The Master's New Governess (HQR Historical)

by Eliza Redgold

  ‘I haven’t always been nervous,’ Maud admitted. ‘Why, when I was a small child, my mother was nearly driven to distraction by my foolhardiness. M—’ She stopped. She had so nearly said Martha. ‘My...my sister was by far the more cautious and sensible of us two.’

  ‘I see. Then there are the night terrors that I witnessed tonight. Have such nightmares happened before?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Regularly?’

  Again, she nodded.

  ‘But you didn’t grow up having nightmares.’

  Maud curled her fingers around the brandy glass and shook her head. They had begun when...

  No. She refused to let the memory come into her mind. She had some control over that, when she was awake, at least.

  He leaned forward. ‘There is something mysterious about you, Miss Wilmot. Something you are hiding. You can trust me. I will not betray your confidence.’

  Maud hesitated. How she longed to be able to lay down the burden she had carried alone for so long. She hadn’t even told Martha the full story.

  Telling Sir Dominic the truth about her identity would mean telling him everything.

  She couldn’t take the risk.

  ‘It isn’t as simple as that,’ she said at last.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Isn’t it?’

  She evaded his gaze. ‘I prefer not to think about my troubles.’

  ‘Perhaps not thinking about them is why you are experiencing nightmares,’ he said, far too shrewdly. ‘It may be better to share your burdens.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

  How could she disclose to him what had happened, when she had never been able to speak of it and been forced to come to Pendragon Hall under a false identity? It would take too much to explain and he might send her away. Oh, he was almost certain to send her away anyway, as soon as Averill Trevose had her way. But just in case she didn’t...no, no, it must remain a secret. As long as her nightmares didn’t bring him running into her bedchamber again and then he might demand she reveal all.

  She shook her head, as if she could shake the confusion of thoughts into some order.

  ‘Very well. I don’t want to distress you any further,’ he said abruptly. ‘You do not have to confide in me.’

  Maud bit her lip. Less than an hour before, she had leaned against his chest, felt his heartbeat slow and steady her own.

  ‘There’s something else I need to discuss with you, Sir Dominic.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Miss Trevose came to the Hall earlier this week.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ He reached for his bow tie, tossed it aside. ‘Your name did come up over dinner, Miss Wilmot. I won’t deny it. I planned to speak to you about it tomorrow.’

  ‘Please.’ Maud reached out her hand in appeal. She couldn’t bear to toss and turn in her bed again, waiting for the axe to fall. ‘I would rather hear about it now.’

  He exhaled as he took up his brandy glass again. ‘I have no wish to upset you further. You have been through enough tonight. This doesn’t seem the appropriate time or place.’

  ‘Is there any appropriate time or place to be dismissed?’ Maud was unable to keep a painful edge of bitterness from her voice.

  The brandy splashed in his glass as he jerked back. ‘Is that what you think is going to happen to you?’

  ‘I don’t expect you to listen to my side of the story.’ She knew how matters played out in that regard. Whoever listened to a governess?

  ‘That’s where you are wrong, Miss Wilmot,’ he replied. ‘Since your arrival at Pendragon Hall, I find I have become quite interested in your stories. Tell me what happened with Miss Trevose.’

  Faltering, Maud described what had occurred in as balanced a manner as possible.

  When she finished, he exhaled sharply. ‘She wanted to take Rosabel for the day?’

  Maud nodded. ‘I must be honest. I did not disallow Rosabel to go with Miss Trevose solely because you had not given your explicit permission. It was because Rosabel did not seem to want to go.’

  ‘I see.’ He was silent for a moment as he swirled his brandy. ‘Did Rosabel tell you so?’

  ‘No.’ She had to admit it. ‘It is more my sense of her feelings, based on how she behaved. She appeared anxious in Miss Trevose’s company.’ Now she was unable to keep the indignation from her voice. ‘Miss Trevose was critical of Rosabel. It has never helped a sensitive child to be spoken of in such a manner in her presence.’

  ‘What manner do you mean, precisely?’

  Maud hesitated. But she might as well speak her mind. ‘Miss Trevose showed no understanding of how Rosabel might be feeling and Rosabel is a child who feels things deeply. She may be shy, but that is not an affliction. The true affliction is surely that displayed by Miss Trevose.’

  He breathed out in a whistle.

  ‘I have spoken out of turn.’ But Maud didn’t regret it. Once she was dismissed, she might not be there to defend Rosabel, so she must take her opportunity to speak out. She had grown so fond of her young charge.

  ‘I prefer your honesty,’ Sir Dominic replied, to her surprise. ‘And you may be correct about Miss Trevose’s imagination. Certainly, I can’t picture her telling...fairy tales.’

  A smile hinted again at the corners of his mouth. Then his jaw hardened. ‘However, she said you were impertinent. I did not care to hear that such behaviour was witnessed by my neighbour and by Rosabel.’

  Maud bit her lip. ‘Any outspokenness in a servant would be considered impertinence by Miss Trevose.’

  She thought for a moment that she saw the dent in his cheek, before he took a quick gulp of brandy.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Maud said quickly. ‘I don’t seek to cause offence, speaking in such a manner about your fiancée.’

  ‘My what?’ Dominic demanded.

  Chapter Nine

  All night have the roses heard

  The flute, violin, bassoon;

  All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d

  To the dancers dancing in tune;

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

  Maud drew back. In the firelight she could see the astonishment on Sir Dominic’s face.

  ‘Your fiancée...’ she faltered.

  ‘So I heard you correctly.’ He drew his eyebrows together. ‘I am not engaged to Miss Trevose, or any other woman,’ he said at last. ‘I thought I made it perfectly clear upon your arrival. All of my acquaintance know I have no plans to remarry.’

  ‘Oh!’ Why, she had not meant to bring up the matter. Now he would think her a purveyor of cheap gossip. Gossip, she always told her charges in the nursery, put the person who told the tale in a poor light, not the person discussed.

  ‘Perhaps I misunderstood,’ she said rapidly. Somehow, she had to retract what she had said and quickly. ‘Yes, I’m sure that was it.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps?’

  ‘It is my mistake,’ she hastened to add. ‘Please, take no notice of it. I would not like my mistake repeated to anyone and perhaps cause any further misunderstanding.’

  Even disliking Averill Trevose as she did, she would never have purposely disclosed the other woman’s presumptive comment. It would be unkind and she had not meant to be.

  ‘Very well,’ he replied, after a moment. ‘I will not specifically raise the matter of your misunderstanding further with—anyone.’

  Maud sighed with relief. ‘Thank you.’

  He swirled the brandy in his glass. ‘But let me clear up your other misunderstanding, Miss Wilmot. We have established that I am not to be married. Neither am I planning to dismiss you as Rosabel’s governess.’

  Maud laid down her brandy glass and put her hand to her bodice, surprised to find it was still trembling. ‘You’re not?’

  He shook his head. ‘I trust my own judgement, Miss Wilmot. I always ha
ve and I always will. I do not rely on the opinions of others.’

  Maud breathed out.

  ‘You have exceeded my expectations,’ he said, to her further amazement. ‘Rosabel is happier and healthier than she has been under anyone else’s care. And I should not like to deprive Rosabel of any further tales of Princess Swallowtail. Nor myself, for that matter.’ His half-smile glimmered. ‘You are quite the Scheherazade, Miss Wilmot.’

  ‘I told you before, Sir Dominic, that is not so,’ she protested. Then she smiled, too. ‘But I expect I do have enough stories for a thousand and one nights.’

  He chuckled, before taking another draught of brandy. ‘Perhaps we ought to make that the terms of your employment.’

  Was he teasing her? He must be, Maud decided.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For giving me another chance.’

  He frowned. ‘From what you have told me, it is the same chance. You assured me you were not rude to Miss Trevose. Merely outspoken, on Rosabel’s behalf.’

  And she would do the same again, she knew, to ensure Rosabel’s happiness.

  ‘Such protectiveness is what I want in a governess,’ he said next. ‘But perhaps in future, however, you can ensure that you keep your outspokenness to a minimum when guests appear at Pendragon Hall.’

  Maud blinked. He might have dismissed her. Many employers would have, given the same circumstances, as Maud knew very well. A governess was rarely given the benefit of the doubt. ‘Thank you, Sir Dominic. You won’t regret it. I wouldn’t want to leave Pendragon Hall.’

  He swirled his glass again, his long fingers cupped around it. ‘You said you were happy here in Cornwall.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘How could anyone not be happy at Pendragon Hall?’

  His mouth twisted. ‘You would be surprised. There are those for whom the wilds of Cornwall seem dull and countrified.’

  Maud fell silent.

  A shadow passed across his face. ‘My late wife, Sarah—Rosabel’s mother—did not care for my home.’

  Quietly, Maud laid down her glass. He needed to talk. She could sense it.

  Dominic exhaled. ‘My late wife and I met in London, during the Season. It was her debut. I suppose Cornwall seemed distant and romantic to her at the time. As did I, a railway man. What she didn’t know is that a man who must build a life and business of his own does not have much leisure.’

  He breathed heavily. ‘We married young. Too young. Sarah never settled in Cornwall, nor did she find the railway as captivating as I do. At first, she showed great interest in it, but she anticipated we would live in London. She had friends there, in fashionable circles, in society. She resented any time she was forced to spend here at Pendragon Hall. Neither of us was prepared for her to become quite so bored and discontented. Even the arrival of Rosabel did not alter her feelings.’

  For a moment he stared into the flames. ‘It is my great regret that I did not make her happy. I know myself better now. I am simply not the marrying kind.’

  Maud stayed still. The only sound was the fire, flickering in the grate.

  ‘I was here in Cornwall on railway business when she died,’ he said at last. ‘It was tuberculosis of the lung. She was in London at the time. She worsened suddenly and I did not get to her in time.’

  ‘How could you possibly have predicted that?’ Maud exclaimed.

  ‘I find it hard to forgive myself.’

  He stood and threw another log on the fire. It sparked and blazed.

  ‘Sarah often accused me of working too hard, of being distant and not available to her when she needed me,’ he said at last, staring into the flames. ‘Of lacking feeling. In the end, it seemed she was right.’

  Impulsively Maud got to her feet. ‘That is not what I have observed, Sir Dominic. In my experience as a governess, you do not lack feeling at all. You are exceptionally kind to your daughter.’ She breathed out. ‘As you have been tonight. To me.’

  He turned to look at her. Bleak lines etched his mouth. ‘I ought to have been there. There was a great deal of guilt for me when she died. Guilt as well as grief. I did not give her the attention she craved. I thought we would have more time.’

  Maud shook her head. ‘When my parents died after an outbreak of influenza, I experienced some of what you are feeling. A sense of guilt that I could have done more. Perhaps it is normal, in the circumstances.’

  His gaze was acute. ‘How old were you when you lost your parents, if you do not mind my asking?’

  ‘I was seventeen.’ Maud reached for her brandy glass. There was still some of the liquor left, gleaming in the crystal cup. It warmed her, inside. ‘As I told you, my father was a schoolmaster. The influenza outbreak began at the school. Both my sister and I caught it, too, but we survived it. We had to. We had not only lost our parents. We lost our home.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why so?’

  ‘Our house near Winchester was provided by the school trustees. When we lost our parents, we had to make way for the new incumbent. That’s why I had to seek work as a governess as soon as possible.’

  He studied her over the edge of his own glass. ‘It seems it is a night for confidences, Miss Wilmot. I’m sorry to hear of such a loss. It does not sound as if life has been easy for you.’

  Her fingers tightened. ‘No, it was not easy. But I had stories. They kept me going, always.’

  ‘Being a governess must have been difficult for you in the circumstances.’

  ‘A little,’ she admitted, unable to disguise a shudder.

  But he’d noted it. ‘Tell me. In your previous employment, did they treat you well?’

  Maud hesitated. He had confided in her. She longed to do the same, but she could not. ‘I have no wish to complain of past situations. I do not want you to think I am the kind of governess who is constantly griping about her circumstances.’

  ‘You do not strike me in that way, Miss Wilmot.’

  How tempting it was to tell him. But though he might have given her another chance after the complaint from Miss Trevose, he would not give her another if he knew she was there under false pretences.

  ‘It’s different here,’ she added. ‘You treat your staff well.’

  He was a fair man, to all his employees. In the servants’ hall, he was spoken of with an affection Maud had never encountered before, certainly not in her previous employer’s household.

  Dominic grinned wryly. ‘I’ve never found that treating someone badly brought out the best in them.’

  ‘Not all employers agree with you.’

  He played idly with the stem of his glass as he studied her silently.

  Again, the desire to lay down the burden of her memories almost overcame her. But she must not be misled by the warm room and his unexpected kindness to her.

  She stood up. She was tired and vulnerable. She couldn’t risk staying here in such an unexpectedly intimate tête-à-tête any longer. ‘Thank you, Sir Dominic, for the brandy. And for your understanding.’

  He drained his own glass and inclined his head. To her relief, he did not pursue the subject. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  As she reached the door, his voice stopped her. ‘Pleasant dreams, Miss Wilmot.’

  * * *

  Dominic poured himself more brandy. By God, he needed it, after the night of revelations with his new governess.

  He had never anticipated confiding in her in such a manner. Nor had he expected having to enter her bedroom to wake her from such a nightmare.

  He ran his hand through his hair.

  Something troubled Miss Wilmot and troubled her deeply. The look in her eyes, the flash of sheer terror when she’d awoken from sleep, had appalled him. He was sure it was terror, but then she had quickly disguised it with a resolve that was admirable. Yet that panic, that wide-eyed fright which had in
duced him to wrap his arms about her, he knew, would stay with him. She held it in check, but it was there.

  She’d looked younger in her white nightgown, with her hair tumbling over her shoulders. Tonight, he’d noticed that her lashes were dark, fringing those unusually coloured eyes. But he’d seen the shadows now, too, the faint smudges under her eyes that told of other restless nights, of shadows also, in her mind.

  He wondered if he’d be able to forget the scent of her hair as he held her. Fresh, clean, like a green day.

  He regretted that he’d been required to go into her bedroom at night, but he could not ignore such terrified screams, any more than he could have ignored someone trapped in a burning building.

  He took another sip of brandy. When Miss Wilmot had awoken, it was almost as if she had expected to see someone else. As if her fright was because she had experienced something similar before.

  Dominic frowned. She’d recovered well enough as she had sat in the study. The brandy, he’d been pleased to note, had brought the colour stealing back into her cheeks.

  Then she had told him what had transpired with Averill.

  He shook his head. At dinner earlier that evening, he’d been surprised when Averill had expressed her willingness to hire his staff, but he’d been shocked to learn that she had sought to take his child without his permission. That was not acceptable to him. Averill had gone too far. Miss Wilmot had handled the situation with tact.

  He had made it perfectly clear, not just to the previous governesses who had expressed interest in his marital status, but also to Averill and other women in the neighbouring area, that he had no intention of marrying again. He hadn’t felt the need to explain himself. It had probably been assumed that it was because of his grief over the loss of Sarah. Perhaps it had also been assumed that his grief would pass. But there was more to it than that.

  Miss Wilmot was the first person with whom he’d been able to share the guilt that haunted him about not being there when Sarah died.

  Dominic cleared his throat. Perhaps some guilt was a normal part of grief. Miss Wilmot certainly seemed to think so.

  He moved to the window and stared out into the night. He’d loved Sarah. He’d been attracted by her high spirits and enjoyment of life. He’d never expected it to go wrong. But he’d realised, as time went on, that he’d only seen what he’d wanted to see in her. He’d come to suspect that during their courtship she had feigned more interest in the railway than she really possessed. Certainly, he’d never expected her to resent his spending time and energy in Cornwall. It was his life. He’d wanted her to share it and, at first, he’d believed that she wanted to.