The Wayward Governess

by Joanna Fulford

  They bade goodnight to Lucy and then withdrew to the passage outside the door. Marcus paused a moment, surveying Claire keenly.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Davenport? You look a little pale.’

  ‘I am quite well, thank you, sir. Just a little tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Perhaps an early night, then?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘That was my intention.’

  He bade her a goodnight, favoured her with a polite bow, and then was gone. Claire waited until he reached the end of the passage and headed down the stairs. Then very quietly she followed, stopping in the shadows on the landing, watching him descend to the hallway. The sound of horses’ hooves and wheels on gravel announced the arrival of the first guests. She saw them enter, heard him greet them, speaking and smiling with the polished assurance that so characterised him.

  Looking at the beautiful clothes of the arriving guests, Claire became painfully conscious of her plain muslin frock. It soon became clear too that several of the ladies were young and very attractive. From their smiles it seemed that their host was making quite an impression. But then he was the kind of man that women did notice. She sighed. When she had come to Netherclough she had wanted to preserve her anonymity. Now she had got her wish. Marcus wouldn’t give her another thought. Why should he? He had plenty of other distractions now. She was merely the governess and could be nothing more. For just one moment she wished she could be down there too, wished she could be one of that elegant gathering. Then he might glance across the room and, seeing her there, might smile and come across and solicit her hand for a dance. How would it be to dance with him? She would never know. Sadly she turned away and went to seek solace in the library.

  *

  It was gone eleven before the last of the guests departed and Marcus had waved them off. The evening had been a success in that it had fulfilled its aim of reacquainting him with the wealthy and aristocratic neighbours he had not seen for over ten years. On the other hand, having re-established the connection, he was reminded why he hadn’t missed them. With a wry smile he acknowledged that he had been scrutinised and weighed and measured, mostly by the matrons with unmarried daughters. Their fawning attentions left him in no doubt they considered him a good catch. Yet for all their undoubted accomplishments the young women present were lacking somehow. They were either too diffident or too conscious of their own social consequence. At some point he knew he would have to marry and get heirs to continue the family name, but he had seen nothing tonight that remotely tempted him. The thought of a London Season held little appeal either.

  Unlike Greville, he suspected he would not find his soul mate among the society beauties. The woman he loved was lost to him for ever and he had never found her like again. He wondered now if he ever would. The past ten years had not been without female companionship, of course, but now he found it hard to remember their faces. They had given their bodies willingly and he had satisfied a need with them, but his heart had remained untouched. Having experienced the grand passion, he found it hard to settle for less.

  Recalling the simpering smiles and downcast eyes that had been his lot for much of the evening, he found himself wishing Claire had been there. She would not have looked out of place in such a gathering. On the contrary, her appearance there would have put a few noses out of joint. Moreover, there was nothing diffident or arrogant about her and she was invariably agreeable company. He realised then that he had missed her. A glance at the clock revealed the advancing hour. It was probable that she had retired long since. Conscious of disappointment, he made his way upstairs.

  As he passed along the corridor he saw that the library door was slightly ajar. The gleam of light beyond suggested that the room wasn’t empty. Curious, he pushed the door further open and glanced in. The pool of candlelight revealed another presence and he smiled in recognition. Claire was curled up on the sofa by the fire, clearly engrossed in the book she was reading. For a moment or two he watched her, his gaze taking in every detail from the dark curls to the small foot peeping out from the hem of her dress, then he pushed the door to behind him and crossed the room to join her.

  Hearing a footstep, she looked up and perceived him there. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw who it was. Then, belatedly aware of her informal pose, she straightened quickly.

  ‘No, don’t get up,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. In truth, I didn’t think anyone was in here till I saw the light.’

  She glanced at the clock and with a start of surprise noticed the late hour. Surely it had been only eight-thirty the last time she looked? Before she could say anything Marcus disposed himself casually on the sofa beside her. Then he glanced at her book.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  Very much aware of that charismatic presence and trying not to show it, she replied, ‘Sense and Sensibility.’

  ‘I see you find it absorbing.’

  ‘Very much so. The author is both perceptive and witty.’

  ‘Indeed she is.’ He smiled faintly. ‘You enjoy reading novels, then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You do not subscribe to the view that they are unsuitable reading matter for young females?’

  ‘Certainly not. That is the kind of nonsense my uncle used to spout.’ Then she stopped, suddenly aware that she had no idea of where he might stand on the issue.

  Seeing her expression, Marcus interpreted it correctly. ‘No, I do not share that view. Losing oneself in a good story must rank as one of life’s great pleasures.’

  ‘Why, so I think.’

  ‘Your uncle is of a conservative disposition, I take it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She might also have added, and humourless, joyless and cold, but bit the words back, having no wish to allude further to her background. It might prompt more awkward questions. Instead she changed the subject. ‘Did you have an enjoyable evening, sir?’

  ‘Tolerably so,’ he replied.

  Her unwillingness to talk about her relatives had not escaped him, but he knew better than to try to force her confidence.

  ‘I have thought on what you said earlier about Lucy’s shyness,’ he continued, ‘and I am determined that she must be helped to conquer it. As opportunity permits I would like you to bring her down to the drawing room. With you to support her she will soon grow accustomed to company.’

  Claire heard him with sinking heart, but knew she couldn’t refuse. ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘She must learn to take her place in society, and if anyone can help her it will be you, I think.’

  ‘You underplay your own role, sir.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘I am not skilled with young children as some are, but I’m learning.’ He took her hand and carried it to his lips. ‘But then I have a good example to follow, do I not?’

  Claire felt her face grow hot, not only on account of the words but the warmth of the fingers pressing hers and the unmistakable expression in his eyes.

  ‘You are kind, sir.’ She made to rise. The hold on her hand tightened a fraction.

  ‘You are not leaving?’

  ‘I think I must.’

  ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘I…nothing.’

  ‘Then why are you trembling?’

  ‘I’m not trembling,’ she lied.

  ‘Are you afraid of me?’

  ‘No, sir.’ That much was true, she thought. It was not him she feared now.

  ‘Good. I would not have you so.’ He smiled. ‘Therefore will you not stay awhile?’

  Claire fought down the temptation to say yes. ‘It is late, sir.’

  For a moment she thought he would insist, but to her relief he sighed and let go of her hand. ‘Yes, I suppose you are right.’ He rose with her. For a moment or two they faced each other in silence. ‘Goodnight, then, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  Dropping a polite curtsy, Claire walked away, conscious of the grey eyes watching her retreat. Her hea
rt was thumping, her hand burning from his touch. More than anything she would have liked to remain and more than anything she knew she must not. Marcus Edenbridge was forbidden fruit and she dared not forget it.

  Chapter Eight

  The day after the soirée Claire was returning from a walk with Lucy when they met the Viscount in the hall. With him was Dr Greystoke, who was clearly on the point of departure. He looked round and, seeing Claire, smiled.

  ‘Miss Davenport, how very good to see you again.’

  ‘I am happy to see you too, sir.’

  ‘I hoped I might see you for my sister entrusted me with a message. She begs you will do her the favour of visiting next time you are free.’

  ‘I should be delighted. I am free on Friday afternoon.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll send the carriage over for you.’

  Before she could answer, Marcus interrupted. ‘There is not the least occasion to do so. Miss Davenport is welcome to have the use of one of my carriages.’

  She looked up quickly, but his expression revealed nothing. ‘Thank you, sir, if you are sure it will not be inconvenient.’

  ‘Not the least bit,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ replied Greystoke, beaming. ‘I’ll tell my sister to expect you on Friday.’

  With that he bowed and then he and his host moved away to the door. As she and Lucy continued on towards the nursery Claire reflected on the pleasure of the forthcoming visit to Ellen. It would be good to see her friend again, though she had not expected to be able to do so in such ease and style. It had been kind of Marcus to offer the carriage, though by doing so he spared the Greystokes’ coachman an additional journey. That must have been the reason, she decided.

  *

  When she returned to her room later it was to find a long, narrow box on the table beside her bed. For a moment she frowned, wondering what it was, knowing it certainly didn’t belong to her. Then she saw the note underneath. Rather apprehensively she opened it and read:

  Please accept this as a small token of my appreciation for your help in settling Lucy into her new home.

  Claire opened the box with trembling hands and then gasped to see the necklace that lay on the satin lining within. Made of silver and set with amethyst flowers, it was quite the prettiest thing she had ever seen. The stones would complement her lilac gown to a nicety. That realisation, and the implication that followed hard on its heels, brought a rush of colour to her face. Then her hand stole to her cheek in dismay. There was no possibility of her accepting this. It would be utterly wrong to do so. No single lady could accept such a gift from a man unless he was a close relative or perhaps her fiancé. To take it would be a gross breach of etiquette and, worse, would be morally compromising. She must return it at once.

  For fully five minutes she paced the floor, turning over in her mind various schemes for doing so. She could wait until she knew he was out of the house and then leave it on the desk in his study. But that would mean writing a note to go with it. How to phrase such a note, though, so that it would be firm and courteous together? Perhaps she could leave the box without a note. She sighed. That would look rude and cowardly, too. There was only one way and that was to talk to him face to face. It wasn’t a solution she greeted with enthusiasm.

  Summoning her courage, she went in search of him and was informed by Mather that His Lordship was in the study. Seeing her come in, the Viscount rose from his chair and greeted her with a smile.

  ‘Miss Davenport. What a pleasant surprise.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind, sir.’

  One arched brow lifted a little. ‘As you wish. How may I be of service?’

  Claire laid the box containing the necklace on the desk in front of him.

  ‘By taking this back.’ Drawing a deep breath, she hurried on before her courage failed her. ‘It was a most generous thought and I am grateful for it, but you must see it is absolutely impossible for me to accept this gift.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  She had half expected wrath or indignation, but this left her staring in disbelief. ‘Why?’ she echoed. ‘You know why.’

  ‘I don’t think I am obtuse, but in this instance I fail to see why at all.’ He favoured her with a quizzical look. ‘Do explain it to me.’

  ‘Well, because I…because it’s inappropriate.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t like it.’

  ‘Yes, I do like it. It’s beautiful, but…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘You must know that a lady may not receive such gifts from a gentleman.’ Claire paused, feeling the room growing hotter. ‘Particularly not from a gentleman who is also her employer.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I say so.’

  ‘But I wish you to have it, and as your employer I have the final word on the matter, I think.’

  ‘Not this time,’ she replied.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Her gaze met and held his. ‘I think you heard me perfectly well, sir.’

  ‘You know, arguing with your employer is a bad habit, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘I have no wish to argue with you.’

  ‘You are arguing now.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m telling you that I cannot accept this gift.’

  For a moment there was a tense silence as she waited for his anger. What came instead was a penetrating stare.

  ‘You suspect an ulterior motive perhaps?’

  ‘I suspect nothing, but I cannot take it.’

  ‘You have earned it.’

  ‘You pay me well enough already, sir. I do not require any additional remuneration.’

  ‘But I wish to give it.’

  She shook her head. ‘The matter is closed.’ Seeing him about to interrupt, she pre-empted him. ‘Please.’

  There was an appeal in her eyes that would not be resisted. He made a vague gesture with his hand.

  ‘Very well, since you feel so strongly about it let us say no more on the subject.’

  Feeling immeasurably relieved, Claire dropped a polite curtsy and left quickly before he could change his mind. Marcus made no attempt to stop her, merely looked thoughtfully at the box on his desk. Then he sighed.

  *

  For the next two days Claire avoided him but when they did meet he made no reference to their earlier discussion. Nor did he seem in any way displeased. It was almost as though the incident had never happened.

  *

  On Friday, the day appointed for her visit to Helmshaw, the Viscount’s barouche duly appeared at the door. She had wondered if he would forget, but it seemed his memory was good. Once again Claire was conscious of being beholden to him. At the same time she was grateful, too. As always where Marcus Edenbridge was concerned she seemed to experience contradictory feelings.

  On her arrival at the Greystokes’ house she was greeted at the door by Eliza. Seeing who it was, the maid smiled and then stared wide-eyed at the carriage standing at the gate. Recovering herself quickly, she bobbed into a respectful curtsy.

  ‘Miss Greystoke is expecting you, ma’am.’

  She showed the guest into the parlour. Ellen looked up and smiled.

  ‘Claire, I am so glad you are come.’ She looked at the maid. ‘Eliza, bring us some tea, please.’

  As the maid departed the two women sat down on the sofa.

  ‘It is so good to have you back here,’ said Ellen then, ‘if only for a short time. I have missed you very much.’

  ‘And I you.’

  ‘I suppose I should be thankful that you are only ten miles off and not a hundred. You are treated well?’

  ‘I have no cause for complaint.’

  ‘I am glad.’ She paused. ‘I confess I did feel anxious when first you took the post. It is good to know that the anxiety was unfounded.’

  Claire’s heartbeat quickened a little. ‘But why should you be concerned?’

  ‘It was because I wondered about Lord De
stermere’s motives in hiring you and on such a handsome salary.’ Ellen coloured faintly. ‘I am quite ashamed—I see now that my suspicions were unworthy.’

  Listening to this and recalling the recent past, Claire felt her own face grow pink. ‘Lord Destermere is many things, but he is not dishonourable.’

  ‘No, I truly believe he is not.’ Ellen paused. ‘It’s just that when one has seen a little of the world such thoughts inevitably occur. You are a very attractive young woman after all.’

  ‘You have no reason to be concerned, though I thank you for it all the same.’

  Her companion smiled and then changed the subject and they chatted agreeably until Eliza came in with the tea.

  ‘I am sorry that George is not here,’ said Ellen. ‘He had hoped to be, but at the last minute he had to attend a birth in Gartside.’

  ‘Your brother is an excellent physician. The people here are fortunate.’

  ‘Goodness knows there is need.’ She paused. ‘I wonder, when we have had our tea, if would you walk with me into Helmshaw? There is something I should like you to see.’

  ‘I’d be glad to come with you, but let us take the carriage. It is at our disposal after all and it will be better than keeping the horses standing too long.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  *

  Thus it was that half an hour later they embarked on the short journey to Helmshaw.

  ‘We must tell the coachman to wait in the square. The carriage will not be able to negotiate the narrow lanes.’

  Claire was puzzled now, but made no demur, trusting to her friend’s judgement. They alighted in the square and turned off it along a narrower thoroughfare. Having followed this for perhaps a hundred yards, Ellen turned off again, this time along a narrow muddy lane with mean houses on either side. Ragged children played nearby. Presently she stopped outside a door halfway down the row, and knocked. A girl of about eight opened it.