by Diane Gaston
She wrested some control, finally lifting her head and taking deep breaths.
Without speaking, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her tear-soaked face.
The handkerchief was still warm from his body.
‘Thank you.’ She took another deep breath and started to return the now soaked handkerchief. She pulled it back, laughing drily. ‘I—I will have it laundered.’
What a silly thing to say. She had no means of getting it laundered. She had no money. No clothes. Nothing.
She, of course, could identify herself. Send word to London of her predicament. To Lord Stonecroft. Who else was there to help her in London? But why would she want to ask for his help when she wanted to escape him? Being his brood mare seemed even worse than drowning.
Lord Brookmore sat back in his chair again, his face averted.
She should tell him she wasn’t Claire Tilson, that she saw Claire washed overboard.
Oh, why had Claire drowned and not her? Claire had independence. She had work for which she earned her own money and she also had the hope of finding a man to love her some day. Claire would have fared so much better than Rebecca, who had nothing to look forward to but a prison of a marriage. Why could fate not have let them trade places in death as easily as they’d worn each other’s clothes?
She stole another glance at Lord Brookmore and her heart quickened.
He thought she was Claire. Perhaps she was the only one who knew she was really Lady Rebecca Pierce, doomed to marry Lord Stonecroft.
She could not die in the watery depths instead of Claire. She’d have been willing to do so. But she could trade places with Claire now. She could live Claire’s life for her.
Escape her own life.
Lord Stonecroft would not mourn her; he’d merely be annoyed that he must search for another brood mare to marry. Her brother would not mourn her. He’d get to keep her dowry. She could not sacrifice her life instead of Claire’s, but she could become Claire.
Guilt pricked at her. She’d be deceiving this very handsome man. What a way to repay his kindness.
He did need a governess, though, did he not? She could be a governess. How hard could that be? It would help him, would it not?
‘I—I had a fever, I think,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember much except—’ Except plunging into churning, cold water and thinking she would die. ‘Except the wreck.’
His eyes fixed on her again. ‘I know nothing more than you were saved and you were ill.’
‘Am I still to be your nieces’ governess?’ Will he accept her as Claire? she meant.
‘If you feel up to the task, yes.’ His voice was stiff and formal and so deep she felt the timbre of it as well as hearing it. ‘If you need a long recuperation—’
‘I am well enough.’ She sat up straighter as if to prove it. ‘I am quite recuperated.’
‘Good.’ He stood. ‘I will send for the maid and some food, if you are hungry.’
She didn’t really know if she was hungry, but the mention of food made her stomach growl. ‘Thank you, sir.’
He nodded. ‘We can travel to Brookmore House as early as tomorrow, if you are able.’
Better to leave soon, although, out of ten other survivors, who was likely to know she was not Claire? Someone must have already identified her as such. ‘I will be ready for travel tomorrow. I am certain.’
He nodded. ‘Very good. Anything you need, Miss Tilson, just ask for it. I will see that it is provided to you.’
She glanced down at herself. She needed everything! Lady Rebecca would not hesitate to enumerate each necessary item, but she could not imagine Claire doing so.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she murmured instead.
‘I will take my leave, then.’ He inclined his head. ‘Miss Tilson.’
‘My lord,’ she responded.
After he walked out the door she threw off the covers and climbed out of bed, suddenly restless. The wood floor was cold beneath her bare feet and her legs were weak. She made her way to the window and looked down upon a village street, its whitewashed buildings glowing in the waning light of early evening. Wagons and carriages rumbled by and villagers hurried here and there as if this day was like any other.
Her days would never be the same, though. A frisson of trepidation rushed up her spine. She was about to become a whole new person.
She rubbed her arms and smelled the faint scent of the sea on her skin. She did not want to smell the sea! She wanted to banish the memory of plunging into the water where so many others died.
There was a rap at the door and a maid entered, carrying a tray. The scent of stew and cheese and ale seemed to affirm her choice of life. A new life.
‘Oh, you are up, miss,’ the maid said. ‘Are you feeling better? The gentleman gave me some coins and said to bring you food and whatever you need.’
Rebecca seated herself at a chair next to a small table. ‘I am much better. I am afraid I was too feverish—what is your name?’
‘I’m Betty, miss.’ The maid put the tray of food on the table. ‘What else might I bring you?’
Dare she ask? She did dare, because she needed to feel renewed. ‘I would love a bath, Betty.’
The maid smiled. ‘A bath you shall have then, miss.’
‘And I will need some clothes.’
* * *
By the next morning, Rebecca was not only clean and well fed, but also clothed.
The maid, Betty, brought her undergarments and a dress. ‘His lordship said to find you clothes and so I did,’ she’d said. ‘The ones you wore before were ruined.’
Claire’s clothes.
Betty helped her into the simple shift, a corset that fit tolerably well and a plain dress, not unlike the one Betty herself wore. The stockings looked newly purchased and the shoes, well-worn half-boots, were only slightly too big. Included in the bundle of clothes had been a new brush and comb, as well as a set of hairpins. Betty helped pull her hair back, as Claire had done.
Rebecca looked at herself in the mirror, but in her reflection she could only see Claire Tilson. Her eyes again filled with tears.
She blinked them away.
‘I’ll tell his lordship you are dressed,’ Betty said, hurriedly making up the bed. The maid left and a moment later Lord Brookmore entered.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Rebecca remembered to curtsy deferentially. This was her employer, after all. His presence made her a bit breathless, but that must be only nerves. She was lying to him, after all. It was not because he was very tall and very masculine.
‘Miss Tilson.’ He nodded. He handed her a bundle wrapped in paper. ‘I took the liberty of purchasing items you will no doubt need on the journey to Brookmore.’
She untied the string around the bundle and unfolded the paper to reveal a paisley shawl, a silk bonnet and lavender kid gloves.
‘These are lovely,’ she whispered. Every bit as fine as she’d once owned.
He nodded in response. ‘How are you today? We need not travel if you are not sufficiently recovered.’
‘I am well!’ she assured him. She was eager to start her new life.
Claire’s life.
She looked up from the items. ‘Thank you for these. Thank you for the clothing, as well.’
He shrugged. ‘You needed something to wear.’
Everything that had belonged to Rebecca Pierce was gone.
He stood just inside the door. Her impulse was to invite him to sit, to order tea, just as she might have done at home in Ireland. How foolish! She had no means to order tea and did a governess even invite a viscount to be seated?
It would take a little work to rid herself of Lady Rebecca.
He looked uncertain, his blue eyes finding hers only fleetingly. ‘I will arrange for a carriage, then. If you are
certain you are ready.’
‘Quite ready,’ she replied.
She crossed the room to retrieve his handkerchief, which she had washed with the soap and water provided for her and dried in front of the fire. It was not pressed, but this had been the best she could do with no means to hire someone for the task.
She handed the handkerchief to him. ‘It is clean, sir.’
As he reached for it, his gaze lingered on her. Their fingers brushed and she felt a flush warm her skin. She stepped back.
He cleared his throat. ‘I will see to the carriage.’
He turned and left.
Chapter Three
The carriage Lord Brookmore arranged was a small two-horse landaulet with two coachmen on the box. It was comfortable enough, but if she’d had to share it with the Viscount, it would have seated them so close their bodies would have touched. Luckily he rode on horseback, so she did not have to face being in such intimate quarters with him. Unfortunately it also meant she had no company at all.
For half the day, the road skirted the sea whose sight and scent made it impossible to forget the terror and loss she’d endured from its violence. There was nothing to divert her thoughts away from those memories. With every glimpse of waves outside her window, she relived the shipwreck.
She tried to look away, out the window that did not face the sea. Occasionally Lord Brookmore rode next to the carriage and asked her how she fared. She always replied that she did very well. The truth could not be easily explained. Other than that, she was silent, even saying little during their brief contacts when they stopped only long enough to change horses and procure food which she ate in the coach.
Eventually the sea disappeared from view, replaced by farms and fields and small villages. Rebecca’s nostrils filled with the odour of growing things. Of life instead of watery death, but still, being alone, her thoughts drifted back to the sea.
Lord Brookmore, who looked even more imposing on horseback, again appeared beside the carriage. ‘We are nearing Chester. We will spend the night there.’
* * *
At the inn in Chester, Garret dismounted and handed his horse off to the waiting ostler. The carriage pulled in behind him and one of the coachmen jumped down to help Miss Tilson descend the steps. Garret stood nearby, his valise in hand.
Miss Tilson carried only a small bag with those few items he had purchased for her.
In the waning sun, she looked even paler than when they’d started the journey. He’d suspected then that she was not recovered enough. Now he kicked himself for not insisting she rest in Moelfre at least one more day. He’d been impatient to return to Brookmore House, though, eager to see her settled and his nieces comfortable, and matters set to rights. Brookmore House still felt like his brother’s house, not his, even though he’d grown up there. Of course, when he’d been a child he’d been constantly reminded that his brother was the heir, the eventual owner of the estate.
He needed to return to London, although he was not as eager as he ought to be. He’d been swept up in events in London. It had been like watching another person negotiating that society and its expectations. Not him. Not at all him.
But it had been what he must do. Colleagues of his brother and father guided him through the ceremony, customs and politics of the House of Lords and of what was expected of a viscount there.
He needed to secure the inheritance, they’d insisted. His family would lose everything to some distant relation if he did not beget an heir. He’d seen the logic in that and so had done his duty. Attended the marriage mart. Became betrothed.
Lady Agnes was the perfect choice, his advisors assured him. He agreed. She was the daughter of the Earl of Trowbridge. She was polished, pleasant, accomplished and beautiful. She’d be the perfect hostess. There was absolutely nothing to object to in Lady Agnes.
Except Miss Tilson pulled more emotion from him than Lady Agnes ever had.
He stepped towards the governess and reached for her small bag. ‘You look fatigued. I will arrange a room for you and have a meal sent up to you.’
She gave him a stricken look that he did not understand, but he took her bag and she fell in step with him to the door of the inn.
When they entered the hall, the innkeeper’s eyes darted between them. ‘Welcome. A room for you, sir?’ His tone was uncertain.
‘Two rooms,’ Garret replied. ‘The lady will require a maid and a meal in her room.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The innkeeper bowed.
‘No!’ Miss Tilson broke in, her voice sharp. She immediately modified it. ‘No, please. I would prefer to eat my meal in the tavern.’
The innkeeper’s brows rose, as did Garret’s. She wished to expose herself in a public tavern? What sort of governess was she?
Garret frowned. ‘As you wish.’
The innkeeper cleared his throat. ‘Let me show you to your rooms.’
Garret followed behind the man and Miss Tilson as he led them up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway.
‘These two.’ The innkeeper gestured to two rooms across the hallway from each other. He opened each of the rooms and handed them their keys. ‘Shall I send a maid up now, ma’am?’ he asked Miss Tilson.
‘Not now,’ she replied. ‘Later. Perhaps nine or ten?’
‘Very good, ma’am.’ He bowed and left.
Garret placed his valise inside his room and his hat and gloves on a table, but he did not move from the doorway.
Neither did Miss Tilson.
She lifted her chin. ‘Lord Brookmore, I am of a mind you disapprove of my not eating in my room. If you wish it, I will do so.’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘A public room can be a rowdy place, Miss Tilson. Not suitable for an unaccompanied woman.’ Not suitable for his nieces’ governess, he meant.
She lowered her gaze. ‘I did not think of that. I thought only to have people around me. To not be alone.’ Her voice cracked on her last word.
His insides twisted at her emotion.
She raised her eyes again. ‘When I am alone, the shipwreck comes back to me.’
The shipwreck. Of course she would be reliving the shipwreck. Before yesterday she’d been too feverish to become accustomed to the memories.
‘Would you accompany me to the tavern, then?’ she asked. ‘I would not require you to make conversation. Simply being among people—even rowdy people—would—would—distract me.’
How often after a battle did he seek the companionship of his fellow officers? To be alone with one’s thoughts simply repeated the agony. Companionship, drink and carousing kept memories at bay. He ought to have realised this young woman would feel such a need, as well.
Truth be told, he was trying not to think of her that deeply.
Her lips thinned. ‘Forgive me. It was wrong of me to ask.’ She turned to enter her room. ‘Have my dinner sent up. That will suffice.’
He crossed the hallway and seized her arm, dropping it as soon as she turned back, looking alarmed.
He straightened. ‘If you do not wish to dine alone, I will not compel you to do so. I will request a private dining room and you will be my guest.’
Her expression relaxed into a relieved smile. ‘Oh, thank you, my lord.’
He closed his door. ‘I will arrange it immediately.’
She touched his arm this time. ‘May I go with you?’
Her need for company was that strong? He nodded. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘allow me a few minutes to rid myself of the dust of the road and we can seek a meal right away.’
Her smile grew. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
He washed his face and hands and brushed off his clothes. A glance in the mirror made him rub his chin, debating whether to take the time to shave. He decided against it. This was not a London drawing room and Miss Tilson was eager to be fre
e of her solitude.
When he opened his door, she awaited him in the hallway. They walked together down the stairs through the hall to the tavern room.
The tavern room was everything Garret feared it would be. Loud voices, talking, laughing mingled with the clatter of dishes, tankards and cutlery. The air reeked of hops, cooked meat and male sweat. Men of all classes gulped from tankards of ale. Some enjoyed the company of the few women who shared booths with them. Serving girls threaded their way through the crowd.
Garret sought out the publican. ‘We seek a private dining room,’ he yelled over the din of the crowd.
The man’s bald pate gleamed with perspiration. His white apron covered a swelled girth. ‘This way, sir!’
Garret held Miss Tilson’s arm as he followed the publican through the room. Men definitely glanced her way, their expressions curious, appreciative or licentious. He pulled her a little closer, feeling protective. Had he ever felt protective of Agnes?
Unfair comparison. He’d never walked Lady Agnes through a rowdy tavern and he could not imagine ever doing so.
Miss Tilson trembled beneath his touch.
He released her as soon as they reached the private room, hoping she had not thought his actions too forward. He’d felt protective. Nothing more.
The private dining room was simply furnished with a table, four chairs and a sideboard. There was a window with brown curtains and a small fireplace with a few pieces of coal glowing on the grate. The walls were bare.
‘What drink do you desire?’ the publican asked as he lit two lamps from a taper. ‘I’ll have the serving girl bring them directly.’
‘Ale for me,’ Garret said. Not a drink for a viscount, but he was parched. ‘Miss Tilson?’
She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Claret?’
He turned to the publican. ‘A decanter of claret for the lady.’
The man rubbed his hands. ‘And food? We have char fish and a mutton stew and pigeon...’
‘Not fish!’ Miss Tilson cried.
The publican eyed her with a surprised look.