‘Not at all, sir,’ she replied primly. ‘I am simply a governess, that is all.’
He stilled, his gaze fixing hers. ‘No. You are not.’
Not a governess? What does he mean?
‘Uncle! Miss Smith!’ It was Beatrice. ‘I am so relieved that my turn is done. I have been dreading this musicale, for I have no talent, yet Mama insisted I must perform.’
By the time Mary had sympathised and reassured the girl, Miss Cushing had come to join them and all opportunity for further private speech with Sir Nicholas was lost. The party continued on, endlessly it seemed to Mary. As the men became louder and the ladies more bemused, Mary gradually sank into her own thoughts. Her preoccupation was not only on Papa’s plight and her disappointing encounter with Sir Harold, but on her own conversation with Sir Nicholas. She had spoken freely when every instinct in her had been urging silence.
It was still too warm in the salon and no one was paying her any attention. Impulsively, she picked up her shawl and slipped out on to the terrace, closing the door gently behind her. Standing in silence in the blessed darkness, she took some cooling breaths and tried to steady her inner turmoil. Why did he fill her thoughts so completely?
Wrapping the shawl more tightly around herself, she gazed up at the countless stars as if she might find an answer there. Their silence, eternal and magnificent, reminded her of the small scale of her concerns in the greatness of the heavens. There was peace in the feeling. Gradually her breathing slowed, and her mind became calmer. She half-registered a brief increase in the light and noise emanating from the salon behind her, then all was dark and quiet again.
‘They are beautiful, are they not?’ Sir Nicholas’s voice sounded softly to her right, but strangely, she was not in the least bit startled. It was as if she had known he must be here, simply because the stars were so perfect.
‘They are wondrous,’ she affirmed, keeping her gaze aloft. With each passing moment it seemed that more and more heavenly lights appeared. Rationally she knew it was because her eyes were becoming accustomed to the near-darkness. But her rational mind had gone away, it seemed, for she felt overwhelmed by the magic and miracles of the universe.
She sensed him approach, felt him stop beside her. Her right arm tingled with awareness of his nearness. Time seemed to stand still as silence settled around them.
In all of time, there was only now. In all the world, there was only this place. He and she, side by side, gazing at the stars.
His arm moved a little, the back of his hand brushing hers. She responded and their fingers entwined. Mary was conscious only of him, her anchor to the universe. He and the stars and the night and the silence merged into a single, all-encompassing moment of perfect contentment.
‘Mary,’ he murmured and her heart sang at the sound of her name on his lips. She turned towards him and his eyes fixed on hers, his glittering with darkness and some unnamed emotion. A moment later his arms slid around her, and she lifted her face to receive his kiss.
* * *
When he had stepped on to the terrace, having noticed her quiet departure, Nicholas’s pulse had skipped on seeing her there. Her face had been lifted up to the stars, their pale light giving her an unearthly quality that had momentarily stopped his heart.
Although she must have known someone was there, she had not turned her head. Quite without thinking about it, he had walked towards her and joined her in looking at the heavens.
Although he frequently stood on his own terrace in the darkness, something about her stillness had drawn him to her. As he allowed the beauty of the night sky to wash over him, he had been moved to seek the warmth of her hand. She had reciprocated, and the urge to kiss her had then been irresistible.
Lost in the moment, he gave himself over to the kiss. It began gently, almost awkwardly. After only moments, ardour took over and they embraced fervently. He lost himself in exploring her mouth, crushing her close to him as he realised that she was equalling and matching his passion. Vaguely, he was aware that his response to her was not just physical in nature—although his body was on fire with need of her. No, this was more. This was her.
Eventually, they paused, the sound of their ragged breathing amplified by the intense silence. He lifted a hand to touch her face, wishing there was light enough to read her expression. Abruptly, she broke away from him, wordlessly dashing for the safety of the house, trailing her shawl behind her.
* * *
Finally. The guests were departed, the family gone to bed and the house was quiet. Sir Nicholas sat before the fire, swilling smuggled French brandy in a Bristol green glass, rolling its delicate stem in his long fingers. He had dismissed his valet, needing solitude before seeking his own bed. The valet had not demurred, knowing that his master frequently stayed up reading late into the night, even after a party.
All would appear normal on the surface—the jacket, waistcoat and cravat discarded, the comfortable armchair pulled close to the fireplace, the carafe of brandy on the side table. Yet tonight was different, for inwardly, Nicholas was in turmoil.
Miss Mary Smith was the cause. In truth, Miss Mary Smith was giving him discomfort in numerous ways. Her comments earlier tonight had been outrageous, of course. And completely unfounded.
She is a vicar’s daughter, he reminded himself.
Such families were frequently prone to muddled notions of benevolent patronage. He knew himself to be a generous, if distant, benefactor. He was perfectly content to do good by proxy, and his conscience was clear. Of course it was. His housekeeper supported the tenants and villagers when needed—indeed, he understood that Miss Smith herself was assisting Mrs Kett by visiting sick babies and such.
Did she not know who paid for the food she gave to these families? The more he thought about it, the more his indignation rose. Bramber, his loyal secretary, also ensured that regular donations were made on his behalf to the parish for the care of orphans and the destitute. What on earth did Miss Smith expect? That he spent all his time visiting orphanages and hospitals, when he had work to do?
Ridiculous.
And she, a scholar, should understand the importance of serious study. Had she not contributed to a piece he was writing on the Georgics, to be shared with other scholars of the great Roman poet? It required laborious analysis, systematic note-taking and cross-referencing with other analysis of Virgil’s work. It was work. Important work.
In his head, he prepared a long speech, outlining in great detail every flaw in Miss Smith’s assertions, yet all he could see in his mind’s eye was her neutral expression—the one she adopted when she disapproved of someone or something. She would be unconvinced.
His attention shifted to their more recent encounter on the terrace. Now he was on firmer ground. Kissing women was a skill in which he had, he knew, some proficiency. Kissing Mary in particular had been an unexpected joy.
It had been an impulse of the moment, naturally, nothing more. He squirmed a little at the realisation that he really should not have been embracing a woman who was in his employ. He ought to have been more careful of her reputation. Why, anyone might have come out to the terrace and seen them!
She will be here only a short time, he reminded himself.
Strangely, the thought gave him no comfort.
He shifted in his seat as he relived their passionate embrace in his memory. He was unsure why it seemed so intense. Perhaps it was simply the setting—the cloak of darkness, the silver stars...perhaps the poets were right, after all.
Or perhaps it was because he had been kissing Mary, not any other woman.
Why did she run away?
He had stood there, momentarily bereft, his body calling for her and his mind full of a thousand questions.
Eventually, of course, he had come to his senses, reminding himself not to refine too much upon an insignificant encounter, then joining his friends and famil
y in the salon. She had already retired, along with his nieces, and his sister had given him a narrow-eyed glare that she no doubt intended to be intimidating.
An insignificant encounter.
He would do well to keep his distance in future. Yet right now, hours after the kiss, the feeling that remained with him was one of having lost something precious.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Papa!’ Mary hugged her father close, uncaring of the noxious smells emanating from his person and their surroundings. He had now been in this filthy cell for nigh on two months and it showed. He grew thinner each time she saw him, his beard was now long and matted, and his grey hair unkempt. Yet his blue eyes blazed with emotion as he put her from him to gaze at her.
‘Mary! It is a joy to behold you, Daughter.’ His voice rasped with lack of use. Mary dried her tears with a handkerchief, then took both his hands.
For the first time, the prison guard had left them alone together. With Mary’s permission, he had locked her inside Papa’s cell, stating that he had tasks to complete and had not the time to stand around waiting for her. He had assured her that, in his opinion, this prisoner was harmless. Finally, her patience and diligence had been rewarded. After many constrained visits, the guard had finally had enough of the tedium of listening to Bible passages and had left them alone together.
‘Oh, Papa! It is so unjust that you are here!’
He eyed her steadily. ‘There is a meaning in it, I am sure. When I passed the initial stupor, I became overcome with anger, which stayed with me for many, many weeks. Thank the Lord I am now in a calmer state of mind. I know myself to be innocent, yet here I am in this cell. My soul is at peace and I am content now to wait and see what my fate will be.’
Mary frowned. ‘I do not understand. Are you—are you in despair, Papa?’
Her heart sank. How can I care for him if his spirit is broken?
He shook his head. ‘Truly, no. I am composed now. I am ready.’
‘But you still have hope? You know that you have done nothing wrong, so you can be set free by the judge?’
‘What the judge may or may not do is not in my hands. I shall, of course, speak the truth to him when my day in the Shirehall comes, but I am ready for all outcomes, my dear.’
She bit her lip, but did not argue. ‘Tell me, what is the evidence against you?’
‘If truth be told, I do not know for certain. I recall opening a package containing strange lists—numbers, places in Spain... I understand now that it represents something to do with the movement of our armies and ships against the French, but at the time I thought it a puzzle unworthy of deciphering. I set the papers aside and thought little about them.’
‘But how did they come to be in your possession?’
‘They appeared at a time when I was receiving numerous papers. I had not long settled into the new vicarage, as you know, and I had ordered pamphlets, sermons and periodicals from numerous sources. Various messengers had called on six or seven occasions in the preceding fortnight. There was no way to discover which messenger had brought that particular package, nor when it had arrived. Miss Lutton, my housekeeper, also visits me, but I have not yet had the opportunity for private speech with her.’ He patted her hand. ‘But tell me, Daughter, how did you come to be here? You mentioned working as a governess? Is that true?’
She beamed at him. ‘It is. When I received Miss Lutton’s letter I left Miss Plumpton’s Academy—a great relief to her, I am sure—and sought work as a governess with an agency. I was honest with the agency owner—a most interesting woman, Papa. You would like her, I think. I was right to do so, for she had a vacant position here in Norfolk, just a few miles from here!’
He nodded. ‘I begin to see meaning in many things, these days. Such a coincidence is telling, I think. So who are your employers? Do they treat you well?’
Strangely, she felt a slow flush build in her cheeks. ‘My employer is Sir Nicholas Denny, of Stiffkey Hall.’
‘I have met him.’ He tilted his head to one side, considering. ‘A gentleman of quality, I believe. And a good mind, to boot. When I called on him we had a most stimulating discussion about Virgil’s Georgics.’
She smiled. ‘He is still reading them—and in the original Greek.’
Papa was frowning. ‘But I was given to understand that Sir Nicholas is a bachelor. Why, then, does he need a governess?’
She explained and went on to provide an entertaining account of Mrs Fenhurst, her children and the much-put-upon Miss Cushing.
He shook his head in wonderment. ‘I always knew, my Mary, how discerning you are, with quickness of mind and goodness of heart. It does me good to hear you manage so well with all these people and in such challenging circumstances. I am proud of you, child.’ He frowned. ‘What does Sir Nicholas make of my situation?’
‘I have not spoken of it with anyone here, save Miss Lutton. Apart from her, no one knows of my connection with you. Even the guard here believes me to be a Christian visitor, nothing more.’ She grimaced. ‘It does not sit well with me to deceive anyone, but this is not a usual situation.’
He spread his hands wide. ‘There is something—I know I should not consider such worldly matters as reputation, yet I am small-minded enough to do so.’ He swallowed. ‘So I shall ask you—is my shame widely discussed?’
‘Not at all! Indeed, my understanding is that only the Bishop himself is aware of what has happened and he has charged Miss Lutton to tell no one. She is discreet and so far not one person has spoken of it to me. The other local vicars are covering your parish for now and the Bishop is awaiting Sir Harold Gurney’s decision at the Quarter-Day session.’
‘I assume Sir Harold Gurney is the magistrate?’ She nodded. ‘So he is the man who holds my life in his hands. I know little of legal procedures, but I do believe that local Justices of the Peace cannot preside over serious crimes such as the ones I am accused of. I expect he will simply wash his hands of me and send me to London for trial.’
‘I think so, too—unless he believes you to be innocent. But that means Newgate, and—oh, Papa, I do worry about what will happen to you!’
‘Meanwhile my first concern has always been for you, child.’ He gripped her hands tightly. ‘You must petition the Bishop to provide an allowance for you, should the worst happen to me. Your dowry is safe, of course, and my investments in the funds, such as they are, but I—’
‘Oh, no, Papa!’ A tear rolled down her cheek. Distantly, she heard the sound of the outer door clanging. ‘The guard is returning! Here, take these!’ She thrust a package at him, wiping her tears away at the same time. ‘It is your own Bible, along with writing materials, and the rest of the food. I shall try to visit again, very soon.’
Papa set the precious items down in the corner, behind where the door would open. They embraced briefly and, when the guard unlocked the cell door, they were standing a respectable distance apart, with Mary quoting part of the Twenty-Third Psalm from memory and in a pious tone. She wished the prisoner a polite farewell, hefted her now-empty basket, and left the cell without a backward glance.
‘I have left him a Bible,’ she informed the guard, once they had reached the guardroom. ‘If it is not permitted, please return it to me.’
She could read in his expression the impulse to confiscate it, then the thought of the effort it would take to unlock and relock all the doors again. ‘It is normally not permitted, but as he is a clergyman I shall allow it for him.’
‘Thank you, Mr Gedge.’
She passed him a coin and he smiled briefly. ‘When will you return?’
‘I hope every Sunday from now on. I believe my employer will permit me to do so.’ She bit her lip. ‘Unfortunately, if I visit more regularly, I shall be unable to maintain my current—er—generosity. But I can bring food?’
He nodded. ‘Very well. I am partial to a nice cheese o
r a fresh loaf.’
In perfect accord, they bid each other good day and Mary stepped outside. The skies were heavy with threatened rain and she drew her cloak tightly around her. As she trudged down the High Street towards the Fakenham road, despair threatened to overcome her. Why was Papa, an innocent man who had done no harm, incarcerated in gaol, and how on earth was she to help secure his release?
‘Miss Smith!’ It was Sir Nicholas, on horseback. He was smartly dressed in the palest breeches, gleaming Hoby boots and a superfine coat. He looked like a hero straight out of the ancient texts.
She halted, gaping at him. For a moment it felt as though she had been caught stealing, or disobeying her parents by being somewhere she ought not to be.
‘Sir—Sir Nicholas!’
‘Good day, Miss Smith. What do you here in Walsingham and at the Bridewell, no less?’
‘The Bridewell?’ How stupid I sound. ‘Oh, I have been visiting.’ She indicated her empty basket.
He shook his head slowly. ‘More good works?’ He sounded rather disapproving and she flushed, recalling her unnecessarily candid discussion of his character a few nights ago at the musicale.
‘Yes,’ she replied shortly, conscious now of an added wave of guilt that she was not being fully honest.
There was a tense silence. Mary knew not what to say. It seemed as though he did not, either. ‘Well,’ he said, tipping his hat, ‘good day to you.’
She murmured a polite reply, her eyes never leaving him as he rode away. As she walked through the village and took the road towards home, her spirits were low. Visiting Papa had been wonderful, yet disheartening at the same time, and the encounter with a frosty Sir Nicholas had now completed her distress.
She saw him every day, of course—at meals and during their time reading with Beatrice. At times they assisted the girl with Greek translation, but often they all three simply sat together in companionable silence. There was, naturally, no opportunity for private speech.
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 13