The Wayward Governess

by Joanna Fulford

  ‘Thank you, sir. I am most grateful for what you did back there.’

  The grey eyes regarded her steadily a moment.

  ‘I beg you will not regard it, madam.’

  Claire knew a moment’s surprise for the Yorkshire burr had disappeared to be replaced with the pure modulated diction associated with a very different social rank. However, fearing to seem rude, she did not remark on it.

  ‘Who were those men?’ she asked then.

  ‘Scum. They needn’t concern you further.’ He paused. ‘May I ask where you’re going?’

  ‘To Helmshaw.’

  ‘Helmshaw. That’s a fair walk from here.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so, but the public coach doesn’t go there.’

  ‘You came on the coach?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  Her cheeks reddened. ‘As you see.’

  ‘You have family in Helmshaw perhaps?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘But your friend is not expecting you.’

  ‘No, not exactly.’

  ‘Not at all, I’d say, or you would have been met at the coach.’

  Not knowing what to say, Claire remained silent. A few moments later they reached the end of the street. There he paused, looking down at her.

  ‘Yonder lies the road to Helmshaw. I’d walk along with you, but I’ve important business requiring my attention here. However, I think you’ll not be troubled again.’

  She managed a tremulous smile. ‘I’m sure I shan’t be. You’ve been most kind, sir.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Miss, er…’

  ‘Claire Davenport.’

  He took the offered hand and bowed. For one brief moment she felt the warmth of his touch through her glove. Then he relinquished his hold.

  ‘Farewell, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘Farewell, Mr Eden. And thank you again.’

  He handed her the valise and touched his hand to his hat. Then he turned and walked away. Feeling strangely bereft, she watched the tall departing figure with a rueful smile. In all likelihood they would never meet again, though she knew she would never forget him. With a sigh she turned and continued on her way.

  *

  As the man Eden had predicted she met with no more trouble on the road, but half an hour later it came on to rain, a thundery summer shower. The open roadway offered no shelter and in a very short time she was soaked through. It was with real relief that she saw the first houses on the edge of the village. An enquiry of a passing carter directed her to a grey stone house set back from the road in a pleasant garden. Claire paused by the gate, feeling her stomach knot in sudden apprehension. What if Miss Greystoke had moved on? It had been seven years after all. What would she do then? Where would she go? Taking a deep breath, she walked up the paved pathway to the front door and rang the bell. A maidservant answered. On seeing Claire’s bedraggled and muddied appearance she eyed her askance.

  ‘The doctor’s not at home,’ she said.

  Shivering a little now, Claire stood her ground.

  ‘It is Miss Greystoke I seek, not the doctor.’

  Before the girl could answer another voice spoke behind her.

  ‘Who is it, Eliza?’

  Claire’s heart beat painfully hard. The woman’s elegant lavender-coloured gown was different, but everything else was familiar from the light brown hair to the blue eyes now regarding her with shock and concern.

  ‘Claire?’ The woman came closer, wonder writ large in her expression, and then a beaming smile lit her face. ‘Oh, my dear, it really is you!’

  ‘Miss Greystoke.’

  ‘What a wonderful surprise. But what am I doing talking here on the doorstep? Come inside, do.’

  Only too happy to obey, Claire stepped into the hallway and for a moment the two women faced each other in silence. Then Ellen Greystoke opened her arms and drew her visitor into a warm embrace. Knowing herself safe for the first time in days, Claire began to shake.

  ‘Good gracious! How cold you are! We must get you out of those wet clothes at once. Then we shall sit down and have some tea and you can tell me everything.’

  Claire was escorted to a pleasant upstairs bedroom, provided with hot water and towels, and then left in privacy. Shivering, she removed her bonnet and then stripped off her wet things. How good it was to be free of them at last and to be able to bathe again and tidy her hair. Having done so, she donned a clean gown. It was one of two that she had been able to bring. Apart from those, a russet spencer, a few necessary personal items and her sketchbook, the valise contained nothing of value. Involuntarily Claire’s hand sought the locket she wore around her neck. It was her sole piece of jewellery and it bore the only likeness of her parents that she possessed. She had inherited her mother’s dusky curls and hazel eyes and her face had the same fine bone structure. Her father too had been dark haired with rugged good looks. It was not hard to see why her parents had been attracted to each other or why Henry Davenport should fly in the face of his family’s disapproval and marry a young woman with only a pretty countenance and a hundred pounds a year to recommend her. Goodness was not a marketable quality in their eyes. Yet, contrary to all predictions, the marriage had been a success. Claire had fond memories of her early years, days filled with sunshine and laughter when she’d been truly happy and carefree. How long ago it all seemed and how like a dream.

  An outbreak of typhus changed everything: her father had sickened first and then her mother, the fever carrying them off within three days of each other. At a stroke she was an orphan. Miss Greystoke had taken it upon herself to inform her father’s family and in due course Uncle Hector had arrived. Her thirteen-year-old self could see the likeness to her father in the dark hair and grey eyes, but there the similarity ended. The tall, unsmiling man in black was a stranger whose cold expression repelled her. She hadn’t wanted to go with him and had sobbed out her grief in Miss Greystoke’s arms. In the end though there had been no choice and she had been taken to live at her uncle’s house.

  From the moment of her arrival she knew Aunt Maud disliked her and resented her presence there. At first she had not understood why, but as time passed and she grew from child to young woman the contrast between her and her much plainer cousins became marked. To be fair her cousins showed no resentment of her good looks, but then they were so timid that they never expressed an opinion on anything. Claire, outgoing and high-spirited, found them dull company. Moreover she found the educational regime in the house stifling.

  From the start Miss Greystoke had always encouraged her to think for herself and to read widely and Claire’s naturally enquiring mind devoured the books she was given and easily assimilated what she found there. She loved learning for its own sake and enjoyed gaining new skills, whether it was drawing or playing the pianoforte, speaking in French or discussing current affairs. In her uncle’s house everything was different. Independent thought was discouraged, and only the most improving works considered suitable reading material. They were taught their lessons under the exacting eye of Miss Hardcastle, a hatchet-faced woman with strict views about what constituted a suitable education for young ladies, and an expectation of instant obedience in all things. In this she was fully supported by Aunt Maud and any infraction of discipline was punished. Claire, loathing the constraints imposed on her, had been openly rebellious at first, but she had soon learned the error of her ways. Remembering it now, she felt resentment rise in a wave. She would never return no matter what.

  *

  Some time later she joined Ellen in the parlour where she was plied with hot tea and slices of fruit cake. When she had finished she favoured her friend with an explanation of why she had fled her uncle’s house. Ellen listened without interruption, but the blue eyes were bright with anger and indignation. Claire swallowed hard.

  ‘I’m so sorry to impose on you like this, Miss Greystoke, but I didn’t know where else to turn.’

  ‘Where else should you turn but to me? And
let us dispense with this formality. You must call me Ellen.’

  ‘You don’t know how I missed you all these years.’

  ‘And I you. My brightest pupil.’

  ‘Did you receive my letter?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘I wanted to write again, but my aunt would not permit it.’

  ‘Then you did not get my other letters?’

  Claire stared at her. ‘What other letters?’

  ‘I wrote several, but there was never any reply, so in the end I stopped sending them.’

  ‘On my honour I never received them.’

  ‘No, after what you have told me I imagine you did not.’

  Anger and indignation welled anew and Claire bit her lip. To think that all that time her aunt had lied to her, if only by omission.

  ‘It was the saddest day of my life when I had to leave you. Your parents’ house was such a happy place and they were always so good to me. I felt more like a member of the family than a governess.’

  ‘I feel as though I have been in prison for the past seven years. And then this. I could not do what they wanted, Ellen.’

  ‘Of course not! No woman should ever be compelled to marry a man she does not love and esteem. What your uncle did was shameful.’

  ‘But what if he finds me?’

  ‘He shall not remove you from this house.’

  ‘I wish I were not so afraid of him, Ellen.’

  ‘I am not surprised that you are. The man is a perfect brute.’

  ‘If my aunt read your letters, she will have seen the address and may guess where I am.’

  ‘She probably burnt them without reading them. In any case it was a long time ago. It is most unlikely she kept them.’

  ‘I pray she did not.’ Claire’s hands clenched. ‘If only I might reach my majority and be out of their power for good.’

  ‘That day cannot be so far away now. How old are you?’

  ‘Four months short of my twenty-first birthday.’

  ‘No time at all. It will soon pass and then you will be a free woman.’

  ‘Somehow I must earn my living and I am not afraid to work, provided it is honest employment. I do not wish to be a burden.’

  Ellen smiled and squeezed her hand gently. ‘You could never be a burden to me.’

  ‘But what will your brother say when he returns?’

  ‘You leave George to me.’

  *

  Doctor Greystoke returned some time later. In his early forties, he was a little over the average height and had a strong athletic build, which made him seem younger than his years. His face was pleasant and open rather than handsome and, as yet, relatively unlined save for the creases round the eyes and mouth. Like his sister he had light brown hair, in his case greying a little at the temples and lending him a distinguished air. Claire thought he had a kindly face. Even so there was no way of knowing how he would respond to having his home invaded by a stranger—and a penniless stranger to boot.

  She need not have worried. Having been apprised of the situation, he seated himself on the sofa beside his unexpected guest, regarding her keenly.

  ‘My sister has told me everything, Miss Davenport. I confess I am deeply shocked to learn of the reason for your coming here, but can in no way blame you for leaving. To force a young woman into marriage must be in every way repugnant to civilised thinking.’ He smiled. ‘You are welcome to remain here as long as you wish.’

  ‘Thank you. May I also ask that my reason for being here remains a secret?’

  ‘You may rely on it. Neither my sister nor I will divulge it to a soul.’

  Claire’s eyes filled with tears and a lump formed in her throat.

  ‘Indeed, sir, you are very good.’

  To her horror tears spilled over and ran down her face and she dashed them away with a trembling hand. Seeing it his face registered instant concern.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘You’re safe here.’

  Claire drew in a shuddering breath and fumbled for a handkerchief. Before she could find it he produced his own.

  ‘Here, try this. I prescribe it for the relief of tears.’

  It drew a wan smile and he nodded approvingly. ‘That’s it. Now dry your eyes and let us have no more of this. I absolutely forbid you to be sad here.’

  Ellen rose and rang the bell to summon the maid.

  ‘Shall we have some more tea?’

  Her brother looked up and grinned. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Chapter Two

  Gleams of moonlight shone through flying rags of cloud, its pale glow illuminating the moor and the winding road along which the wagon made its steady progress. Drawn by four great draught horses it lumbered on, its load a dark mass concealed beneath a heavy tarpaulin. Apart from the driver and his companion on the box, six others accompanied the wagon, big men chosen for their physical strength. Two walked in front with lighted torches; the others rode on either side of the vehicle. All were armed with clubs and pistols. Conversation was kept to a minimum. The only sounds were the wind and the muffled rumbling of iron-rimmed wheels over the track. For it was more track than road, an ancient drovers’ trail that crossed the hills above Helmshaw. As they walked the men kept a sharp look out, their eyes scanning the roadway ahead and the pooled shadows to either side. No other sound or movement revealed any more human presences. The little convoy might have been the last living things upon the face of the earth.

  ‘All quiet so far,’ muttered the driver, ‘but I’ll not be sorry to see journey’s end.’

  His companion merely grunted assent.

  ‘If it weren’t for t’money you’d not catch me out here with this lot,’ the other continued. ‘I thought long and hard about it I can tell thee. A man should be at his fireside of an evening, not wandering t’moors to be prey to scum.’

  Another grunt greeted this. Seeing his companion wasn’t in a responsive mood, Jethro Timms gave up the attempt at conversation. From time to time he eyed the other man. A taciturn cove, he thought, and no mistake. However, what he lacked in amiability he made up for in sheer physical presence for he was tall and well made with a lean, athletic figure that had about it something of a military bearing, though nothing about his clothing suggested it. Coat, breeches and boots, though strong and serviceable, had seen better days. Still, the driver reflected, that was not surprising. Since Napoleon went to Elba there were lots of ex-soldiers roaming the land looking for work, though heaven knew it was in short supply. If a man was desperate enough he might volunteer to ride guard on a wagon in the middle of the night.

  He gave his companion another sideways glance, but the other seemed unaware of it, his gaze on the way ahead. Dark hair was partly concealed under a hat which shadowed the strong lines of brow and jaw. Down one cheek the faint line of a scar was just visible. It might have been a sabre slash, but the driver didn’t care to ask. Something about those steel-grey eyes forbade it. Nevertheless, he thought, Eden was a comforting presence tonight, not least for the blunderbuss he held across his knee and the brace of pistols thrust into his belt.

  Timms made no further attempt to break the silence and the wagon lumbered on. Gradually the scenery began to change, the open heath giving way to more rugged terrain as the track passed through a deep valley. On either hand the dark mass of the hillsides was just visible against the paler cloud above, but to one side the ground fell away in a steep drop to the stream. As it passed through the declivity the track narrowed. Suddenly Eden sat up, his expression intent.

  Timms swallowed hard. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I thought I heard something. Stones sliding.’

  ‘I can’t hear owt.’

  For a moment or two they listened, but the only sounds were the wind through the heather and the chuckling water below.

  ‘Tha must have imagined…’

  The driver’s words were lost as the darkness erupted in a flash of fire and the sharp report of a pistol. A linkman cried out and fell, hi
s torch lying unheeded on the path. As though at a signal a dozen dark shapes rose from the concealing heather and rushed forwards. Cursing, Timms reined in his startled team as a masked attacker reached up to drag him from his seat. Beside him the blunderbuss roared and a man screamed, falling back into the darkness. On the other side of the wagon two others launched themselves at Eden. He swung the blunderbuss hard and felt it connect with bone. His attacker staggered and fell. The other came on. Eden kicked out at the masked face and heard cartilage crunch beneath the sole of his boot. A muffled curse followed and the would-be assailant reeled away, clutching his ruined nose. Eden drew the pistols from his belt as his gaze took in the chaos of struggling shadowy forms in the roadway. As another masked face loomed out of the dark he loosed off a shot. The ball took the man between the eyes and he fell without a sound. Several others swarmed toward the wagon.

  Timms, struggling to control the restive horses, cried a warning as hands reached up to drag him from the box. Eden heard it and, turning, fired the second pistol. He heard a yelp of pain and saw a man go down, but almost immediately another shot rang out and Timms swore, clutching his arm. A moment later he was dragged from the box and lost to view. Other hands caught hold of Eden. Instead of resisting them he threw himself forwards, diving off the wagon to land on top of his assailants in the road. Fists and feet connected with flesh amid muffled cries and oaths. Then he was free. Leaping to his feet, he spun round to find himself staring at the mouth of a pistol. Pale moonlight afforded a swift impression of cold eyes glinting above a mask, and below it a soiled green neckcloth. For one split second something stirred in Eden’s memory. Then there was a burst of flame and a loud report. Hot lead tore into flesh and he staggered, clutching his shoulder. Blood welled beneath his fingers and then vicious pain exploded in a burst of light behind his eyeballs and he fell.

  He lay in the dirt for some moments, aware only of the pain that seemed to have replaced all other sensation. The sounds of fighting receded. With an effort of will he forced back the threatening faintness and became aware of a voice issuing instructions. Moonlight revealed dark figures round the wagon, some unhitching the horses, others loosening the ropes that held the load, flinging back the tarpaulin to reveal the crate beneath. Eden’s jaw tightened as the figures swarmed aboard and levered it off the wagon. As in slow motion it crashed onto the road and rolled forwards down the slope, tumbling over and over, gathering momentum until it came to rest, smashed and broken on the rocky streambed below. A ragged cheer went up from the wreckers. At that a man stepped forwards to face the remaining members of the escort. Like his companions his face was covered by a scarf and his hat pulled low.