‘It needs plenty of air,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ He gave it more room as she observed it, her head bowed.
‘Have you seen enough?’ he said after a moment, in a voice that sounded more husky than before.
‘Thank you. Now we must—’
‘Set it free.’ He finished her sentence.
With a gentle flick of Dominic’s wrist, he sent the White Admiral flying away.
‘You’ve caught your first butterfly,’ she said.
‘Have I?’
Silence fell between them, strong as a cord.
‘A White Admiral was a fine choice,’ she said at last.
He gave her his half-smile.
‘I believe it is the coppers that have taken my fancy,’ he murmured. ‘Are there variations on the copper we saw this morning?’
‘I believe so,’ she said. She hardly knew what she was saying with him looking at her so intently. ‘There are fritillaries. They are multicoloured. Striped. They are cousins of the coppers, I suppose, not the same family, exactly. And there are large coppers. They are bigger. Of course.’
She knew she rambled.
‘Ah,’ he drawled. ‘I would like to see one again up close. Are they hard to catch?’
‘They can be.’
He still didn’t move.
Nor did she.
Yet there was movement between them, flourishing into life. She could not see it or hear it, but she could feel it.
Stop, she warned herself. Stop.
She had to ignore the swirling sensation, so strong, sparking between them. She had to fight all the sensations that were growing in her mind, in her body.
In her heart.
It began to pound as he continued to study her as if she were the rarest butterfly in the world.
‘I believe it might be worth the effort to investigate.’ He glanced again at her hair, then back to her eyes, down to her mouth. ‘Copper has always been highly valued here in Cornwall.’
It was as if he touched her.
As if he kissed her.
She wanted him to.
The realisation flamed in her body before it reached her mind, heating her skin, tilting her head up to his. She could not look away from him. The sound of the woods, the birds, the wind in the trees—all vanished as he summoned her.
She took another step forward before she fell back. Came to her senses, an unsteady hand clutched against her bodice as she tried to recall what they had been talking of, before her heart had begun to thump that dangerous beat, still resonating through her entire being.
Butterflies.
Butterflies.
‘The small coppers are not particularly rare, nor sought after,’ she said at last.
His gaze remained on her mouth. Like fingers. Like his own lips.
Would they be gentle? Hard against hers?
More unruly thoughts swirled up into her head.
‘I’ve told you already, Miss Wilmot,’ he said. ‘I am a man who trusts my own judgement.’
Still he held her, with his eyes.
What did her own eyes say? Oh, she must not let her feelings for him show! With all her will, she cast her gaze downwards to stare at the woodland floor.
The leaves crackled around them as he stepped back. ‘I will leave you here. I assume you know your way back? Thank you for the lesson, Miss Wilmot.’
Without another word, Sir Dominic strode away.
Chapter Thirteen
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clashed in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood...
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
Dominic made his way to the stables to where Taran was stalled. He had been riding more than usual of late. It had been more than a week now since he had accompanied Miss Wilmot through the sunlit woods, yet what had transpired between them had stayed with him.
How had he overlooked such beauty? That was the question that now plagued him, for Miss Wilmot was beautiful. Ever since their walk, whenever he looked at her it was as if a lamp had been lit in an exquisite but dormant vessel. He was a moth who could not help but flutter near. It was not an ordinary beauty. Hers was the kind in which a painter would delight, an artist trained to look beyond the obvious, like the self-evident beauty of Averill Trevose.
He was not a man to fool himself. He trusted his own judgement. The walk in the forest had sparked something between them, something rare and fine.
No, not sparked, precisely. But it had fed the flickering flame.
He found the new governess attractive. He hadn’t, at first, and he could not possibly indicate in any way, of course, that he found her so now. Not only because of the hypocrisy involved in having told her that he was weary of governesses with romantic ideas, but because he could not, as her employer, imply any kind of interest, let alone make any advance upon her that could be considered untoward. His sense of honour would not allow it. He despised men who behaved in such a manner and, God knew, he had encountered more than a few of them.
Many men of his background treated female servants as property, as of lesser value. He did not share the view of a working woman, or a working man, being less valuable than one of the upper classes. Quite the contrary. He despised such class divisions. Many Cornishmen did. He wanted it to be part of the past. It was why he liked the railway business, taking Cornwall into a new future.
‘If I’d been a different kind of man, I would never have let that moment in the woods pass by, would I, Taran?’
He smiled at himself, confiding in his horse as he led the stallion out of the stall and put on the saddle. What that moment would have turned into, he could only surmise.
His body flared into life as he remembered. He would never have allowed himself, of course, to act upon such impulses. He was a man who could control himself. He had never allowed himself any hint of impropriety with any of his staff and he never would. Since that woodland walk, he had ensured that his behaviour towards Miss Wilmot, as a woman in his employ, was entirely appropriate.
Yet he knew that the moment they had shared had been extraordinary. It seemed as if she was part of him—that the landscape had enfolded them both. He had never known such a moment before, even with Sarah.
He mounted the stallion and headed for the open fields, let the air blast against him as they cantered along. It was not only the physical sensations he had experienced in the woods, but also the sensitivity and understanding she had shown listening to him. It had made him aware that a true partnership was not something he had previously experienced. Not in that way. It had made him realise what was possible between a man and a woman.
Yet he had been unable to forgo the nightly pleasure of listening to Miss Wilmot’s storytelling. Each evening he continued to climb the stairs to the nursery, lean against the doorframe and enjoy the evolving tale. Or was it simply her melodious voice and the fluttering of her hands as she told the tale, as delicate as any butterfly, that drew him back, night after night?
How could he ever have thought her plain? She was not plain—she was simply trying to disguise herself. For hers was a rare beauty, the kind of beauty that grew on a man, the kind of beauty that would mature with age, not fade like a spring flower. No, Miss Wilmot’s beauty had the edge of the autumnal to it, the lasting, the fruitful, the coppery turn of fallen leaves, red, gold and brown on the ground. He would never tire of looking at such a face. He would want to see it at every age. Even as she grew old her eyes would not lose their beauty, he could not imagine them ever fading. Her enchantment was of a kind that could not be limited by any age.
He pushed back his hair from his forehead. Perhaps she was Scheherazade. She had protested that Scheherazade was not an enchantress, but a storyteller, yet her tales seemed to have cast some
kind of enchantment upon him. Another half-laugh of incredulity escaped him. He was a practical man. He was never fanciful. His own sense of the possible and the improbable had altered irrevocably.
With his heel, he spurred Taran on.
He could do nothing about the situation. Not in the circumstances. He could only sit in silence each evening and listen to her tell a fairy tale. Their relationship must continue as one that befitted master–governess. It was, after all, he who had set the terms of her employment. What he had demanded of her, he would demand of himself.
Nor could he deny that his relationship with Sarah still scarred him. His reasons for never wanting to marry again, his sense of guilt—these still preyed on his mind and his heart. His inability to move past Sarah’s death and how he had treated her—his conversations with Miss Wilmot had helped to ease that burden, but even so, he still had doubts about his ability to be a good husband.
He urged Taran faster into a gallop.
He would outride these feelings, these thoughts.
* * *
When he got back to Pendragon Hall, he returned Taran to the stables and made for his bedroom. Stripping off his coat and shirt, he threw cold water on to his skin, before putting on fresh clothing and returning to his study. Normally, work was his escape from any other matters on his mind, but he had to admit that since Miss Wilmot’s arrival he had found it hard to concentrate.
He went to the window, hauled back the curtain. He had to focus, but Miss Wilmot was proving a serious distraction. The other governesses who had come before hadn’t taken up so much of his attention, even though they had wanted to. Yet he found himself thinking about Miss Wilmot. To his own appalled amusement, he often stood, as he was now, by the study window, watching for her.
A knock came at the door.
Instantly he swung around. ‘Yes.’
The footman entered the study.
Dominic raised an eyebrow.
‘That delivery’s come for you, Sir Dominic.’
Dominic smiled. He hadn’t expected it to arrive so soon. ‘Bring it in.’
* * *
The nursery door opened.
Maud tried not to show how affected she was by Sir Dominic merely entering the nursery. She did not look up, but she knew her voice faltered as the door creaked wider, followed by the sound of his tread upon the floorboards. Her head lowered, her mind went blank and she could not remember where she was up to in the story of Princess Swallowtail.
Rosabel, tucked up in bed, had been listening so intently she barely moved when her papa came in. Not so Maud. The minute Dominic entered the nursery—or any room, for that matter—she was instantly aware of him.
‘What happened next, Miss Wilmot?’ Rosabel asked.
Maud felt a flush building in her cheeks as her mind remained stubbornly blank. Why, such a lapse in storytelling had never happened to her before.
Then she looked up and started.
In the nursery doorway, Sir Dominic stood holding a huge wooden box. The top had been opened.
‘Papa!’ Rosabel exclaimed. ‘What have you got?’
‘A present for you, Rosabel.’
Instantly, the little girl was out of bed. ‘What is it?’
He carried the large box with ease across the room and placed it on the table by the window. There was only just room for it, crowded as it was with glass bottle insect homes and Rosabel’s drawings of the caterpillars and butterflies inside them—for every day, under Maud’s instruction, she sketched the insects’ changes and labelled them. Rosabel enjoyed drawing so much she barely realised how much she was learning, to Maud’s satisfaction.
‘Miss Wilmot can tell you what it is,’ Sir Dominic said now.
‘I can?’ She got to her feet.
He ran his hand through his hair. He wore no jacket, only a navy waistcoat with a crisp white shirt underneath. ‘Indeed.’
She approached the table.
Rosabel, clutching her doll, leaned forward expectantly, her eyes wide.
Maud peered inside the wooden box. ‘Why, it looks like a butterfly vivarium! However did you manage to get it here, Sir Dominic?’
His half-smile curved.
‘I have a railway at my disposal, Miss Wilmot,’ he replied. ‘It arrived today. From London.’
She tried to ignore the unsettling effect of his sheer physicality as the muscles flexed beneath his white shirt as he lifted out the rectangular wood-and-glass box that had been nestled, wrapped in straw, inside the wooden packing box. ‘I hope it is satisfactory,’ he said. ‘The frame is made of rosewood. It is based upon a particular design of insect case by Mr Ward. I believe that was the name you mentioned.’
Maud gazed at it in awe. The vivarium was a large one. The back of it was made of wood, but both the sides and front were constructed of thick, clear glass. The front lifted like a door, for ease of access, and there was metal mesh at the top, so that there could be plenty of air. She’d never seen one so fine.
‘It’s marvellous,’ she breathed. ‘This will make it so much easier for us to observe the insects. Look, Rosabel.’
She put her arm around the little girl and drew her closer.
‘Vivarium is a Latin word,’ she explained. ‘It means “a place of life”.’
‘Vivo, vivas, vivat!’ chirped Rosabel, with a sideways glance at her father.
He grinned and ruffled her hair. ‘Vivamus, vivatis, vivant. Well done, O Latin scholar. Miss Wilmot has taught you well.’
Maud looked away in pleasure. ‘We live and learn.’ She pointed to the floor of the vivarium. ‘Here, we can plant some ferns and other foliage into some earth, so that there is always fresh food and somewhere for the caterpillars to make their cocoons. We can even make a little lake, so they have water. And look how big it is! It’s a very grand insect home. There’s plenty of space for caterpillars and butterflies to grow, but they will be perfectly safe.’
She felt Sir Dominic’s gaze upon her.
‘Can we make a little lake for the butterflies now?’ Rosabel asked eagerly.
Maud laughed. ‘There will be plenty of time in the morning. Now, back to bed, Rosabel. You can dream of butterflies for now. It’s getting late. We will begin work on the vivarium tomorrow.’
With a last look at the vivarium, Rosabel climbed back into bed. ‘Is there still time for the rest of the butterfly story?’
‘Of course,’ said Maud.
If only she could remember where she was up to and then manage to tell it with Sir Dominic in the room, she thought to herself.
Across the other side of the bed he had settled in his usual chair. He stretched his long legs in front of him and tucked his thumbs into the small pockets of his waistcoat, in the relaxed manner she had come to accept as part of the nightly ritual.
While she’d managed to stay away from him at other hours of the day, there was no way she could avoid him in the nursery when he came to say goodnight.
He gave her his half-smile. ‘Do go on with your story, Miss Wilmot. I didn’t intend to interrupt by bringing in the vivarium. What happens next?’
For a moment she fancied that his deep voice seemed to hold a different question, a more intimate, personal question, but of course she had imagined it. Wishful thinking. No, perilous thinking.
She smoothed her skirt over her petticoats.
‘Princess Swallowtail had found a friend,’ she said at last.
‘A friend?’ His eyebrows quirked.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘a friend.’ The slightest emphasis on that last word.
‘Was it another butterfly?’ asked Rosabel.
‘It certainly was,’ said Maud. ‘It was a butterfly she had not expected to be friendly towards her. It was a very grand butterfly. To begin with, she was quite shy of him, but that soon changed.’
‘Oh, wha
t kind of butterfly was it, Miss Wilmot?’
‘It was the White Admiral,’ she said.
Dominic’s smile broadened. She almost smiled back, but stopped herself just in time.
‘What did it look like?’ Rosabel asked. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a...a White Ad—Admirable butterfly. Have I, Miss Wilmot?’
Maud couldn’t help but glance at Dominic over Rosabel’s pillowed head. A smile flashed between them. ‘No, no...you haven’t seen a White Admiral, Rosabel. But he is quite dashing in his black-and-white dinner suit with his orange waistcoat underneath. Most handsome,’ said Maud, then flushed. What was she saying? She hurried on. ‘It is the one I told you about, Rosabel, that I caught recently.’
A cough came from Sir Dominic’s direction.
‘I mean that your papa caught,’ she corrected herself, again fighting a return smile. She would not look up again. She would keep her gaze fixed on Rosabel. The ease that had developed between them must not be her undoing. She had to remain as severe as possible.
‘It is a black-and-white butterfly with very clear markings,’ she went on. ‘It is mainly found in wooded regions, in forests and clearings. It can be spotted when out for a walk, or perhaps out riding.’
‘Like you do, Papa!’ Rosabel exclaimed. ‘You go riding in the woods. Do you often meet the Admiral in his dinner jacket and waistcoat?’
‘I believe I may have made his acquaintance once or twice,’ Dominic murmured.
‘When it is a caterpillar, it feeds on honeysuckle,’ Maud went on. ‘It finds it most delicious.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘How did the White Admiral meet Princess Swallowtail, if I may ask?’
‘It was a very strange thing,’ said Maud. ‘As you know, Rosabel, there are two rival courts among the butterfly fairies. There are those that support King Swallowtail and those who are on the side of the Red Emperor.’
Rosabel drew in her breath.
‘One day,’ Maud went on, ‘Princess Swallowtail had been on a lovely flight when she came home and landed a little way out of the vegetable patch. Two of the Speckled Woods, soldiers of the Red Emperor, caught Princess Swallowtail and took her captive!’
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