The Wayward Governess

by Joanna Fulford

  ‘Is your headache better?’ he asked.

  The tone suggested concern and it took her aback. ‘A little better, thank you.’ She paused. ‘I hope you and Lucy enjoyed your ride.’

  ‘Indeed. We missed you.’

  Claire felt her throat tighten. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t make yourself uneasy about it.’

  ‘Is Lucy gone to her room?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Then I must go and find her. Please excuse me.’

  With that she hurried away. Marcus remained quite still, staring after her, wanting to call her back and yet not knowing how.

  *

  Having seen Lucy safe in bed that evening, Claire returned to her room and began drafting out her letters of application for the new governess posts. Now that the decision was made she must expedite it with all speed. However, the words would not flow and it took half a dozen attempts before she had produced something satisfactory. Then she made two fair copies. When they were done she folded and sealed them and wrote out the directions. Finally she took them down to the hallway and placed them on the table, for collection by the footman next day. They would be despatched first thing in the morning.

  In many ways it was a relief to have taken some action. If a reference was required, then there was a good chance of her getting one of those posts. She trusted Marcus to write what was fair. In any case it was to his advantage to do so. She glanced once at the study door, but it was firmly closed. With a sigh she made her way back to her room, thinking that an early night would not come amiss.

  *

  Needing something to take his mind off present domestic concerns, Marcus took himself off to the library in order to finalise his plans for the capture and arrest of the Luddites. He remained ensconced there for much of the evening, going over the details of the scheme until he was sure that every aspect had been covered. A week from now the trap would be set and, with any luck, well and truly sprung. Then the wrecker crew would be brought to justice for their crimes.

  It was late when eventually he left. Retracing his steps, he came at length to the gallery and paused there awhile, looking up at the portrait of his brother. It was a good likeness, he thought, capturing the lithe elegance and the handsome features very well. What it didn’t show was the quick mind behind those watchful grey eyes. For a moment he met and held his brother’s gaze and in his imagination he heard Greville’s voice.

  ‘Don’t let me down, Bro.’

  Marcus’s jaw tightened and he drew in a deep breath, mentally repeating the vow he had made months before. Come what might, he wouldn’t fail. With a last glance at the portrait he walked away. A few minutes later he reached the hallway and was heading for the study to collect some papers when he noticed the letters on the table. For a moment their significance didn’t register, but a closer inspection revealed that they were addressed to some unknown people in London. His brows twitched together as he recognised the elegant handwriting. For a moment he was quite still. Then, as their significance sank in, he felt a sudden cold chill. Turning away abruptly, he strode to the study, closing the door behind him.

  *

  When Claire came down next day the letters were gone. The matter was out of her hands. Breathing a sigh of relief, she made her way to the nursery. She and Lucy spent a productive morning on reading and basic arithmetic and then, the day being fine, they went out for a walk in the afternoon. When they returned it was to see two carriages waiting at the front door. Lucy eyed them with curiosity.

  ‘Visitors, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘For your uncle, I imagine,’ Claire replied.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something to do with business perhaps.’

  A few moments later she saw John Harlston emerge from the house. She recognised him from the ball. A few paces behind was Sir Alan Weatherby. They didn’t notice her or Lucy because they were still some distance off, but instead climbed straight into the waiting coaches and drove away. Watching them depart, Claire found herself wondering at the nature of the visit. She knew his friendship with Weatherby went back years, but Harlston was a different matter. The connection there went back to the time when Marcus had been living under another name, when he had ridden escort on the wagon bringing the new power loom. It brought back unpleasant and frightening memories. She knew instinctively that this visit was related to those events.

  Marcus had told her himself that he was devising a trap for the wreckers. He would enlist the help of men like Weatherby and Harlston, and no doubt the local militia. Major Barstow’s face flitted into her mind. He too would have a role to play if the plan went ahead. And if it did, what then? Would more men die before it was over? Would Marcus be among them? She glanced down at the child beside her and shivered inwardly.

  *

  She and Lucy had taken their afternoon tea by the fire when the footman entered.

  ‘A letter for you, ma’am.’

  It was from Ellen and, from the appearance of the scrawled hand, had evidently been written in haste. Claire broke the wafer and opened it.

  My Dearest Claire,

  Be on your guard. Your uncle has arrived in Helmshaw. He came to the house this morning. You need have no fear that George or I have told him anything. Neither will the servants betray your whereabouts. However, I have since learned from some acquaintances that your uncle has been asking questions in the town. Have a care, I beg you.

  Your affectionate friend,

  Ellen

  Claire’s stomach lurched and for several heartbeats she experienced a sensation akin to panic as her uncle’s unforgiving countenance imposed itself on her consciousness. She had always known him to be firm of purpose. When no trace of her had been found at the coaching inns on the London road he must have begun to consider other possibilities. Her aunt must have kept Ellen’s letters, or at least remembered the address. They must have put two and two together.

  Forcing herself to think calmly, Claire studied the note again. Her friend would not betray her. Her uncle had no acquaintance in Yorkshire so far as she was aware and it was highly unlikely he would meet any of Viscount Destermere’s circle. Netherclough Hall was the last place he would think of looking.

  She was so preoccupied with these thoughts that she failed to hear the door open. Only Lucy’s exclamation of delight alerted her to Marcus’s presence. Claire returned to the present with a start and hastily refolded the note, shoving it into her pocket. Then she rose to face him. For a moment the hawk-like gaze surveyed her keenly, but with an effort of will she met it, hoping that her demeanour revealed nothing of her inner anxiety.

  In fact, very little escaped him where she was concerned and certainly not the ashen colour of her face when he had first entered. She had started, too, as though she had seen a ghost. When he looked into her face he could see the anguish there. It hit him hard for he knew that, in part, he had been the cause of it. The days since the ball had taken a heavy toll on both of them, for he was not immune, either, to the effects of their sudden estrangement. He had tried so hard to hold aloof, to busy himself with work or social calls, but even then he found himself thinking of her, listening for the sound of her step or her voice. In spite of his best efforts he had missed her. He missed their conversations, missed her acute observations, her laughter. He had driven her away because a better man had won her affections. All at once he was sickened by self-contempt.

  To cover his feelings he bent down and engaged Lucy in conversation for a while. He listened to her childish prattle as she showed him the work she had been doing and read to him from her primer. Once again he was conscious of how far she had come in a relatively short time, and knew it was due to Claire. His conscience prodded him again. How was he ever going to explain her departure? Lucy would be heartbroken. And it was all so unnecessary. If it hadn’t been for his accursed temper it wouldn’t have happened. Calling himself all kinds of fool, he knew he must try to put things right as
far as possible. That meant making his peace with Major Barstow and with Claire and wishing them well.

  His plans for dealing with the wreckers had thus far involved close liaison with Weatherby and Harlston. However, as commander of the militia, Barstow was an important figure in the scheme, an irony that didn’t escape Marcus. Knowing he couldn’t put the moment off any longer without detriment to his plans and wanting to try to smooth things over anyway, at least as far as possible, the Viscount had requested the Major to dine with him and the others that evening.

  *

  To the Major’s credit he showed no signs of resentment or ill will over what had happened at the ball. He kept up his part in the conversation at dinner and, when the meal was concluded and they settled down to discuss business, readily agreed to do all he could to assist in the apprehension of the Luddite group.

  ‘My men are at your disposal, sir. The sooner these murdering brutes are caught the better.’

  Marcus, already ashamed of his previous behaviour, began to feel distinctly guilty. He knew he owed Barstow an apology and was determined to offer it. His opportunity did not arise until his guests were on the point of departure. Having bidden Weatherby and Harlston a goodnight, he detained Barstow in the hall.

  ‘Would you be so kind as to give me five more minutes of your time, Major?’

  There was a fractional hesitation, but then Barstow inclined his head in acquiescence, following his host into a nearby salon. For a moment or two they faced each other in silence. Then Marcus took the initiative.

  ‘I would like to thank you for your help in this current undertaking, Major.’ He paused. ‘And to apologise to you for my former rudeness.’

  ‘I assure you that I have no recollection of it, sir,’ replied the other.

  ‘You are generous. More so than I deserve.’

  Barstow regarded him with a speculative eye. ‘Is it possible that Your Lordship has formed a mistaken impression?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It is a delicate matter because it concerns a lady. One for whom I have the highest regard.’ He paused. ‘May I speak frankly?’

  The Viscount held down his resentment. ‘Very well.’

  The Major favoured him with a short and unvarnished account of what had happened on the evening of the Netherclough ball. Marcus, listening, might have been turned to stone. Inwardly his heart was thumping. The account tallied in every respect with Claire’s. There was no indication at all that the speaker held her in anything other than esteem. He had merely done what any gentleman would have done under the circumstances. Furthermore, there was a soldierly directness about Barstow that Marcus recognised and respected, and he knew the words for truth. As the implications hit him he felt his heart leap.

  ‘Then you’re not courting Miss Davenport? She doesn’t…’

  ‘My lord, I would be the happiest of men if Miss Davenport ever deigned to look my way. Unfortunately, she has not done so and, I fear, never will.’ He looked Marcus straight in the eye. ‘I believe her affections are engaged elsewhere.’

  With that he bowed and took his leave, though in truth his host was hardly aware of his going. All Marcus’s consciousness was drawn inwards to the dawning understanding and magnitude of his own folly. When he thought of the accusations he had flung at Claire, not to mention his subsequent behaviour, he was appalled. She had told him the truth and he, in a fit of jealous pride, had refused to listen. Her words returned to haunt him: Why are you so determined to believe the worst of me? He could not forget the look of hurt in her eyes. She had asked for his trust and he had refused to give it. His fists clenched. No wonder she wanted to leave.

  Come what may, he knew he couldn’t let her go, that she had become as necessary to him as the air he breathed. He had known it since the day she had given her notice. Remembering the letters on the hall table, he knew she meant it. The thought filled him with despair. London be damned, he thought. She belonged here, with him. The question was how to make her see that. Would she hear him? Could she ever forgive him? After what had passed between them he was going to need all his powers of persuasion.

  *

  Claire was surprised the next day when a footman delivered a politely worded request to attend her employer in the library that afternoon. Surprise was followed swiftly by misgiving. What now? There was no way of refusing the summons either, as she was at first inclined to do. Then she reflected that it must be important if he felt the need to call her away from her duties. Leaving Lucy with a maidservant, she set off for the library.

  He was already there when she arrived and for a moment or two was unaware of her presence. He was leaning upon the mantel above the hearth, one booted foot resting casually upon the fender as he stared down into the fire. Her heart began to beat a little faster. Very deliberately she closed the door.

  Hearing the sound, he came out of his reverie and looked up. When he saw her there, his gaze brightened.

  ‘Come in…please.’

  He watched her cross the room to join him and asked her to sit down.

  Claire took the offered chair and waited. He seemed different today, somehow. The former aloofness in his manner was entirely absent. It had been replaced by a very different expression that was much harder to interpret. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said it contained a hint of awkwardness.

  ‘I asked you to come here in the hope of ending the estrangement that has lately existed between us,’ he said.

  She looked up in surprise, but said nothing.

  ‘You may be aware that several guests came to dine here yesterday,’ he continued. ‘One of them was Major Barstow.’ He saw her cool, quizzical look and hurried on. ‘Before he left he favoured me with an account of what happened on the night of the ball. I realise now that I placed entirely the wrong construction on what I saw.’

  ‘I told you that.’

  ‘Yes, I know and I’m sorry for doubting you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I apologise, Claire.’

  Her fists clenched in her lap and for a long moment she was silent. Then she rose stiffly to face him. ‘Thank you, sir. And now if you’ll excuse me I must return to my duties.’

  He regarded her in disbelief. ‘Is this all I am to expect?’

  ‘What else would you like me to say, Marcus?’ The hazel eyes burned with contained fire. ‘You have insulted me, you have doubted my word, and you have told me in the plainest terms that I am not to be trusted. Only when you heard the truth from another man were you prepared to believe it. Only then did it occur to you that you might have been wrong. Why would you not believe me?’

  His cheeks, warm before, paled a little as the force of the accusation struck him. ‘Claire, I’m sorry. I should have believed you, I know that now.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But I was so jealous that I could scarcely think at all. When I saw you in Barstow’s arms, I thought that you and he…well, you know what I thought.’

  She stared at him, incredulous. ‘Jealous? Of Major Barstow?’

  ‘Yes. I thought that he had succeeded in winning your affections.’

  ‘I had never even met him before!’

  He sighed. ‘How long does it take to know your own heart? It was not until I saw his arms about you that I woke up to the true nature of my own feelings.’ His eyes met hers in anguished appeal. ‘I love you, Claire. It has been growing so gradually that I was hardly aware of it.’

  ‘Love? Is that what you call it?’ She rounded on him, fury apparent in every line of her body. ‘When you believed in my guilt, as you were so ready to do, you could not wait to be rid of me. You positively encouraged my departure. Your only concern was to wonder what you were going to say to Lucy.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that, I swear it. I never wanted you to go.’

  ‘You gave a good impression of it, though.’

  ‘A mistaken impression. I need you here.’

  ‘Why?’ she retorted. ‘Has it just occurred to you that my departure might be inconvenient?’
r />   ‘Inconvenient! Is that what you think?’

  ‘Yes. After all, there is Lucy to consider.’

  ‘Lucy needs you, it is true, but I need you, too.’

  ‘Why, Marcus?’

  ‘Because you have become so much a part of things that I cannot imagine what life would be like without you.’ He paused, watching her closely. ‘Did it not occur to you that I might want you to stay for yourself?’

  ‘I could hardly be expected to believe that, could I?’

  He sighed. ‘I can understand why you might not.’

  She turned away from him, trying to conquer the emotion that swept through her.

  ‘Stay here,’ he continued. ‘Let me protect you. It isn’t safe for you to leave.’

  The knowledge of her vulnerability was borne upon him even more strongly. Having a good deal more experience of the world than she, he was appalled to think of what might happen if she left Netherclough. She would be easy prey for the unscrupulous, never mind the ever-present threat of her uncle.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to remain, Mar-cus.’

  His heart gave an unpleasant lurch. ‘There’s no other serious possibility. Surely you see that?’

  ‘London is a big place. One could be anonymous there, I think.’

  ‘I could force you to stay, Claire. I would too if I thought for one minute it would do any good.’

  That brought her round in an instant. ‘You cannot keep me here.’

  He regarded her steadily. ‘There are a dozen ways I could do it. Netherclough is remote and I am the law here.’

  Her colour fluctuated delightfully. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

  Even as she spoke she wasn’t sure that was true.

  ‘Oh, I’d dare, believe me, but what would be the use?’

  ‘No use at all,’ she replied.

  ‘Exactly. I know you too well. Besides, I want you to stay out of choice, not compulsion.’