The Master's New Governess (HQR Historical)

by Eliza Redgold

  She clutched at her bodice, her breath coming in heaves. She felt as if she might be sick as the memories came flooding back. She couldn’t go on.

  Then her breath came in a huge gust. ‘But that is your story. It is not mine.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘No matter what happened to me, no matter what you did to me, you cannot take away my story. And it is this. That I can still see the beauty in the world. That I can hope for happiness. You cannot destroy that for me. You can only destroy it for yourself.’

  Maud turned to Dominic. Everything she had ever wanted to tell him, she tried to communicate now, through her eyes. For a moment, it was as if they were the only ones in the woods, just as it had been when they had seen the White Admiral.

  But no more words would come. Her throat was too choked, with tears, with pain. There was no way she could ever tell him of her feelings now. That the love she felt for him was so much more than infatuation. Only the night before, she’d reached out and kissed him. But everything between her and Dominic had been tainted now.

  No one will believe your story.

  Her breath kept coming in painful gasps, as she bent, trying to control her nausea. There was no way she could explain or defend herself, without having to reveal the full, unspeakable horror of what had happened.

  A twig snapped as Dominic moved. His hands were clenched.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, at last. It was all she could say, with Lord Melville looming so near. ‘For everything.’

  She lifted her eyes, but their connection had snapped, broken, like a twig underfoot.

  Now Dominic was staring at Lord Melville, with an expression Maud could not make out.

  Without another word, Maud turned and stumbled away as fast as she could.

  * * *

  Dominic took a stride forward on the path. Miss Wilmot had almost disappeared, a moth-grey flicker among the trees.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ Melville drawled. ‘I told you that governess was a storyteller.’

  Dominic tensed. Blood pumped through his veins. He wanted to go immediately after Maud, but he couldn’t let it pass. Not the way he spoke about her. The man had to be put in his place.

  He shoved his fists deep into his pockets as he swung back towards Melville. ‘You caused Miss Wilmot harm. Then blamed her for it.’

  ‘Steady on, Jago.’ Melville’s tone remained smoothly cordial, as if they were at their club. ‘Surely you want to know if your servants lie to you. She admitted it herself. You don’t know anything about her.’

  Dominic shoved his fists deeper into his pockets. ‘I know everything I need to know about her. I know her from her stories.’

  His voice was calm now and it reflected a sudden certainty, deep-seated and sure. He’d told Miss Wilmot that he was a man who trusted his own judgement and he knew it now, for certain. He trusted her, too.

  Melville’s lip curled. ‘I’m surprised you believe a governess’s tattle.’

  Dominic couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He reached out and grabbed the horsewhip from Lord Melville’s hand. ‘I suggest you leave my land, Melville.’

  The other man took a step back. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Deadly serious.’ Dominic tightened his grip on the horsewhip. ‘And if I hear that you ever repeat those repugnant lies about Miss Wilmot again, I’ll be coming after you, with this.’

  Melville shook his head. ‘You’ll regret making an enemy of me, Jago. I know you need money for your Cornish railway.’

  ‘Do your worst. I wouldn’t go into business with you even if the railway never runs again,’ Dominic told him in disgust.

  Melville shrugged. ‘I’ll be forced to let everyone know your trains are a bad investment, then. They won’t run for long without my money.’

  ‘You would sully the reputation of anything you touch,’ Dominic retorted. ‘I wouldn’t take your money if it was the last penny in England.’

  His blood was still pumping as he swung back on to the path. Miss Wilmot had vanished now.

  ‘Dominic!’

  Taking a deep breath, he turned to look at Averill, saw shock and sympathy in her eyes.

  She put a gloved hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. Please believe me. I didn’t realise the full story.’

  He couldn’t stop to talk to Averill. Not now. She’d caused enough trouble. ‘I have to find her.’

  Averill nodded.

  Dominic threw aside the horsewhip and strode away.

  * * *

  Maud ran through the woods. She heaved in one breath, trying to draw in strength and peace from the forest. Then another.

  Her legs felt like quivering aspic, but still she ran. Moments ago, in front of Lord Melville, they seemed to lack even the strength to hold her up, let alone carry her further through the woods.

  No one will believe your story.

  Dominic had heard all those terrible allegations being made about her. That she was a liar. A man-chaser. A thief.

  The shame of it.

  How could he believe her now? Well, of course he wouldn’t. She’d lied to him, after all. She had admitted it to him. Now he would be the same as all the other men she had encountered, all the other masters of the house. He would take the side of Lord Melville.

  There was no question of Lord Melville’s reputation being besmirched, only hers. He’d accused her of theft. Of being of low moral character. That she was not a fit person to be around children.

  She stopped and took another aching breath as the thoughts pounded in her brain. Her ribs hurt from running as if a knife had pierced them, just below the heart. She put her hands to her forehead as if she could drive the thoughts out. But still they came.

  Dominic would judge her guilty. He would not want her to care for Rosabel, not any more. All the moments they had shared together would count for nothing now.

  All there was between them had been erased at one blow. She could not help the sob that burst from her throat at that moment, choking her, suffocating her like a fist about her heart. She clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling the sobs. She leaned against the oak tree, letting it bear her up when nothing in her own frame would. Finally, the shuddering sobs stilled. She managed to stand upright, telling herself firmly, bleakly: it was nothing but a dream, one that had just turned into a nightmare. But it would have made no difference, in the end.

  No matter what her name, she was just a governess.

  No one will believe your story.

  Maud stumbled on. These were the woods where she had shared those fairy-tale moments with Sir Dominic. But that was all it had been—a fairy tale.

  Perhaps he was laughing about her now with Lord Melville. Perhaps he had been treating her the same way that Lord Melville had treated her. As a plaything. As a nursery toy to pass the time. If he had been toying with her, his ploys were worse than Lord Melville’s advances. He had lulled her into a false sense of security. He’d shown an interest in her true self, or at least that was what she had thought. But it might not have been so at all. Perhaps it had all been a pretence.

  It couldn’t be! a voice in her head cried out. What they had shared together, surely it couldn’t be counterfeited.

  No! Maud shook her head. She would not fall prey to such doubts about Dominic. He was not the same kind of man as Lord Melville. She knew that of him, deep in her mind, her heart, her soul. But she was lucky that it had not gone too far.

  She loved him, but he could never love her. He never would, not now, not after what he had been told about her, and she could never tell him the truth.

  She picked up speed. Her shuddering weakness was past. She raced through the woods, the wildflowers dragging at her skirts. She hurried across the lawn towards Pendragon Hall and stopped.

  She had imagined living there for ever, she realised, her fingers clenched. Oh, how cou
ld she have been so foolish? She had started to imagine so much. Now those dreams and hopes were shattered. She had not found sanctuary. She had not found a home.

  With a cry, she turned away from the house and ran down the long drive.

  Chapter Twenty

  And the roaring of the wheels.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

  Dominic strode through the woods. He could not recall ever being so angry. The rage surging through his body was like a triple shot of the brandy that he had drunk with Miss Wilmot the night he had first held her in his arms. It was like fire, sending his fists clenching and his body pulsing.

  How he had managed to hold back from seizing Lord Melville by the scruff of his cravat and shaking him like the dog he was, Dominic would never know. He had wanted to kill the man. By God, the thought that he had laid his pudgy hands on Miss Wilmot, forced himself upon her. Dominic swore aloud and aimed a vicious kick at a clod of dirt. He only wished it was that clod Melville. He had never wanted to punish someone as much as he had wanted Lord Melville punished. And he had wanted to do that punishing himself.

  His paces lengthened, quickened. His rage wasn’t directly solely against Lord Melville. It burned against any man who would take advantage of a woman in his employ. Miss Wilmot was not the first governess who had experienced such hideous treatment. Dominic knew better than that. No, she was not alone. Lord Melville considered himself entitled, in a kind of outdated droit de seigneur, to be able to help himself to his servants. It was not something that Dominic could imagine ever thinking was acceptable behaviour. It was about as far a cry from gentlemanly conduct as he could think.

  Only the fact that he would be reducing himself to Lord Melville’s level by using violence against him had stopped Dominic from using that horsewhip, taking him and forcibly throwing him off his land. He had been angered, too, by the role that Averill Trevose had played in the whole saga, even if she’d seemed appalled by what she had done. She had allowed, in fact encouraged, Lord Melville to catch Miss Wilmot by surprise.

  How Miss Wilmot managed to be so kind and loving to Rosabel, such a beautiful person in spirit and character after all that had happened to her, Dominic could hardly perceive. She was an extraordinary woman. She had not become bitter or full of hatred. Instead she had continued to do her work, educating children and telling her enchanting stories. All the while she had been suffering a secret pain from a horror that had destroyed her world. Yet she had overcome it. He didn’t like that she had lied to him about her identity. He wished that she had trusted him enough to tell him her story. Perhaps she would have told him, in time. Yet now he had heard what had happened, he understood that she had told him in so many ways. Her nervousness, her nightmares—all was explained. He knew now: she was someone special who needed to be treated with the utmost care. She needed to be treated with all the gentleness of a butterfly.

  He wanted to be with her, always. He knew that now.

  He would tell her; as soon as he got back to the Hall.

  He swore beneath his breath at the recollection of how she had cowered away from Melville. His slightest move sent her jumping, as if she were a creature still full of fear. It had been hard to witness. Miss Wilmot was no thief. Nor was she a man-chaser. She would never have thrown herself at Lord Melville in the way he had implied. Dominic knew her soul. He also knew he had to get rid of all the anger that he felt before he went back and said to her what he needed to say.

  To Maud.

  ‘Maud.’

  He said it aloud. The name suited her. Again, he felt that pang that she had not been honest with him. When the truth had been laid out before him by Melville, mixed among the lies, he’d had to piece it together. He’d been angry at first, to hear of her deception. But the anger towards her had died away so fast. The desperation on her face had gutted him to the core. Now he could see why she thought it had been necessary. She’d been desperate. Hunted.

  He reached the lawn, looked across to the house.

  The truth could not wait any longer.

  * * *

  Maud raced to the end of the gravel drive, hardly looking where she was going. As she passed through the tall iron gates, she ran a hand across her eyes. She couldn’t bear to look back at Pendragon Hall.

  She stopped, gasping, and placed a hand on the gates to steady herself. She leaned over, the nausea overwhelming. Almost crouching, she bent her body, but nothing came.

  Still bent, she took a step, then another, before more pain sent her keeling over by the side of the road.

  The sound of horses’ hooves and wheels came to a stop beside her.

  ‘My goodness! Are you all right?’ came a sweet voice.

  Maud looked up, still clutching her stomach.

  From the carriage window a kindly old face in a ruched bonnet was staring down at her with concern. ‘Why, my dear! I don’t believe it. Do you remember me? We were travelling companions, months ago, on the West Cornish Railway.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, I do remember.’ Maud tried to smile, but her mouth would not make the shape.

  ‘You were so kind to me,’ the old lady said, with a beaming smile. ‘You made sure I kept my seat by the window even though I was in the wrong place. I’ve always remembered it.’

  It was when she had first met Dominic, Maud remembered with a pang.

  ‘I was glad to be of help,’ she somehow managed to reply.

  The old lady peered at her. Beneath her bonnet and grey curls, her blue eyes were surprisingly sharp, but her voice was gentle. ‘Are you quite all right, my dear?’

  Maud shuddered.

  ‘Are you going to the station? I’m on the way there myself, to catch the train to London.’

  The train.

  Dominic’s train.

  Maud wiped her hand across her eyes.

  She had a chance now, to flee, before she had to face him. She would not wait to be dismissed, for that was surely what he must do. He could not keep her on as governess, knowing she had lied about who she was.

  After Lord Melville’s cruelty, she had never dreamed of experiencing the feelings that she had shared with Dominic. She had never known the pleasure that she had experienced with him, of being safe in his arms. The way he had held her after her nightmare. The touch of his hand, in the woods. His lips, hard and searching upon hers. To think that she had nearly succumbed to those dizzying, overwhelming sensations and had wanted more and more of him. Where would it have all ended but ruin?

  ‘Please,’ Maud choked out. ‘I need to catch the train.’

  * * *

  Dominic flung open the nursery door. ‘I’m looking for Miss Wilmot. Where is she?’

  The nursemaid, Netta, bobbed a curtsy. ‘I don’t know, Sir Dominic. I thought she’d be back by now. She said she needed to go and get some ferns in the woods, but she hasn’t come back to fetch Miss Rosabel.’

  ‘Miss Wilmot nearly let all the butterflies out of the vivarium this morning, Papa,’ Rosabel told him. ‘Where is Miss Wilmot? Polly and I have been waiting for her.’

  ‘She is usually so reliable, Sir Dominic,’ Netta said. ‘We’ve all become so fond of her.’

  ‘Miss Wilmot told me such a lovely story last night, Papa.’ Rosabel’s face lit up. ‘It was all about Princess Swallowtail and the White Admiral again. And today, she said that we might be able to take a picnic out into the woods and eat our luncheon among the butterflies.’ Her small face was alight with excitement. ‘Would you like to come, too? Would you like to spend the day among the butterflies, Papa?’

  Dominic arranged his face into what he hoped was a calm expression.

  ‘Very much,’ he said, ‘but we will need to find your governess first.’

  He swung to Netta.

  ‘I’m concerned for Miss Wilmot,’ he said. He kept his tone neutral. He didn’t want to indicate that anything in pa
rticular was amiss. He would not have gossips guessing at what had happened in the woods. ‘So, you haven’t seen her?’

  ‘No, Sir Dominic.’

  ‘I need to find her. Will you go into her bedroom, please, and see if she is there? I’m concerned that she might be unwell.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Dominic.’

  Netta hurried out of the nursery through the connecting door that led into Miss Wilmot’s bedroom.

  Rosabel slipped her hand into her papa’s.

  Dominic stared at the butterfly vivarium. He couldn’t presume upon Miss Wilmot’s privacy to go into her bedroom himself. He didn’t want to cause her any more anxiety and distress. After what had happened in the woods that morning, he knew that her nervousness was not part of her character. She was not an anxious woman. She was a brave one. The nervousness he had witnessed had been caused by what had happened to her at Lord Melville’s hands.

  Dominic stared around the room. The only sign of life were the butterflies, fluttering in the vivarium. He glanced at them in the glass case. The bright colours of their wings seemed to dim in front of his eyes, the butterflies turning to grey.

  Netta came running back into the nursery. ‘She’s not there, Sir Dominic.’

  Rosabel’s lip trembled. ‘Where is Miss Wilmot?’

  Dominic looked at Netta. One look at his face and the nursemaid blanched.

  ‘Take Rosabel downstairs,’ he said.

  Immediately, Netta obeyed his instructions.

  ‘Come along, Rosabel. I’m sure Miss Wilmot will be back soon.’ She took the little girl’s hand and led her away.

  All his instincts were on alert. He ought to have caught up to her by now. He had to see for himself that there was no clue to her whereabouts. Without another word, he pushed through the connecting door and into Maud’s bedroom.

  Miss Wilmot’s absence was palpable. The fragrance that always seemed to emanate from her clothing and hair still hung in the air. Yet the room was empty. He’d been so sure they would find her there.