Turning on her heel and ignoring the hot tears that spilled down her cheeks, she ran from the library, seeking the refuge of her chamber upstairs. Once inside, she slammed the door with a mighty crash, hoping it could be heard downstairs in the library. ‘Insufferable man!’
She raged up and down for what seemed like an hour, noticing him ride out and off through the woods. Flinging curses at his back, she watched him until he was gone, then slid to the floor beside the window, finally giving way to despair.
All was lost. Sir Nicholas did not care for her. She had shown him too much brutal honesty. Mrs Fenhurst wanted her gone. Sir Nicholas would forget her within a half-hour. The Bow Street Runner was determined to see Papa convicted. The magistrate would not help. She had no money, no hope and, soon, she would have no position and nowhere to live.
Never could she remember feeling such despair.
No one came to her, for she had no one who cared.
She cried on the floor, her back leaning against the wall, her mind dwelling on every hurt, every problem she now must bear. After a long, long time, a quiet emptiness came over her. Nothing mattered. All was already lost. There was no point in any of it. And so, when one of the housemaids called her to the salon to see Mrs Fenhurst, she washed her face, then went downstairs with a strange detached feeling of calm.
Vaguely, she half-heard Mrs Fenhurst speak of Miss Cushing’s distress and how difficult it was for her to have another governess in the same household. There was something about the party being over and the remaining engagements all in place. There was her intention to allow the children to have a break from their studies for the remainder of their stay in Norfolk.
‘Feel free to take whatever you need in your bandboxes,’ she said. ‘Once you have a new position we can send your trunks on to you.’
‘Of course,’ Mary replied neutrally.
What is she saying?
‘The stage to London will pass through Fakenham tomorrow afternoon, so one of the grooms can take you there in the morning,’ Mrs Fenhurst added, then frowned. ‘Are you quite well, Miss Smith?’
‘Yes, I am well,’ Mary lied. ‘Quite, quite well.’
Mrs Fenhurst rose, crossed to the side table and returned with some money. ‘It is not as much as you might have earned if you had remained for the entire duration,’ she said, ‘but it is more than enough for the stage to London.’
Mary took it wordlessly and turned to go.
‘Miss Smith!’ She turned around. ‘I wish you well.’
Mary did not reply.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nicholas could not remember ever feeling so angry, or so hurt. Anger predominated at first. How dared she speak to him in such a way? How dared she? Particularly when he had only been trying to assist her.
Why, she knew well how absurd Miss Cushing was! How irritating and limited and petty. It was all very well for the pious Miss Smith to criticise him, but she, too, had enjoyed sharing humorous glances at some of Miss Cushing’s absurdities. He rode at full gallop through the riverside meadow, heedless of the cold wind, nursing his just complaints.
Servants were servants. Why on earth was she so angry about Miss Cushing—or any other servant, for that matter? Everyone had their place in society—including servants. Including governesses.
The charge that he did not see to his nieces and nephews—outrageous! Why, together he and Mary had engaged with Beatrice and worked with her to help with her Greek. Indeed, the younger ones had even had an art lesson in his own library.
On this last point he was forced to concede that his motives had not been the purest on that occasion. Indeed, he admitted with, he thought, admirable honesty that his purpose had been to spend time with Mary, nothing more. The way she had looked at him then! How they had caressed each other only with their eyes, her merest touch as intense as anything he had ever felt. Confusingly, amid the anger, his desire for her remained undimmed.
How she had changed his existence from order to disorder, from calm to storm-like! And to think he had thought it an improvement. Truly, at this moment he did not welcome it. Not one bit. He wished, in fact that she had never—
He interrupted the thought.
Perhaps not.
Remembering the ordered emptiness of his old life, he could not at this moment be sure what exactly he believed.
As the anger began to subside, soothed by self-righteous justifications, the hurt he felt underneath became more apparent. If he had been truly innocent of all the charges Mary had laid before him, he might have been unmanned by her sharp tongue and angry disdain. As it was, even though he knew himself to be not as evil as she had painted him, still it hurt.
He had, he acknowledged, come to depend on her. On her sunny smile and her quick mind and her pert challenges. She was determined to improve him. He had known it since the day she had first spoken plainly with him. Ever since, he had come to read her expressions. He now knew when she approved or disapproved of something he had said or done and, in truth, it was changing him.
Unlike today, when she had quite lost her temper with him, her earlier hints had been more in the way of holding up a mirror so that he might see himself more clearly. And it had been influencing him. These past weeks, he had been surprised to discover within himself something of a conscience.
Where previously he would never have considered the needs of his valet, or Bramber, or the night-footman, he now occasionally inconvenienced himself in order to make their lives a little easier. Telling the night-footman to go to bed if he himself would be staying up late. Undressing early and then dismissing his valet at eleven instead of having the man wait up half the night. Telling Bramber to dance with young ladies at the ball last night.
He gave a wry grimace at the last thought. Bramber had clearly noticed his particular interest in Mary, for they had had a guarded conversation about the matter this morning—Bramber jesting with him about the waltz and how fine Miss Smith had looked. To his relief, there had again been no hint of any particular feeling for Miss Smith from Bramber.
In turn, Sir Nicholas had teased his secretary about his prolonged attendance on Miss Reeve last night, following the waltz. Bramber’s ears had become decidedly pink—he had clearly enjoyed Miss Reeve’s company a great deal. Sir Nicholas could not help but smile at the memory, his smile fading again as he recalled anew Mary’s verbal destruction of his character.
Very well! Turning his horse, he began the journey back home with determination. He would call for her as soon as he had changed his clothes and he would put before her his defence. No doubt she would test him, with her headstrong passion and her sharp words, but this time he would not be knocked sideways. He had the magnanimity to acknowledge the kernel of truth in her assertions, but she would surely acknowledge that she had falsely accused him in return. After that...
After that, who knows?
He still had not had time or space to consider the extraordinary events in the woods this morning, nor his brief thoughts of marriage. Should he really consider marrying a woman who thought ill of him? He shook his head. He could not countenance that she would truly believe him to be so heinous, so irredeemable.
First things first.
Full of indignation, and avoiding with determination some of the more confusing thoughts and feelings agitating within him, he made his way home.
* * *
Vaguely, Mary was aware that she was somehow possessed of a wave of vigour. Driven by the fear of further humiliation when it became known in the house that she had been turned off, she stuffed some clothes and her hairbrush into a bandbox. Placing Mrs Fenhurst’s money into her reticule, she quickly donned her bonnet, black cloak and kid half-boots. The rest she left behind.
Slipping down the back stairs, she managed to evade detection and soon found herself outside. However, she was not yet safe from interested eyes. Keepi
ng to the gravel path outside the house, she walked the long way around, so as to avoid the salon, where the ladies would be seated, and the library, where Sir Nicholas would probably be if he had returned.
Once at the gate, she took the road to Walsingham. Somewhere inside, there was regret that she would never see Beatrice again, or the younger children, but she pushed it away. At this moment she had no clear purpose, beyond the need to visit Papa one last time.
Thoughts of the stage to London were meaningless. How could she go to London and not be near Papa? Besides, where could she go in the city? Mrs Gray’s registry office was lost to her. That lady was known for placing unusual staff and had made it abundantly clear that she was taking a chance by offering Mary this position as governess.
Mary had promised to remain in Stiffkey Hall until Easter. She had failed in her purpose of behaving as a governess ought. She had become romantically engaged with her employer. She had earned the mistrust of the children’s mother. She had behaved abominably towards Sir Nicholas, allowing her anger to make her say things that she did not even mean.
She had broken her vow.
As she trudged along the lanes towards Walsingham, despair enveloped her like a giant, heavy shroud. The more she thought about how badly she had behaved, the more numb she became. Her situation was entirely of her own making.
My fault, she recited, as she trudged along the road. My fault. My own foolish fault.
Dusk was coming and a cold wind had sprung up. Mary thought about gathering her cloak around her, but did not bother doing so. Her body was not her own. Indeed, she felt strangely distant, as though she were watching herself move along the road.
Finally, she reached Walsingham village. The light was fading and yellow candles were glowing in the windows of the dwellings and alehouses as she passed. Inside, people were no doubt gathered with their families, or settled before a fire in the alehouse, with the company of friends. Gathering herself for one last deed, she rearranged her features into what she hoped was a suitably neutral expression and stepped into the Bridewell.
To her surprise, a different guard sat behind the table in the guardroom. This man was thin, dark-haired and closed-faced.
He looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘I—I was expecting Mr Gedge.’
‘He’s been called away.’
‘I am in the habit of visiting the prisoners, and reading to them from the B-Bible,’ she managed.
‘Gedge told me about you, miss. But we have only two prisoners here now,’ he said flatly, ‘and they are locked up for the night. No more visitors until tomorrow.’
If it were possible, Mary’s dead heart turned a shade colder, as dread made itself known. ‘Which two?’ she managed, her voice tight with fear. ‘And where have the others gone?’
‘We have a father and son, accused of burglary, awaiting Sir Harold Gurney’s session next month.’
His words made no sense. Where is Papa?
‘As to the other two,’ he continued, ‘one died of fever yesterday and another was taken from here this very afternoon.’
The room began to spin alarmingly. ‘Died?’ Her voice sounded small, and very, very far away. ‘What was the name of the man who died?’
‘Smith, I think.’ He frowned. ‘No, he is the traitor. It was the poacher what died.’
It was already too late. Blackness overwhelmed Mary and she slumped to the floor.
* * *
Sir Nicholas checked his appearance in the cheval mirror. By the time he had arrived home and called his valet, it had been too late to change and call for Miss Smith. Dinner was only a half-hour away, his ride having taken much longer than he had realised.
So he had submitted to his valet’s ministrations and now stood in his own chamber in full evening wear, feeling unaccountably nervous. Descending for dinner in his own house had taken on the proportions of a nightmare.
First, his sister. She would be brimful of resentment at his treatment of her favourite earlier. He would be made to pay for his outburst. He sighed. The girls should not have witnessed his temper, either. He hoped Miss Beatrice would not now fear him or, worse, think less of him.
He bowed his head. Miss Smith’s words, though hotly spoken, had enough truth in them to shame him. Instead of being a model of gentlemanliness, he had been boorish, inconsiderate and curmudgeonly towards Miss Cushing.
Next, Miss Cushing herself. No more would he pretend to mispronounce her name. Miss Smith, herself a governess, had finally opened his eyes to the insecurity of those who served him, or served the family. Miss Cushing had no independent income. In her advancing years the woman’s only possibility of avoiding abject poverty was to remain in his sister’s employ. Of course Miss Cushing would do everything in her power to keep her place in the family.
Reflecting now, he realised that his sister knew quite well that Miss Cushing had neither the skills nor the vigour to manage three children and two debutantes.
I must have a quiet word with Susan, he thought.
Miss Cushing should be designated ‘companion’ rather than ‘governess’ from now on.
That would create an opportunity for his sister to recruit a competent governess. Perhaps—
No. There had already been too much friction. It could not be Miss Smith. Yet, unless she was working for the Fenhursts, he might not have cause to ever see her again once their visit ended. He closed his eyes against the thought. Never? Impossible.
Finally, there was Miss Smith herself. Meeting in the salon before dinner was less than ideal. He would have done better to have private speech with her beforehand.
A thought occurred to him. Perhaps she would be first down and he might enjoy a brief moment with her before the others arrived. Instantly he turned and, moving swiftly, went downstairs.
Entering the salon, he saw a solitary lady seated by the fire, but it was not Miss Smith.
‘Miss Cushing!’ He hurried towards her. ‘Please accept my sincere apologies for my abominable behaviour earlier. I had no right to abuse you as I did. My words were not just harsh, they were unpardonable.’
‘Oh, sir, it is I who am sorry. I know myself to be a burden and lacking in competence.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I have told Mrs Fenhurst she should be rid of me.’
His heart turned over at her genuine distress. ‘Well, I shall certainly advise her against doing so. Miss Cushing, I must be honest with you. You have in truth outgrown your work as governess...’
She looked stricken, so he hurried on. ‘I mean to say that, in my view, you are now a member of the family.’
Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘Oh, Sir Nicholas, I am overcome. What a wonderful...’ She fished for her handkerchief. ‘But I cannot conceive of such a thing...’
‘Well, he is quite right, of course, and I should have seen it long before!’ It was Mrs Fenhurst, observing from the doorway, Beatrice and Amabel behind her. She glided forwards, her chin at a haughty angle as she addressed Sir Nicholas. ‘I have not forgiven you, Brother, for your cruelty today, but I will own that was well said.’
She turned to Miss Cushing. ‘My dear Agnes, will you live with us as my companion and friend from now on? For indeed you are part of this family and I see you as if you were our actual cousin.’
Miss Cushing lost all restraint at this point and the ladies bustled around her with handkerchiefs and kisses until she was able to smile through her tears. Unlike earlier, when such a display of emotion had only served to irritate him, on this occasion Sir Nicholas felt himself to be profoundly moved. It was not often that one had the opportunity to witness a transformation in a person’s life circumstances.
With his newfound insight into the insecurity of a governess’s situation he had to own that doing good things for others could perhaps give one a sense of purpose—understanding that one’s own place in the world included a requirement to assi
st others where possible.
That is why Mary diligently visits the poor.
The thought rocked him. Strange that, in one short day, so many profound insights were coming to him. He seated himself on the nearest sofa, his mind racing as he pieced it all together. Thunderstruck, he now recalled another detail from his earlier conversation. It was Miss Smith’s strange assertion that, in essence, a poor governess like Miss Cushing was just as valuable as he, a gentleman.
He had been raised by indulgent parents to understand that someday he would be master of Stiffkey Hall, its lands and properties, and that he, somehow, was more worthy, more important than everyone else in the district. Until today, he had not questioned the matter.
The gong sounded for dinner, interrupting his thoughts. ‘But where is Miss Smith?’ asked Beatrice, her brow furrowed.
No one could answer, and they all traipsed through to dinner, where they were joined by Bramber. The footmen began serving and still Miss Smith did not appear.
Sir Nicholas, believing he knew the reason for her absence, felt decidedly uncomfortable. He could only be relieved that, when one of the girls repeated her surprise at Miss Smith’s non-appearance, his sister replied nonchalantly that she had probably decided to eat in her chamber. That ended the conversation, to his great relief.
A silence followed as they all reflected on the drama enacted at nuncheon and the mortification Miss Smith must have felt. It was perfectly reasonable for Mary to plead a headache and to avoid company this evening.
They might also know, of course, about the scene that followed, when she and I argued long and loudly.
That might have had more to do with the matter than his own rude behaviour at nuncheon.
He intercepted a frown passing between two of the footmen—something he would not have noticed before today, he was sure. The servants saw and heard everything. Strangely, now that he saw the servants as individuals, they had lost something of their invisibility. They certainly know what took place between me and Miss Smith. They knew why she was eating alone in her chamber, instead of with the family.
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 18