The Mysterious Miss Fairchild (HQR Historical)

by Sarah Mallory

  * * *

  Maud opened her eyes. Now here she was, in Cornwall, the wheels of the train turning on the track beneath her.

  To lift her spirits, she forced herself to register the beauties passing by. From the moment she’d left London, there had been plenty to see.

  Setting forth on the journey had been an intense relief. As the train moved further west, she’d even begun to experience a sense of freedom. The train moved so much faster than a horse and carriage, it was almost dizzying. There was so much to see, the landscape becoming wilder, more foreign, the deeper they moved into Cornwall. They had left the outskirts of London and the view of the backs of the houses, with their gardens and washing lines, then into the countryside of rolling hills and green fields dotted with sheep and cows. They had made a stop overnight in Exeter, where she had stayed at an inn near the train station, in surprisingly comfortable accommodation provided by her new employer, before continuing further south-west, where the clusters of villages and isolated country houses became sparser as they moved towards the remote, rugged coast.

  A tiny thrill of excitement ran through her.

  She pulled out the letter that she had tucked inside the book of fairy tales.

  The strange address was printed at the top: Pendragon Hall, West Cornwall. A crest, a shield of three black crosses on gold and a band of black in an upward arrow lay below.

  Dear Miss Wilmot

  That was correct, at least.

  She laid the paper down momentarily in her lap. Her hands were trembling. At least it didn’t say Dear Miss Martha Wilmot. She could take some comfort in that. A Miss Wilmot they wanted, and a Miss Wilmot they would get.

  Swallowing hard, she read on.

  Your acceptance of the situation as the new governess has been received. Train tickets are enclosed.

  I will expect you at Pendragon Hall at your earliest convenience.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sir Dominic Jago

  She traced the name with her gloved finger. The handwriting was strong and large, the words in black ink across the paper. The message curt.

  Jago. It was an unusual name. She had never encountered it before.

  All she had to hope now was that he had never heard her real name.

  No one will believe your story.

  Her fingers were still shaking as she folded up the letter. From the other information that Martha had passed on to her, she knew that the terms for her new employment were handsome, much better than she had expected, especially for a post in the country. It was not uncommon for a governess to be offered a home and no salary at all, but the post at Pendragon Hall paid a good wage, enough for her to save a little. She’d never had that opportunity before. Her last post had left her with nothing.

  She would only be teaching one child: a girl, Rosabel, aged seven, who was recovering from illness. The application made no mention of any other children and, Martha had also informed her, Sir Dominic Jago was a widower.

  To her surprise, the letter from Sir Dominic had also been accompanied by a first-class ticket on the West Cornish Railway for the final leg of her journey. On the previous trains, for she had changed twice, she had travelled in a second-class carriage, as governesses, footmen, ladies’ maids and other servants usually did. First-class travel was for gentry, not governesses.

  She laid her head back against the leather seat. It was astonishing to be travelling first class. She must waste no more time on tears. The West Cornish Railway first-class carriage was so clean and new, she could smell the polish. The brass fittings and handles gleamed and a handsome brass lamp stayed lit so that she could read even as they went through woods and tunnels. There were three private compartments within the carriage, separated by a wooden screen, each with a pair of leather seats that faced each other.

  It was so roomy. She stretched out her legs beneath her petticoats, resisting the urge to kick at them a little. How constricting they were! She still wore layers of them, in cambric, flannel, wool and cotton, rather than the new hooped skirt.

  She stifled her sigh of yearning. Oh, how she longed for hoops. She could never afford to have her dresses made over in the new style. Hoops would probably be out of date before she could manage it.

  To lift her spirits, she forced her attention back to the view. She would not miss a moment of the journey pining for things that could not be. In the large carriage window she could see her reflection, ghostly against the scenery of hedgerows, meadows and cottages. Underneath her green eyes were dark shadows and lines around her mouth that hadn’t been there mere weeks before. Wisps of brown hair escaped from her dove-grey bonnet, resting on the white collar of her grey dress.

  Opposite her own reflection, Maud could see the only other occupant of the carriage, a sweet old lady, who had slept for most of the journey, Maud was pleased to note.

  Earlier, Maud had helped her to settle into the window seat and find her smelling salts.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ the lady had whispered. ‘How kind you are. I find travel by locomotive very trying. It makes me quite ill.’

  The train slowed and the whistle shrieked as they drew into a station.

  Now the old lady awoke with a start. ‘Have we arrived already?’

  ‘Not yet. We still have a way to go to Penponds Station,’ Maud reassured her with a smile. They had discovered they shared the same destination. ‘We’re just making a stop.’

  She peered through the glass.

  A puff of steam obscured the platform, then swirled away, to reveal a man staring straight at her.

  He was the kind of man it was impossible to miss. Tall, dark-haired, long-legged, he wore a long dark grey coat, with a scarlet cravat tied carelessly around his neck. His hands were gloveless and she saw the flash of a gold signet ring on his right hand. Yet it was the energy that emanated from him that she noticed most of all. Even standing still, he seemed to convey a restlessness, a sense of contained speed, as though, like the train in front of him, he wanted to move fast in a determined direction.

  His dark gaze was intent as he stared through the train window into her eyes, before another puff of steam obscured him once again from view.

  Maud drew back. The man’s gaze had been magnetic, powerful, as though there was not a glass window between them, but nothing at all.

  The cloud of steam cleared once again, but the dark-haired man had vanished.

  ‘I say!’

  Maud spun around on her seat.

  Another passenger had entered the carriage, a portly young man in a checked overcoat, red-faced beneath his top hat.

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ he said to the old lady in braying tones. ‘You are in my seat.’

  ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear,’ the old lady quavered. ‘What did you say?’

  The young man scowled. ‘I tell you, that’s my seat! I especially wanted a window.’

  The old lady’s mouth trembled.

  Maud looked around for the train conductor. He was nowhere to be seen.

  She leaned forward. ‘Excuse me, sir. Might I see your ticket?’

  The young man turned. ‘What?’ he demanded, in an imperious tone, looking down on her, his blue eyes bulbous.

  Maud lifted her chin. She hadn’t been a governess for five years to be intimidated by this overgrown boy.

  ‘Might I see your ticket?’ she repeated, in a tone that no child had ever refused.

  The young man puffed out his breath and looked about to argue. Muttering under his breath, he handed it over.

  ‘Thank you.’ Maud scrutinised it, then glanced at the seat number. She bit her lip, vexed. When she had helped the old lady settle into her seat, she hadn’t thought to check her ticket.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the old lady. ‘It seems there has been some mistake. You do appear to be in the wrong seat.’

 
The old lady clutched her lace handkerchief. ‘Oh, how dreadful!’

  ‘I told you so!’ said the young man, triumphantly.

  Maud returned the ticket to him.

  ‘I’m sure this lady would like to remain in her seat,’ she said quietly. ‘She is suffering from travel sickness. Will you do her the kindness?’

  Maud caught a whiff of claret as the young man puffed out his cheeks. ‘Certainly not! That’s my seat and I want it.’

  ‘That is the height of discourtesy!’ Maud couldn’t hold back the reprimand. ‘This lady is old enough to be your grandmother!’

  The man turned even redder. ‘Who are you to try to teach me manners?’

  ‘It’s a pity no one else has taught you,’ Maud retorted. ‘Please, let this lady stay where she is.’

  The old lady began to struggle up. ‘I don’t want to cause any inconvenience.’

  Maud jumped to her feet, the book of fairy tales tumbling from her lap. ‘Please take my seat, if it is a window seat you’re after.’

  ‘I don’t want your seat,’ the young man said stubbornly. ‘I want the seat I paid for!’

  Another, taller man had entered the carriage.

  It was the man from the platform, Maud realised in a flash. The sense of suppressed purpose, of energy around him, was even more palpable in close proximity. Yet his demeanour was impassive as he surveyed the scene.

  ‘What seems to be the matter?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘This young gentleman...’ Maud allowed some scorn to enter her voice ‘...insists that this lady vacate her seat.’

  ‘I tell you. She is in the wrong seat!’ The young man brandished his ticket.

  ‘Wrong seat or no, surely you can allow her to remain. As I told you, she’s not well.’

  ‘That’s not my concern,’ the young man snarled.

  The dark-haired man stepped forward. His voice was low, but the authority in it was unmistakable. ‘The train’s about to depart. I happen to know there is a window seat available in the other first-class carriage. If you would care to take it, these ladies can remain here.’

  The young man began to bluster, but after a look into the eyes of the man in front of him, he appeared to change his mind.

  ‘Very well,’ he said with a sulky expression.

  ‘Excellent.’ The dark-haired man turned to the conductor, who had finally appeared. ‘Could you show this gentleman to his new seat?’

  The conductor bowed. ‘Very good, sir.’

  With another puff of claret-fumed annoyance, the young man followed the conductor out of the carriage.

  Maud let out a sigh of relief.

  The dark-haired man leaned down and picked up the book of fairy tales. He frowned as he glanced at the title. ‘Is this yours?’

  She nodded. His fingers grazed hers as he returned it to her.

  He bowed and left the carriage.

  Maud took her seat. She clutched the book, the sensation of his warm fingers still imprinted on hers.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ the old lady said, with a grateful smile, as the train began to move away from the station.

  A few minutes later the conductor returned. He tipped his cap. ‘I hope you two ladies are settled now.’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ Maud was unable to restrain her curiosity. ‘The gentleman who came to our assistance. How did he know there was a seat available in the other carriage? Did he offer his own seat?’

  The conductor chuckled. ‘They’re all his seats.’

  Maud drew back her head. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘He’s the owner of the West Cornish Railway Line. That’s Sir Dominic Jago.’

  Copyright © 2020 by Eliza Redgold

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  ISBN: 9781488065682

  The Mysterious Miss Fairchild

  Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Mallory

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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