The conclusion was inevitable. She does not wish to see any of us tonight. She does not wish to see me.
Pain stabbed through his chest. The food on his plate was suddenly unappetising.
Somehow, he endured the endless chatter of the others, the presentation of dish after dish of well-cooked food that he could not bring himself to eat. It was not right that Mary was not here. Her empty chair troubled him. She should be here.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A revolting stench comprising ale, bad breath and tobacco was the first sensation. Then, a voice. ‘Wake up, miss!’ This was followed by a series of shocking expletives.
Someone is very cross, Mary deduced, opening her eyes.
‘Thank the Lord!’ The new guard was leaning over her, his expression now panicked rather than surly. She seemed to be lying on the floor.
The Bridewell. Papa!
‘Who died?’ she managed to ask. ‘Tell me again. Which prisoner died?’
The guard had seized her elbow and was even now levering her into a sitting position. The room continued to spin alarmingly.
‘Such a fright you gave me! I thought you were fallen down dead. I do not hold with people dying in the guardroom and neither would Sir Harold Gurney!’
She ignored this, gripping his arm. ‘Who died?’ she repeated forcefully.
‘The poacher!’ he replied, equally forcefully. ‘Though why it should matter to a prison visitor, I do not know.’ He frowned. ‘Perhaps—did you know the man?’
‘I did not,’ she replied truthfully. ‘I met him when I began my visits. I am sorry to hear of his death.’
The guard pulled out a chair and helped her up on to it. ‘A word of advice, miss. If you faint every time a prisoner dies, you may not have the stomach for this work.’ He was eyeing her dubiously. ‘Would you like something?’ He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncertain what he could do for her. ‘All I have is ale, but you are welcome to it!’ His surliness was gone. Her distress had revealed the good heart he hid beneath the frown.
Everywhere there is goodness, if one can only see it.
‘I thank you for your kindness, but I shall be well shortly.’ In reality her heart was still pounding furiously and she felt decidedly weak. ‘Tell me about the traitor,’ she added, as if simply making conversation. As if fainting in a Bridewell was an everyday occurrence. As if she was not experiencing the worst—and longest—day of her life. ‘Where has he gone?’
‘Ah, well.’ The guard’s eyes lit up. ‘There’s a tale in that. Because it is such a serious charge, the prisoner has been taken to London. He did not even have to wait for Sir Harold Gurney’s Quarter-Day Session. An actual Bow Street Runner took the man this very day!’
He obviously expected this to create a dramatic effect. ‘You shock me! A Bow Street Runner! Here?’ Mr Potter must have come directly from Stiffkey Hall to take possession of his prisoner.
This seemed to satisfy the guard, for he nodded, excitement gleaming in his dark eyes. ‘To think we have had such a notorious prisoner here, in Walsingham, miss! He will probably hang,’ he added lustily. ‘Or be transported.’ He touched her arm, sudden concern returning to his expression. ‘Miss, are you feeling unwell? Please do not swoon again.’
She had felt herself sway on the hard wooden chair. ‘No, no,’ she lied, gripping the edges of the seat with both hands. Hanging! Transportation! Somehow, she had thought it would not come to this, that Sir Harold could be made to see reason and let Papa go free before the distant London judges gained control over him.
The guard clearly did not believe her, and insisted she remain where she was until he was certain she had recovered from her fainting fit. He gave her great detail on her father’s supposed crimes and on the Bow Street Runner’s travel plans. ‘The prisoner will be in Newgate by Monday, where he will languish until they see fit to try him.’
Newgate. The very word struck fear into Mary’s heart. Newgate, a place so full of disease that very many prisoners failed to survive long enough for a trial. If a prisoner could die of fever in somewhere relatively clean, like this Bridewell, then what chance did poor Papa have in Newgate?
In the end, Mary could linger no longer. Thanking the guard and assuring him she had fully recovered, she took her leave. Exiting the Bridewell, she hefted her bandbox and stepped out into the cold, dark night.
* * *
Finally, the seemingly endless dinner was completed and the ladies rose to return to the salon, leaving Sir Nicholas and Bramber to their port. At the last instant Sir Nicholas’s sister hesitated, informing the others that she would follow them in a few moments. Pointedly, she waited until the footmen had also departed before speaking. ‘I should inform you, Brother, of something that happened earlier.’ She was still stiff with him, he noted. At this, Bramber left the room, leaving them to converse.
‘I am all ears,’ he assured his sister neutrally as the door closed behind his secretary.
‘I spoke to Miss Smith this afternoon,’ she said, ‘and informed her that I intend to release the children from their studies for the remainder of our stay here. I also highlighted that the invitations have all gone out for the remaining soirées.’ She took a breath. ‘I therefore told her I would have no further need of her services and that she was released from her contract.’
He froze. ‘You did what?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘My dear Nicky, you made it plain earlier that you would not care if I let her go.’
His fingers were gripping his wine glass so tightly he was in danger of breaking it. ‘A theoretical conversation, as well you know. You had no right to speak to one of my employees about such a matter without discussing it with me first.’
She snorted. ‘After the way you spoke to Miss Cushing earlier—a woman in my employ—you have no right to quibble on such a matter. Besides, why should it matter? You only hired her to assist with my children.’
On this parting sally, she sailed out, head held high. A moment later the footmen, who had plainly been awaiting her exit, re-entered the dining room to continue to clear away the dishes. They were met with a string of expletives so colourful that their normal implacable expressions were severely compromised. They hesitated just inside the room, clearly unsure whether to stay or go.
Sir Nicholas turned to the man on his left. ‘James!’ he said.
The footman gulped, his eyes widening. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Your name is James, is it not?’
‘It is, sir.’
‘I am glad of it.’ Unaccountably pleased that he had remembered the man’s name correctly, he asked ‘Did Miss Smith eat in her chamber this evening?’
James froze, and the hairs on the back of Sir Nicholas’s neck stood to attention. ‘You should ask the housekeeper about that, sir,’ he offered after a moment, his gaze shifting away.
This is not good.
‘Very well. Send her to me instantly.’
The man vanished with alacrity and the other footman departed with some of the dishes. Neither man returned.
Instead, Mrs Kett appeared, her demeanour a mix of concern and defiance. ‘You wished to see me, sir?’
Sir Nicholas was rapidly losing patience. ‘Where is Miss Smith?’
‘Gone, sir!’
‘Gone? What do you mean, gone?’
She glared at him. ‘She left here this afternoon, with naught but a bandbox, after Mrs Fenhurst turned her off.’ Mrs Kett folded her arms. ‘And if I may say so, sir, the staff are not happy about it. Miss Smith is well-liked in this house and we do not like to see one of our own treated like this!’
He put his head in his hands briefly, unable to fully take in the enormity of his sister’s folly. ‘Where did she go?’ he croaked.
Mrs Kett shook her head. ‘No one knows for sure. One of the grooms seen her going down the drive
with a bandbox and she has not returned.’
‘But it is dark outside!’ he said stupidly. His brain was refusing to function.
Mary!
‘Tell my sister I wish to speak with her at her earliest convenience,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Very good, sir!’ With a toss of her head, Mrs Kett departed.
Gone? Gone where? Nicholas could not think. Why would Susan have done such a thing? It was bad enough that his sister had dismissed Mary, knowing full well the governess’s contract was with him, not her. But to turn her off immediately? He could not fathom the cruelty of it.
It could not be true. Perhaps she had sent her somewhere. Perhaps Mary was delivering something, or visiting someone in need. He desperately hoped his sister would have some answers. But why then had she not told him before if she had known that Miss Smith was gone?
‘Now what?’ His sister had returned and was looking most put out.
‘I am informed that Miss Smith has left the house with nothing but a bandbox because you turned her off immediately!’
‘Nonsense!’
Relief flooded through him. ‘I knew there must be some mistake. Where, then, is she?’
‘I have not got the faintest idea. She is none of my concern.’
He eyed her angrily. ‘You do not feel any sense of responsibility towards her? None at all?’
His sister looked puzzled. ‘Why should I? She is little more than a servant.’
‘And you have no responsibility, no feelings of concern for any of your servants?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘I have not got the faintest idea what you are talking about, Nicky. Concern for servants? Why?’
In her tone he recalled his parents. They had seen servants as unimportant—little more than a commodity. This was how he and Susan had been raised. He also recognised himself. His former self, at least. The person he had been before Mary.
‘Yet today,’ he noted, ‘you told Miss Cushing she was family, a companion.’
She waved this away. ‘Ah, but that is different. Miss Cushing is gently-bred and has been with us so long that she is like family. In truth, I have come to depend on her.’
‘But what if you did not depend on her? Is she of less worth?’
She laughed. ‘Obviously. Her worth is her usefulness, no more and no less. She has been useful to me for many years, so I owe her a debt. Otherwise, I have no need to feel responsible for her. Lord, Nicky, what has come over you?’
‘A severe case of conscience,’ he replied unsmilingly. ‘Now, what did you say to Miss Smith?’
‘I paid her—you will naturally reimburse me—and told her that we would arrange for her to go to Fakenham on the morrow, so that she might take the stage to London. If the foolish girl has walked out tonight, that is none of my doing.’
His jaw tightened. ‘How was she?’
‘I did not particularly notice.’ His sister tilted her head to one side. ‘Let me recall... She was strangely quiet, now I come to think of it. Almost as if she did not care.’ She shrugged. ‘Miss Smith will no doubt write to us once she is settled and we can arrange to send on her trunks. But why should you trouble yourself over this?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is this to do with your ogling the girl?’
He winced. ‘Susan, there are moments when you truly offend me. Now, go, before I say something rash.’
Her eyes widened, but she stepped away.
Nicholas rose and reached for the bell, pacing the floor until a housemaid arrived. ‘Tell the groom to saddle my horse,’ he ordered, ‘and send my valet to my chamber instantly!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
On leaving the Bridewell, Mary had instinctively taken the Fakenham road, as if she were returning to Stiffkey Hall. Yet that home was gone, just as surely as if it had burned to the ground. Even now, Sir Nicholas and the ladies would be seated in the salon after a hearty dinner, enjoying the fire and the comfort of family.
With her headstrong candour, she had removed herself from their circle forever. What she had said to Sir Nicholas had been unforgivable. His sister clearly detested her. Miss Cushing had been distressed by her very presence there. Only the children and, she thought, the staff might miss her a little. Mr Bramber. Mrs Kett. Jarvis, the butler. Cook.
She walked on in the darkness, moving slowly as there was little light tonight. Heavy cloud obscured the moon and the stillness of the night made her feel as though she were the only creature in the world. That sensation then changed abruptly. As she approached the crossroads with the road to Great Snoring, she suddenly heard the jingle and clop of an approaching horse.
Instantly terrified, she dived into a gap in the hedgerow, crouching down and covering herself with her cloak as best she could. Who could be out riding after dark? Holding the hood of her cloak to one side, she peeped out. The traveller had a single lantern to help him find his way and, as the horse trotted closer she recognised the rider. It was Sir Nicholas himself, his features harshly lit from below. As the horse reached the place where she was hiding, it sidled a little and he spoke. ‘Easy now. Good lad.’
An instant later and he had passed her. Her eyes followed in desperation as he disappeared into the darkness. He was so dear to her and she had broken what had been between them. It felt as though a hole had cracked open in her chest. A sound, half-wail, half-groan erupted from her and finally she gave way to tears. Crouching in the hedgerow, frozen, alone and lonely, with no solace and no hope, she cried. She had felt it earlier and now the knowledge hit her with renewed force. All was lost.
* * *
Nicholas accepted a glass of port from Mr Easton. It was of slightly better quality than the one he had enjoyed a half-hour ago, in another vicarage—the home of Mr Fuller. Miss Lutton, the housekeeper in the Houghton St Giles vicarage had not invited him in beyond the hallway—her employer, Mr Smith, being still away.
All three had reacted with varying degrees of confusion and puzzlement when he had asked after the whereabouts of his governess. Miss Lutton had seemed deeply concerned, while the two vicars had been more bewildered that he would put himself out so for a governess.
‘Depend upon it,’ Mr Easton was saying now, ‘she will have a beau in the district. These young girls,’ he almost sneered, ‘have no moral substance. They think only of fashion and fornication.’
‘Miss Smith,’ Nicholas replied coldly, ‘is the most virtuous person of my acquaintance. She has no beau and her disappearance is of grave concern to all at Stiffkey Hall.’
I am her beau, he was thinking. I and no other.
On leaving home, he had been desperately trying to work out where Miss Smith might have gone. As the daughter of a clergyman herself, it stood to reason that she might have sought refuge in one of the three local vicarages. The only other people she might know in the district were his own tenant farmers, for she often visited them when they were in need. He had called there first, but no, none of them had seen Miss Smith for a few days. He had then called at the vicarages in Houghton, Great Snoring and Walsingham before admitting defeat. He had no ideas left.
Turning for home, he could not rid himself of the desperate hope that she might have returned in his absence.
* * *
Bramber, who had been informed of the situation, met him at the doorway, his expression sombre. ‘You did not find her?’
‘No,’ Nicholas replied curtly. It was now almost midnight. ‘You should not have waited up.’
Bramber snorted. ‘I like her, too, you know!’ He sent Nicholas a rueful glance. ‘But not, perhaps, in the way that you do.’
Nicholas put a hand to his head, glad there was no one to witness their conversation. ‘I have made a mull of it, Bramber. She is gone and I do not know where she may be.’
Bramber put a hand on his arm. ‘She will have sought shelter in a farmhouse or barn, perhaps. She ca
nnot have gone far. We shall find her tomorrow for certain.’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘It is imperative that we do. I cannot—I am lost without her.’
Bramber nodded, his expression one of concern. ‘I know.’
Silence stretched between them. ‘Bramber,’ Nicholas said, ‘I have not always been kind to you. Know that you are a friend to me, not simply a secretary.’
Bramber nodded tightly, seemingly unable to speak.
It was true, Nicholas knew. Here before him he had had a friend all along. He had simply not recognised it until now. And as for Mary, why had he not seen before how dear to him she was?
‘Now, you must rest.’ Bramber’s voice croaked a little. ‘I shall call your valet to come to you. Fear not, we can begin to search again at first light.’
Nicholas eyed him bleakly. ‘You are right, of course. I just wish there was something... It is my fault that she has gone and now she is alone out there somewhere...’ His voice tailed away. There was nothing more to be done, except wait for daylight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Was it possible to cry cold tears? Mary was still sobbing what felt like an age later. She had left her hiding place in the hedgerow once she was sure he had truly gone and had trudged slowly down the roads and lanes, despair having taken hold of her. At what must have been near midnight, she passed the gateway to Stiffkey Hall, her feet having taken her there without conscious thought.
As she passed by the gates, the clouds had finally begun to discharge their heavy load. It seemed fitting. Now rivulets of rain rolled relentlessly down her face, mingling with her tears so that it felt as though she was crying a stream, a river, a flood. A dog barked in a lonely farmhouse as she passed and she hurried on, knowing she needed to avoid all contact with people while she was in this state.
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 19