Maud’s fingers clenched around the pen.
Her heart thudded as she crossed the room and leaned over the table.
He slid the paper towards her.
She could not refuse to sign her name. It would appear strange.
With a heavy, reluctant hand, she formed the letters of two words: Martha Wilmot. At least her surname was as she usually wrote it, with the W half-flying across the page.
Dominic glanced down at the paper, his half-smile on his lips.
Then his face changed. He frowned at the rapidly drying ink.
Hastily Maud stepped away. ‘Thank you, Sir Dominic. For the pen.’
He did not look up, merely inclined his head. ‘Thank you, Miss Wilmot. Goodnight.’
Maud hurried from the nursery, the fountain pen clutched between her fingers. Inside her own room, she shut the door and leaned against it, her breath coming quickly.
If only she did not need to live a lie to remain at Pendragon Hall. She had never foreseen such difficulties. The more time she spent with him, the harder it became. Sir Dominic Jago was a man who lived by and deserved integrity.
Maud unclenched her fingers and stared at the fountain pen in her hand.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A shadow flits before me;
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
Through the mullioned window Dominic caught sight of a movement on the gravel drive outside. Crossing to the glass, he rubbed the pane, steamed by the fire, and stared out into the near darkness. Yes, there it was again. A movement as someone left the Hall.
She carried no lamp, but he saw the flick of her shawl catch the moonlight and knew instantly who it was.
Miss Wilmot.
It was later than usual, much later. She had not come to sit by the fire and read. He glanced towards the chair where she often sat. He’d become used to her being there.
He went back to his desk, looked again at the piece of paper she’d written on earlier and smiled.
He’d wanted to give her something, to show his appreciation of her work.
There was Miss Martha Wilmot’s signature, written in the black ink of the fountain pen he had just given her to write her stories. He couldn’t disguise to himself that the gift of a pen had been more than appreciation. He found himself thinking about her, about her needs and desires. What might make her happy. The irony did not escape him now that he was the one who could be described as having romantic notions about a governess, rather than the reverse.
Since that moment in the woods, he had known himself to be beguiled by her. Or perhaps it had happened before, when he first heard her tell a fairy tale.
It was her stillness and her reserve, too, that made her even more attractive to him. Rather than the usual clamour of women trying to get his attention, she never aimed to catch his eye or to make witticisms to try to amuse him. She never wore clothing that could be deemed sensual or striking. Her grey dresses, which he had begun to become accustomed to seeing about the Hall, were no fashion pieces and almost severe in their simplicity. Knowing she did nothing to entice him was part of her unconscious charm, yet it was her sweetness of character, and an apparent inner strength, that truly attracted him. She was full of moral integrity. It could not be hidden. It could not be disguised. The stories she told Rosabel were full of wisdom beyond her years.
The Butterfly Fables. They were not only enchanting, they were educational. She was a storyteller with a true gift. It was fashionable, she’d told him, for fairy tales to be published in magazines as moral fables. Hers were good enough for a magazine, or even a book of their own. He truly believed it. He hadn’t exaggerated on that score. Far from it.
Miss Wilmot’s stories were clever because, although she had an idealistic nature and an ethical bent, she was not heavy-handed in her moral instruction. Her approach was as light and airy as a pair of butterfly wings. The world she created in The Butterfly Fables was full of advice, lightly given, in the search for happiness and goodness.
But there was danger in the imaginary world she created, too.
Dominic frowned. The sense of threat and menace in the tales was, he suspected, emanating from more than a flair for drama. He had seen her fingers clench as she spoke of binding cobweb or fleeing from predators. She knew of what she spoke. She had experienced true terror, true menace.
The thought of it made his fingers tighten in echo. He cared. He cared for her. He could no longer deny it to himself.
He opened a drawer and tucked the signed piece of paper inside. As it slid closed, he noticed a black box. It had been half-hidden between the papers. Puzzled, he yanked back the drawer, extricated the box and snapped it open.
A wave of memory came over him as he stared, incredulous, at what lay inside.
He wasn’t sure how long he stared at it before he came to a decision.
With one last draught of brandy, he stopped in the hall, seized his coat and headed out into the night to find her.
* * *
Maud slipped further into the garden, away from the house, lamp and net in hand.
She needed nature around her tonight, no matter how late the hour. The clock had chimed midnight, but she couldn’t sleep. Not yet.
The wind was high and the leaves made a welcoming sigh as she crossed the lawn to the entrance of the woods.
She would not go too far. She was not brave enough for that, not yet. But ever since the walk in the woods with Sir Dominic, she had felt it welcome her.
Sanctuary.
She was safe at Pendragon Hall.
She slid her hand into her pocket and touched the smooth, cold metal of the pen, and smiled.
The past few hours had vanished into another place, another time, another world. Thanks to Sir Dominic.
She had never imagined that writing down her stories would be so absorbing. One Butterfly Fable after another had poured out of her, each instalment more exciting than the last. She had always enjoyed telling the tales to children, especially to Rosabel, but she had never imagined that writing them, being able to follow the story at speed, would be so enjoyable. It had been a revelation. She had used up page after page, her hand flying across the writing paper. The pen had flowed as fast as her words, spurring her on, until at last it had stopped. She’d shaken it, but only a few blots of ink came out. The pen would need to be refilled.
She’d leaned back and stretched, amazed to see how many hours had passed. She had entirely forgotten to eat the meal on her tray.
She ought to have gone to bed, she supposed, but she could not. Her mind was still buzzing with unwritten tales. Instead of her nightgown, she seized her lambswool shawl and flung it around her shoulders, picked up her lamp and net and crept down the stairs. From under the door she could see that a lamp was still burning in Sir Dominic’s study. He, too, was still up, then.
Now she took a lungful of air. It was a relief not to be wearing her corset, for she’d thrown it off earlier, before she’d begun to write. She had been determined that nothing would hold her in. Her hair was in the loose braid that she usually wore at nighttime, though she hadn’t undressed and put on her nightgown. Instead, she’d thrown a shirtwaist dress over her petticoat, without her corset. Perhaps that was why it had been so easy to write. She had been able to breathe. She had felt free.
Yet it wasn’t only the thrill of writing that was keeping her awake now, so awake she wondered if she would ever sleep.
She put the lamp in position to allow the moths to come, though she didn’t have much urge to cast her net. As she watched them begin to swirl around the lamp, she could not stop thinking about Sir Dominic. There was something in him, something rare. He was not like all the other masters of the house she had encountered in her employment. He was admired and spoken well of by all those who worked for him, which was unusual below stairs, and he worked harder tha
n anyone she knew.
But it was more than that. There was a part of her that connected with a part of him, something deep.
Nor could she dismiss the memory of the way he had held her the night that he had awoken her from that dreadful dream. She had not had another nightmare since. It was as if his arms continued to hold her in her sleep, protecting her from harm, from the horror that had tormented her for too long.
Momentarily she moved away from the lamp. An unseen bough scratched her face. It brought her to a standstill in the dark. Brought her to her senses.
No matter how grateful she was for that magical moment of connection in the woods, she would not allow her thoughts to stray in his direction. She would fight the feelings that were growing inside her. She would squash them out of existence.
An owl hooted, soft and soothing above her. The wind caressed her with the scent of moss and primroses. Maud stood still in the nighttime forest, gazing up at the restless leaves, black tossing shapes against a glittering sky.
It seemed as if time had lost all meaning, such was the depth of her new-found emotions. They tossed her like the leaves above, but were as breathtaking as a star-filled sky.
There was no future for them.
She would have to let these feelings wither and fade. But could such consuming, all-encompassing emotion simply fade away?
And how was she going to cope with these feelings, seeing him every day, and every night in the nursery? After all that had happened to her, she thought that her heart would never concede to such feelings. But she could no longer deny them.
Maud froze.
Was that…steps? Her ears strained to sift through the sighing wind, the unstill leaves, to discern what was probably just a figment of her overheated imagination.
A crunch of snapping twigs. Another. Closer now. It was undeniable.
Someone else was in the woods.
But she was not afraid. She knew who it was. And she waited, steadying herself against a sturdy oak.
The moon lit his features, turning his jaw to exquisitely carved marble, his dark hair to shadow. His coat was unbuttoned, as if he had thrown it on with haste, and his cravat had been loosened around his neck as if he had needed to free himself from its confines. It was a habit of his, she’d noted. It emphasised the strength and grace of his neck.
She moved towards him.
He moved towards her.
They stopped, only inches apart. So close, she could hear his breathing.
They stood, unmoving. Yet all about them, in the dark rustling forest, was that force of colour and life, of invisible, bright wings.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said at last.
‘You—you don’t startle me. I sensed it was you. I…have learnt your footsteps.’
‘I’m surprised you have ventured so far into the woods at this hour, in this weather,’ he said.
‘I feel safe here,’ she said. ‘I’m not frightened. Not any more.’
Silence fell again between them, broken only by another call of an owl.
‘Miss Wilmot,’ he said quietly after a moment. ‘There is much I know about you. But there is a great deal I do not know.’
Her breath hitched. She could not move.
‘It’s curious,’ he mused, ‘because, through your stories, there is a part of you I know—intimately.’
‘What part of me is that?’ It was a mere whisper.
Even in the darkness, she could sense the intensity of his gaze. ‘Your morals,’ he said. ‘Your true character. You try to be so stern, yet your stories tell me other things about you. Your hopes and dreams.’
She bit her lip.
‘I know how you love children,’ he went on, ‘and butterflies. But there is a great deal I do not know of your background, of your experiences in life. Apart from your character references, of course. From your previous employment.’
She could hardly breathe now. She’d become a statue, unable to move her limbs.
He moved closer. ‘I do not intend to interrogate you, Miss Wilmot. You need have no fear.’
Fear? What was it she was feeling? No, the chaos inside her would not be analysed. It was all she could do to breathe.
‘I do not want to pry,’ he said. ‘I am not by nature a curious man. But I must admit, you intrigue me. I want to know who you are.’ He moved even closer. ‘Dine with me tomorrow night.’
‘What?’
‘It is not such an outrageous request. It is not uncommon for governesses to dine with the family.’
‘But your rules about governesses…’
‘Ah. But you are no ordinary governess, are you?’ He glanced at the lamp, surrounded by beating wings, then back at her. ‘You pretend to be a moth, Miss Wilmot, but I think you might be a butterfly.’
Maud couldn’t move as their gazes held in the dim light.
Moments passed, soft and slow in the night air, before he spoke again. His voice was husky. ‘I do not want to alarm you in any way. But if you would permit, I would like us to get to know each other even better.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I think you know why,’ he said quietly. ‘There is an affinity between us.’
She felt the full force of that affinity flare as he studied her.
‘I believe you feel it, too,’ he said at last. ‘Do you?’
She inclined her head. Just once. She couldn’t deny it, not now. Not with that attraction fluttering to life between them. Not with what she had discovered, about the powerful truth of her feelings.
‘We are master and governess,’ she protested.
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Indeed, it is ironic that we find ourselves in this position. I know what I told you when you arrived. That’s why I am inviting you to dine with me. As an equal. I am not trying to take advantage of my position, nor yours.’
‘But surely even dining together would be improper?’
His smile gleamed in the moonlight. ‘More improper than meeting by night in a forest? But if you do not wish it…’ He paused. ‘Please feel free to refuse my invitation. I am aware that as master of the house you may feel compelled to accede to my desires.’
‘You are not compelling me.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I would like to have dinner with you. Thank you for the invitation.’
She sensed, rather than heard, his exhalation.
‘My thanks go to you, for accepting it.’ He bowed. ‘I will leave you to your moth-hunting.’
He turned and walked away.
No, she did not want him to leave! She wanted to call out to him.
But to say what?
Instead, she leaned against the oak tree and listened to his tread on the leaves.
Then his deep voice came floating back to her through the darkness like a promise. ‘Until tomorrow night, then—Miss Wilmot.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)
‘Dine with me.’
Maud went into her bedroom, closed the door and leaned against it. Momentarily she closed her eyes end let the feeling flow over her. All day she had thought about Sir Dominic’s invitation. She had scarcely seen him since the night before, when he had issued the invitation. He had been at the railway all day, as he so often was.
She had been so busy trying to unravel her tangled emotions that, until he had appeared in the woods, she had never dreamed the feelings she fought so hard against might be something more, something that might also be shared by him.
He was the master of the house. She was the governess.
‘But you are no ordinary governess.’
His voice came back to her.
Her pulse quickened. She put her hand to her throat. She could feel it the
re, fluttering.
Earlier that evening, she had told Rosabel the latest instalment of The Butterfly Fables. She had not expected to see Sir Dominic, but she had come in to find him seated in his now-usual place at the other side of Rosabel’s bed.
‘Dinner is at eight,’ he’d said to her in an undertone, after she had tucked Rosabel under the covers. ‘If you are still willing to accept my invitation.’
Her stomach had fluttered then, too, in anticipation. It was probably just hunger, she had remonstrated with herself, for she was used to eating much earlier than eight o’clock. She’d nodded quickly in reply, without Rosabel noticing.
With a slight incline of his head, Sir Dominic had disappeared from the nursery.
Now she hurried over to the wardrobe and flung open its wooden doors. Inside hung a distinctly meagre array of clothing. The grey and brown dresses, her drab grey dressing gown, and the green dress that she brought with her, never imagining that she might wear it in the grand dining room of Pendragon Hall.
She took the dress from the wardrobe and laid it on the bed. The fabric shimmered in the sunset glow from the window. It was so green it was as if it were alive itself. This satin was thick and had impressions of leaves from certain angles or lights. She slipped it from the hanger and held it up against her in front of the mirror.
She sighed. How she wished it was in the latest style. Perhaps she might put in some panels, one day. She had no shawl to wear over the dress, except for the serviceable cream knitted one. It would have to do. It was a soft lambswool and, even if it didn’t go with the dress exactly, it would keep her warm.
She moved to the dressing table. It displayed a scattering of her few possessions, a vase full of bluebells and her hairbrush. Now, though, the fountain pen lay in pride of place on the polished surface.
She reached out her finger and glided it over the pen. It was almost too beautiful to use, but it meant so much that he had given it to her. He believed in the power of her stories. He believed in her.
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