In truth, Sir Nicholas was at the heart of her own transformation. It was, she knew, only a foolish thing and really she ought to be ashamed of herself for being so superficial, but she had come to enjoy the admiration in Sir Nicholas’s expression when she descended for dinner some nights. She had taken to dressing with care and allowing one of the housemaids to cut and dress her hair. Last night at bedtime she had even tied her hair up in rags to ensure good curls, as her mama had used to do for her.
Thankfully, her wardrobe was nothing to be ashamed of; Papa had ensured she was able to hold her head high among the other young ladies in the Academy by sending her to a good dressmaker before she went away to school. Back then, it had been a frustrating waste of time away from her books. Now, she could only be grateful. Even her lack of a riding habit had turned out well, in an unexpected—yet delightful—way.
Tonight she was wearing an elegant evening gown of pale blue satin, trimmed along the front and the sleeves with white velvet, and worn with long white evening gloves. A matching white velvet bandeau was twined through her dark hair and she tweaked it slightly to ensure it was placed symmetrically. Had she imagined the particularly appreciative look in Sir Nicholas’s eye when she had worn this dress last week at dinner?
‘Vanity, vanity,’ she murmured, checking her appearance in the cheval mirror. She could not find much to criticise, nor yet much to praise. She was reasonably attractive, she supposed, her dark curls and neat figure being nothing out of the ordinary. She had learned to discount compliments about her blue eyes, believing herself to be nothing out of the common way. Yet, tonight, she was forced to concede that perhaps there was something agreeable about their deep blue gaze. She shivered, remembering the look in his eyes earlier, then smiled mischievously at her reflection.
‘I am becoming frivolous!’ she declared. ‘And conceited!’ Yet nothing could quell the slight skip of her heart as she descended to the salon to await the call for dinner. This—sitting near him, conversing with him—was becoming the best part of her day.
It would pass, of course, this little tendre. She had read about it many times and understood that it was a common fancy, particularly among young ladies. It was an interesting experience, she told herself, and one which intrigued her on a purely rational level. How her body responded to his proximity. How her perception of him was changed by her own feelings. How her thoughts tended to dwell on him in quiet moments...
It is a useful amusement, she told herself, nothing more.
She must not add meaning where there was none. Perhaps the fact that this had happened now, when her heart was sick with worry for Papa, was no bad thing. She, like her father, had to survive these days and weeks until the day when Papa would protest his innocence before the magistrate. If her thoughts were to dwell endlessly on poor Papa, she could go quite mad. So she spent much of her days immersing herself in activity, that she might not have time to think about him, slumped eternally on that hard bed in a cold, cold cell.
Nights were more difficult. She was finding it increasingly difficult to sleep, and often woke early, nameless fears clutching at her heart. Now, a wave of terror washed through her briefly, and she shuddered, closing her eyes. Papa!
I can be strong, she told herself.
Opening her eyes, she gazed again at her reflection, this time seeing only resolute determination. She squared her shoulders and went downstairs.
* * *
Dinner had been put back because of the ladies’ excursion, so when they met in the salon, awaiting the dinner gong, they all were able to exclaim how famished they were and how ready they were to enjoy their evening meal. Miss Cushing looked pale with tiredness and Mary felt a pang of compassion for her. She was quite elderly, Mary reminded herself, and the lack of confidence the governess displayed in her position was probably due, at least in part, to her advancing years and the worry that Mrs Fenhurst would one day no longer need her.
So it was with tolerance that Mary replied to Miss Cushing’s sharp questions about the children’s behaviour today. They had been, Mary assured her, well-behaved, and had worked hard at the tasks they had been set. Before she was forced to reveal the sylvan nature of the children’s lessons, Mary attempted to divert Miss Cushing by asking if the carriage journey had not been too tiring for her.
‘Oh, well, these old bones do not like to be jolted along,’ Miss Cushing offered, before a look of alarm flashed briefly in her eyes, causing her to add, ‘although of course I am fit to carry out my duties at my dear employer’s side!’
‘I can see that she values your wisdom and companionship,’ Mary replied warmly.
Poor Miss Cushing!
An uncertain look flitted across the woman’s face. ‘Do you?’
Mary eyed her steadily. ‘I do. Truly. I believe she relies on you.’
Miss Cushing’s brow remained creased, but she nodded tightly.
‘Miss Beatrice told me that the modiste was most helpful.’
‘Indeed she was,’ replied Miss Cushing, ‘for she gave us tea and everything.’
‘And so she should, for Mrs Fenhurst will likely spend a substantial sum!’
Of Sir Nicholas’s money, she added silently.
It was none of her concern, naturally, but she could not help but reflect on the fact that Sir Nicholas seemed unaware of the privilege afforded to him by his riches. Honesty forced her to recognise that, until losing her place at Miss Plumpton’s Academy, she, too, had taken her financial security for granted.
She frowned, as her infatuation had led her to start thinking of him as having all the virtues and none of the vices. Here, then, was a vice of sorts and an important signal that she had not fully lost her senses. Of course, it was not his fault that he was unaware of just how privileged he was. It was simply that, now she herself was living with insecurity for the first time, she noticed things she had never noticed before.
I do not think I will ever be able to go back to my old self.
The frown was still there as she took her place by his side at dinner. Naturally, he noted it immediately. ‘Are you well, Miss Smith?’ he asked, simultaneously thanking the footman who was serving him a large slice of pigeon pie.
Mary looked at the footman, then turned her gaze to Sir Nicholas.
Inwardly, her thoughts were flying furiously. I have always taken servants for granted. We were not rich, but we always had a housemaid or a housekeeper. Why did I never think enough of what their lives must be like?
Sir Nicholas was still waiting for her answer. Inwardly tutting at herself for allowing her emotions to display so openly, Mary immediately smoothed out her expression. ‘I am quite well, thank you. And you, sir? Are you well?’
He ignored her question, instead sending her a cynical glance. ‘I cannot force you to tell me what ails you, unfortunately.’
Now she was back on familiar territory. ‘Unfortunately?’ She sent him a wicked glance. ‘Are my thoughts not my own?’
‘That rather depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether it is I who have displeased you in some way. You were looking at me with an expression I can only describe as disdain!’ His tone was jocular, but beneath it she sensed she had wounded him a little.
That will not do!
‘Not at all,’ she declared. ‘I assure you, I hold you in—in high esteem!’ She had been about to say ‘the highest esteem’, but that would have been far too gushing. And too revealing, particularly after this morning’s incident while riding.
He looked at her for a long moment, then picked up his knife and fork again. ‘I am relieved to hear it! Now tell me, will you be free to join me and Beatrice tomorrow in my library? I shall need your expertise, you know, as I have never before taught anyone. Tell me, what text should we offer her to begin with?’
‘You forget, sir, that I myself am new to teaching.’<
br />
She bit her lip. Should I have avoided reminding him of my inexperience?
Thankfully, he brushed this off. ‘Well, you clearly have a natural talent for it.’ She managed a polite ‘thank you’, hoping that her inner glow at his words was not obvious. Companionably, they discussed a number of options before settling on Ovid’s Metamorphoses as an interesting and easy reader. ‘I have it in translation as well as in the original,’ he added, ‘so she can read both side by side to improve her Greek.’
‘Perfect—that is how I improved my own learning of languages!’
Some extra sense caused Mary to glance down the table. Mrs Fenhurst was watching them.
She does not approve of my conversations with her brother. Why? Can Mrs Fenhurst sense my interest in him?
Suddenly unsure of herself, she fell silent and was a little relieved when, a moment later, Sir Nicholas turned his attention to Beatrice.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Miss Smith! Come and sit by me!’ Mrs Fenhurst’s tone made it clear that this was an order, not a request. Oh, dear. Was she in trouble?
The ladies had withdrawn to the salon, leaving Sir Nicholas and Bramber to their port. They would come to join the ladies in a little while. Mrs Fenhurst made a show of directing Miss Cushing to sit with the girls on a sofa across the room. Clearly she wanted to speak to Mary herself and in private. Miss Cushing, naturally, displayed immediate signs of anxiety at being displaced from her employer’s side and sent angry looks Mary’s way from the other side of the salon.
Mrs Fenhurst sat silently for a time, seemingly engrossed in her sewing. Mary waited patiently, having no idea what was to come. Mrs Fenhurst then began to involve Mary in some empty conversation. Eventually, she gave a brief sidelong glance and sat up a little straighter.
Mary’s awareness prickled into alertness. Here it comes.
‘While we were in Norwich today...’ Mrs Fenhurst began, with a casual air.
‘Yes?’
This was a little confusing. Is this to do with Papa?
‘Which, by the way, was a most successful trip—I have every hope that the modiste may create some creditable gowns for myself and my girls!’ She nodded in a satisfied way. ‘We shall return in a few days for another fitting, with the dresses being ready next week, in time for my first soirée.’
‘That is reassuring.’
Mary’s polite response masked her bewilderment. I know all of this. Why should she repeat it?
Mrs Fenhurst’s next statement revealed her true purpose. ‘While we were away, Miss Smith, what did you do?’
Mary froze for a moment.
I exchanged wanton looks with your brother and he hugged me and kissed my hand. I failed to provide formal lessons for the boys and Caroline. I visited my papa’s housekeeper and talked of his imprisonment for treason.
‘I—er—well, that is to say, I worked on some arithmetic with Caroline, Edmond and David. After that I visited the Home Farm—Mrs Kett gave me some provisions to pass on, as they have a sick baby.’
Mrs Fenhurst was listening with avid interest. ‘What did you do after that?’
Mary took a breath.
Keep to the truth as much as you can.
‘I walked to Houghton St Giles and called on the vicar’s housekeeper.’
Mrs Fenhurst frowned. ‘Yes, yes, all very laudable, no doubt. The sick and the poor and your Christian duty. But what did you do when you came back here, to Stiffkey Hall?’
Mary’s brow knitted with confusion. ‘I went to my chamber and read until I heard your carriage arriving. Then we all went upstairs to dress for dinner.’
‘And that is everything? You did not read with anyone before going upstairs?’
Oh, Lord.
‘No, ma’am.’
That is perfectly true, yet I am dishonest.
‘Very well.’ Mrs Fenhurst straightened, smoothing her skirt. ‘I must be satisfied that you are spending your time in useful ways while you are in this household. I deplore idleness!’
‘Of course.’ Mary could not be sure, but she sensed that she had been in some danger just now. She could not afford to turn Mrs Fenhurst against her.
Sir Nicholas might well be her employer in name and he might enjoy dinner table conversations with her, but if Mrs Fenhurst wanted her gone, Mary could not imagine Sir Nicholas resisting his determined sister.
He is altogether too indolent to do so.
In truth, she could not imagine him suffering any personal discomfort in order to aid another. She frowned.
Am I judging him harshly? He would probably admit to his indolence.
In seeking to push against her attraction towards him, was she now leaning too far in the other direction and finding fault simply for the sake of it?
Remembering his kindness to her when her mare had bolted, Mary knew she was being unfair. Yet something within her persisted in seeking to criticise him. It would be a shield to counter these other, perilous feelings.
* * *
Still, when the gentlemen joined them, Mary deliberately focused her attention on Mr Bramber. Both Sir Nicholas and his sister felt dangerous to her just now. With both of them, she needed to be guarded—not just because of Papa, but because she was becoming much too drawn to Sir Nicholas and she wanted neither him nor Mrs Fenhurst to know it.
So she avoided his gaze, instead smiling politely at Mr Bramber and inviting him to sit by her. They passed a comfortable half-hour discussing matters of no moment, but his easy company was balm to Mary’s troubled mind. Here was an uncomplicated conversation with someone who had no secrets, no hidden purpose and no desire to criticise her.
Gradually her shoulders dropped a little and after a while she was able to smile with natural enthusiasm. She did notice, as Mr Bramber was describing a conversation he had had with Miss Reeve outside church last Sunday, that his ears were a little pink. It made her recall Sir Nicholas’s cryptic comment that night when the Fenhursts first arrived.
I have never noticed Mr Bramber’s ears before! I wonder, is that their usual colour?
‘—Do you think?’
She started, then flushed as she realised she had quite forgotten to listen to him.
How rude of me!
Impulsively, she laid a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, Mr Bramber, I was momentarily wool-gathering. What was it you just said?’
The tips of his ears grew even pinker. ‘Oh, I was simply prattling about unimportant matters. But tell me, what did you do with your free time today?’
Perhaps his ears grow pink when he is uncomfortable.
She withdrew her hand and, as she did so, something in Sir Nicholas’s stillness across the room drew her eyes towards him. He was glaring at them, his face with an expression like thunder. To his left, his sister was talking, her eyes on her sewing.
Hopefully it is his sister who has angered him, not me or poor Mr Bramber!
Decidedly startled by Sir Nicholas’s ferocious expression, Mary bit her lip and turned her attention back to her companion. ‘I visited Mrs Skipper at the Home Farm,’ she replied.
Mr Bramber beamed at her. ‘Ah, you are a good person, Mary.’
She flushed, dropping her gaze. If only you knew how I have been deceiving everyone.
‘Not in the least. The baby is much improved anyway—though Mrs Skipper was grateful for Mrs Kett’s gifts of food.’
Bramber smiled at Mary. ‘I am glad you have come here. I believe others are, too.’
Mary shook her head.
I am not so certain.
‘I do not wish to be trouble to anyone.’
He leaned forwards, speaking confidentially. ‘Trouble may be a good thing. Life in Stiffkey Hall has been too quiet for too long.’
‘Bramber!’ It was Mrs Fenhurst. ‘We are to play a round of cards. Come and make up
a four with Amabel and Nicky!’
‘Very well, ma’am.’ With a nod to Mary, he rose, helping Sir Nicholas set up the card table and draw the chairs around it. As they played, Mary moved to sit with Beatrice. Miss Cushing had already departed, probably relieved to be able to retire after such a long day.
‘How do you, Beatrice?’
‘I am sorely fatigued,’ the girl replied frankly. ‘Do you think I might go to bed?’
Mary glanced at the clock. ‘Of course you may—and what is more, I shall retire, too.’ She patted the girl’s hand. ‘You have had a long day.’
Beatrice yawned, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. ‘Indeed, it seems like forever since I rose this morning.’ She gave Mary her familiar shy smile. ‘My uncle told me at dinner that you and he are to help me with my Greek reading tomorrow.’
‘If I have no other duties to attend to and Miss Cushing does not object,’ Mary confirmed. Miss Cushing? It was Mrs Fenhurst herself who might object.
‘But how can she object? You are saving her from having to do it.’ Beatrice’s guileless expression suddenly made Mary feel old.
You have no idea, child, of the currents that eddy and swirl beneath the still pool of this household.
Aloud she said only, ‘I expect you are right.’
They stood and bade the card-players goodnight. Mary could not help but include Sir Nicholas in her general gaze. His expression was shuttered, his words no warmer than polite.
It is best that it is so, Mary told herself.
All else was foolishness.
* * *
Nicholas heard the click of the door closing behind them, the murmur of their voices in the hallway as they moved away. He still felt angry with Miss Smith and he was unclear why.
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 10