‘Who is it, Meg?’ said a voice from within.
‘Miss Greystoke, Ma.’
On hearing the name a woman looked up from the stool by the hearth. She was probably in her early thirties, but looked ten years older. In her arms she held a baby. With them were five other children, ranging in age from two to about twelve years. They eyed the newcomers with solemn-eyed curiosity.
‘Come in, Miss Greystoke,’ she said.
As they stepped over the threshold Claire saw with a sense of shock that the house had just one room. Apart from the table and two rough benches, the only other furniture was a bed in the far corner and a wooden dresser. A small fire burned in the hearth and a meagre pile of wood lay in a box nearby. The room was clean but cold, for the heat reached only a few feet beyond the hearth. The younger children were huddled together on the bed for warmth. The air smelled of damp. By the look of things the small heap of potatoes on the table was dinner for all of them.
‘Mrs Dobson, I have brought a friend today. This is Miss Davenport.’
‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Any friend of Miss Greystoke’s is welcome here.’
‘I came to see how little Sarah is doing,’ Ellen continued. ‘Is her cough improving?’
Mrs Dobson glanced down at the baby. ‘Aye, ma’am, a little, thank you.’
Her voice shook as she spoke and now that her eyes had become accustomed to the dim light Claire could see she had been crying.
‘Has something happened, Mrs Dobson?’ she asked.
To her horror the woman burst into tears. Then, clearly overcome with embarrassment, she began to apologise.
‘I’m so sorry, ma’am. It’s just that I don’t know which way to turn.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Since my Jack died things have gone from bad to worse. The landlord came for his rent yesterday. ’Tis already weeks in arrears. If we don’t pay up by the end of the month, he’ll evict us.’
Claire stared at her, appalled. ‘But where will you go? What will you do?’
‘I have no more idea of that than you do, ma’am. My oldest boys have tried to get work, but there’s none to be had.’ She glanced across the room to the two in question. ‘In the meantime there’s seven mouths to feed and the baby ill. If it hadn’t been for Miss Greystoke’s kindness, we’d have starved by now.’
‘What happened to your husband?’
‘He died the night Harlston’s loom was destroyed by the wreckers.’ She dashed away fresh tears with the sleeve of her shabby gown. ‘He’d volunteered for the work to try to earn a bit more money. They shot him through the heart.’
Listening to her story, Claire turned cold. That had been the night Marcus had been wounded. She recalled with dreadful clarity the morning she’d found him on the moors, and the wagon bringing the dead back for burial. Unbeknown to her one of those men had been Jack Dobson. The tragedy of it struck her with force.
‘I am so very sorry to hear of your loss.’ Even as she spoke, the words sounded woefully inadequate. Worse, she hadn’t even brought any money with her that day. There was no practical help she could offer.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Ellen took a small bottle from her reticule. ‘I have brought some more medicine for the baby.’ She put it on the table and, unobtrusively, a small knotted handkerchief alongside. Claire guessed that it contained coin.
‘God bless you, ma’am, for your kindness, and Dr Greystoke, too. Pray thank him for us.’
‘No thanks are necessary,’ Ellen replied.
They left shortly afterwards, retracing their steps along the lane. For a while they did not speak, each of them lost in thought. Claire was more than ever conscious that, but for fortune, she too might have been reduced to destitution and worse. She knew very well how it felt to be alone and penniless and frightened.
They reached the corner of the lane and turned into the wider thoroughfare beyond. Two men were standing by a doorway opposite, engaged in quiet conversation. One then went inside. The other turned to leave. As he did so he looked round and stopped in his tracks. Claire found herself looking straight at Jed Stone. She paled. His expression changed too and a wolfish smile played about his lips as the predatory gaze hardened. In an instant all the details of their encounter in Gartside returned with force. Sickened, she turned away, but not before Ellen had seen the look on her face. She shot a swift glance at the man opposite and then back at Claire.
‘Is anything wrong, my dear?’
‘No, nothing.’
Claire took her friend’s arm and hurried on, terrified that Stone might try to bar their way. However, he made no move in their direction at all. Rather he remained where he was, staring after them with the same lupine smile on his lips.
‘Who was that man?’ asked Ellen. ‘He seemed to know you.’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he has seen me before in town.’
‘Yes, that must be it.’
To Claire’s relief Ellen did not pursue the matter and five minutes later they reached the waiting carriage without further incident. However, as the vehicle pulled away Claire saw Stone again, this time watching them from the corner of the road that led off the square. She knew that he must have followed them and the thought made her distinctly uneasy. Then she became aware that Ellen was speaking to her.
‘I hope you will forgive me, my dear, but I must confess to an ulterior motive in taking you to meet the Dobsons today.’
Claire regarded her quizzically. ‘Motive?’
‘Yes. I was wondering…’ She hesitated. ‘I was wondering, do you think that some sort of employment might be found for them on the Netherclough estate?’
Claire stared at her in surprise for a moment but, now the words were out, it seemed an obvious solution. She wondered that she had not thought of it herself.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘but I could certainly ask.’
‘Would you?’
‘I’d be glad to.’
‘The family has a good reputation in the town. Mr Dobson was known for being a hard-working man and his wife is a good woman. I have done what I can, but it is precious little. If they do not get real help soon, I fear the worst, especially for the baby.’
Claire nodded. ‘When I return to Netherclough I shall speak to Mar…Lord Destermere at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Bless you. It would mean so much if—’ She broke off. ‘But I must not get ahead of myself here. There may be no position for them after all.’
‘They shall not be allowed to starve. Netherclough is a large estate. There must be something they could do.’
‘I hope it may be so. These times have brought so much hardship to the people hereabouts. Old Mrs Grundy told me yesterday that Sir James Wraxall has cut his workers’ wages to seven shillings a week.’
‘Seven shillings! Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. Mrs Grundy’s son works in one of Wraxall’s mills.’
‘But people could scarcely manage on eight shillings,’ Claire replied.
‘I know, but that is of no concern to men like Wraxall. He alone seems to prosper in these hard times. Only six months ago he was able to buy Beardsall’s mill when its owner went bankrupt.’
Claire was sickened. How could such a wealthy man behave with such callous unconcern for those who depended on him? Indignation rose like a tide and along with it the knowledge of her own impotence.
Ellen’s words stayed with her, even after she had taken her leave. As the carriage began the return journey, Claire was doubly determined to try and do something for the Dobsons. She was realist enough to know that she couldn’t save everybody caught up in the economic depression, but it might be possible to help one family at least.
*
Mindful of her promise to Ellen she sought an interview with her employer the very same evening. On learning from Mather that His Lordship was in the study, she presented herself at the door. The Viscount was reading through some paperwork but, on seeing her there, looked
up in surprise. Then he rose and smiled.
‘Miss Davenport, what an unexpected pleasure. Won’t you sit down?’
Claire sank into the offered chair and folded her hands in her lap to stop them trembling. Now that they were face to face it was suddenly less easy to broach the subject. The affairs of people like the Dobsons were hardly his concern. Would he consider her request the grossest piece of presumption?
‘I hope you enjoyed your visit to Miss Greystoke,’ he said.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’
Claire bit her lip, knowing she must speak and not quite knowing how to begin. The silence stretched.
‘Was there something you wished to discuss?’ he prompted.
‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. This was her chance. ‘I was wondering…well, hoping that you could offer employment to the Dobson boys.’
He raised one arched brow. ‘And who, pray, are the Dobson boys?’
‘Their father was killed when Harlston’s machines were attacked. He was one of the escort. Do you remember? The night you were shot?’
‘I could hardly forget it,’ he observed.
‘No, I suppose not. Well, the thing is that Mr Dobson’s death has meant that his family is destitute. He left a wife and six children. The oldest boys have tried to find work, but there is none to be had. If they don’t get help soon, the whole family will be evicted and left to starve.’
‘May I ask how you know all this?’
‘Ellen took me to visit the family this afternoon. Mrs Dobson is a good woman and does the best she can, but their plight is pitiful indeed. Ellen tries to help, and Dr Greystoke too with medicine for the baby, but there is only so much they can do, sir.’
‘Ah, yes. Miss Greystoke is known for her charitable works, is she not?’ He paused, regarding her keenly. ‘Is she behind this request, by any chance?’
Claire felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘She asked if I would speak to you.’
‘I see.’
‘She understands perfectly that there may be nothing for them here. Only…’
‘Only?’
‘Netherclough is such a large estate and it requires so many staff. She…we wondered if places might be found for two more. In the gardens, or the stables perhaps?’
‘I do not run a charitable institution, Miss Davenport. While I can sympathise with the plight of people like the Dobsons, I cannot change the times we live in.’
‘No, but you can help to make things a little better.’
The grey eyes met and held hers. ‘I do not need you to tell me what I can and cannot do.’
‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to be presumptuous. It’s just that I’d hoped…’
‘Hoped what?’
‘That you might at least consider it.’
‘If such aid is offered to one family, it sets a precedent for others.’
‘It could be done discreetly.’
‘Perhaps. If there was work available. As it is, Netherclough is fully staffed. I’m sorry.’
The tone expressed finality and Claire knew it was useless to pursue the matter and stupid of her to have assumed he would help. Rich men stayed rich because they didn’t give money away unless they had to. For a split second Ellen’s words about Wraxall leapt to mind and with them a surge of indignation and impotent anger. She had thought Marcus was of a different stamp. Trying to force the lid down on her temper, she rose from her chair and faced him.
‘I quite understand, sir. I’m sorry to have bothered you with this. After all, the Dobsons can always go to the workhouse.’
With that she swept out of the room, leaving Marcus staring after her in slack-jawed astonishment. A moment later he was on his feet.
‘Claire! Claire, come back here!’
The only reply was swiftly retreating footsteps. He swore softly. For a second he was sorely tempted to go after her but resisted it, knowing that if he did he might do something he’d regret. Like giving her a good shaking perhaps. Had he not treated her with consideration? And was he to be treated to such a display of scorn just because he had refused this one request? A totally unreasonable request at that?
‘Damn!’
He flung out of the chair and went to stand by the hearth, glowering down into the flames. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Certainly not a governess. Miss Davenport needed to learn her place—or lose it. That thought gave him pause. He drew in a deep breath. By rights the vixen should be given her marching orders, but he knew perfectly well he wasn’t going to dismiss her. Lucy would be upset by it. He couldn’t do that to the child, even though such a step would have the advantage of ridding him of an argumentative, troublesome little jade.
*
After she left him Claire marched straight to her room there to pace the floor, fists clenched. Her face still burned and the memory of the recent interview did nothing to cool it. He could have intervened! He was the richest man in the county! With a shaking hand she dashed away the tears that started in her eyes. She had expected so much more than a flat refusal to help.
For some minutes she paced, until her anger cooled a little. Moving to the window, she stared out at the beautiful gardens and rolling parkland beyond. How was it that some people had so much and others so little? And should not the rich help the poor when they could? She did not grudge the wealthy their good fortune. There had always been social inequality and always would be, but what about fair treatment? The labourer was worthy of his hire. How could men like Wraxall justify paying seven shillings a week and causing families to starve? How could honest employment be withheld by those who had the power to give it?
Claire sighed and sat down disconsolately on the edge of her bed. Gradually as her anger cooled it gave way to more rational thought. She should have realised that the Viscount would be more likely to refuse than to accede to her request. A house like Netherclough was always properly staffed. It ran like a well-oiled machine. It occurred to her then that most of its employees were drawn from the local area. Indeed, its owner was a key employer in his way. And he paid fair wages. The admission brought her back to earth with a jolt.
Claire knew then that she had absolutely no right to criticise or to tell him what he ought to do. Had he not shown her kindness up to now? Recalling the attentions she had received, she began to feel guilty. Mingled with it was shame for losing her temper. She had spoken to him as she might have done to an intimate. Yet this man was among the foremost in the land. Not only that, he was her employer, the being who held her fate in his hands. The realisation of the true extent of her folly acted like a bucket of cold water. How could she have been so stupid? He had made it clear at the outset that continued employment was dependent on satisfactory completion of the probationary period. The latter still had well over a month left to run. Instead of getting on with her job she had allowed her feelings to run away with her and behaved like an idiot. If he gave her notice to quit, it would be no more than she deserved. Truly appalled now, she knew that she owed him an apology—and soon.
For a while she deliberated. Should she go now or wait, hoping his anger might have cooled by the morrow? But then she had her duties to perform and likely would not see the Viscount at all. She certainly couldn’t imagine him visiting the nursery and even if he did it was not the right place to say what needed to be said. No, it must be now. Pausing only to bathe her face and tidy her appearance, she retraced her steps to the study and knocked on the door.
‘Come!’
Claire swallowed hard and, summoning all her courage, went in.
At first he didn’t look up from the desk, seemingly absorbed in the papers before him. She had leisure to observe the sharp crease between his brows. Heart thumping, she took a tentative pace forward and stopped again. Then he did look up. For just a split second the grey eyes registered surprise. Then it was gone. She could detect no sign of outward anger, but the steely expression was infinitely worse.
‘Well?’
It was hardly a promising beginning, but she knew there was no possibility of leaving before she had atoned for her behaviour. As he waited, Marcus knew a moment of intense and gloating satisfaction. So she had thought better of it, had she? As well she might. He leaned back in his chair, relishing the moment.
‘I wish to apologise, sir, for what I said earlier. It was quite uncalled for and unpardonably rude.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I beg your pardon.’
For the second time he knew surprise, though now his expression gave no hint of it. He could not mistake the note of sincerity in her words either. Indeed, she looked abject. The hazel eyes met his in mute appeal. As they did so every vestige of his former satisfaction vanished and was replaced with quite a different feeling.
Mistaking his silence, Claire felt sick inside. She had failed. He had not forgiven her. His anger was still very much alive. And why would it not be? She made a vague, despairing gesture with her hand.
‘That’s all I came to say, sir.’
With that she turned away and walked towards the door. She never reached it for Marcus was out of his chair and across the room in three strides. Seizing her by the wrist, he pulled her round to face him. For just one second, grey eyes burned into hazel before he drew her close and brought his mouth down hard across hers in a searing kiss. He felt her tense and try to resist him. It availed her nothing. His mouth demanded her response, to acknowledge what was in her heart. Crushed in that powerful embrace, Claire felt her blood race, every part of her alive to the touch and taste and scent of him. Unable to escape, or to ignore the sudden igniting of that inner fire, she abandoned herself to his kiss.
When at last he drew back a little and looked into her eyes, it was to see an answering recognition and his heart leapt.
‘I suppose it’s my turn to apologise now,’ he said, ‘but for the life of me I cannot. I’ve wanted to do that for weeks.’
She shut her eyes as the enormity of the situation dawned. He shook her gently.
‘Look at me, Claire.’
Unable to resist the appeal in his voice, she obeyed.
The Wayward Governess Page 13