping her head down, she quickly wiped her eyes. The fern brushed her cheek. ‘Yes. I was just checking on the caterpillars.’
Yet he remained beside her. She could feel the heat of his body and the breadth and height of him. Normally, under such close quarters with him, she would step aside. Yet she didn’t want to move away. Sir Dominic seemed to emanate a strange comfort.
‘Up close, butt
erflies are very fragile,’ he commented, after a moment. ‘Are you sure they have enough room to breathe?’
She glanced up at him. He was no longer looking at the insect homes, in their pickling jars. He looked straight at her.
‘Butterflies are surprising creatures,’ Maud replied at last. ‘They are stronger than they look.’
‘I hope so, Miss Wilmot.’
Again, that connection flared between them as he continued to study her, his eyebrows angled.
She took a deep breath, willing her tears to subside. She laid down the fern frond. ‘I will leave you to say goodnight to Rosabel.’
She stepped away from him.
He nodded, as he picked up the fern frond she had left on the table and ran it through his fingers, his gaze remaining upon her. ‘Goodnight, Miss Wilmot.’
‘Goodnight, Sir Dominic.’ She went to the bed and dropped a kiss on the glossy hair. ‘Goodnight, Rosabel. Sweet dreams.’
Her throat constricted. She hurried through the connecting door, barely seeing what she was about. She always made sure that when he came to say goodnight to Rosabel she discreetly exited the room and retired to her own quarters immediately. She had no wish to imply any untoward interest in the master of the house.
Not that it mattered any more.
Safe in her bedroom, she stared out of the window. The moon was rising, a crescent in a clear sky, casting a faint silvery light over the garden and the dark woods beyond where she had already spent so many happy hours with Rosabel, chasing butterflies.
Tears smarted again. There would be no more butterfly chasing for her.
She lifted her hairbrush from the dressing table. It trembled in her hand.
Perhaps Miss Trevose’s threat to report her to Sir Dominic had been an empty one. There was still a chance. Not that she regretted refusing to allow Rosabel to leave her care. Every instinct as a governess had told her not to do so. It wasn’t that Rosabel would be in danger. It was more that even in the short time that Rosabel had been in her care, Maud had become attuned to the sensitive child, with an instinctive urge to protect her. Rosabel was afraid of Miss Averill Trevose.
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