A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

by Catherine Tinley

  After a long, long time, her tears dried. Not because her despair was eased, but because her spirit was now so crushed, so empty, that it seemed there were no tears left inside her. The rain continued endlessly, soaking her through to the skin. Her boots had long since become saturated and each step she took was accompanied by a painful squelch as they blistered her frozen feet.

  Finally, a hint of thought penetrated her stupor, the fear of being discovered lending her renewed vigour. They might come looking for her, and she must not be found. At this point she had quite forgotten who ‘they’ were and why it was so vital that she remain hidden, but she knew now where she must go.

  Hopelessly, she turned towards Houghton St Giles.

  * * *

  The embers were dying, yet still Nicholas remained downstairs. How could he take to his own bed when he knew not if Mary was safe? Only he knew how harshly they had spoken to each other, how cruel his words to her must have been. For her to be turned off on the same day must have sent her into despair. That was why Susan had said Mary had acted as if she did not care. It had to be.

  His thoughts returned to their argument. They had both been angry, each with the other. He now saw an honesty in their dealings with each other—honesty that he did not believe he had ever experienced before. He had hurt Miss Cushing and without good reason. Mary cared enough for him to chastise him for it. Yes, she had expressed herself with great force, but that was undoubtedly due to her passion to improve him.

  Listlessly, he poured himself a glass of brandy. It was too late for insight!

  She is gone.

  * * *

  Summoning the last of her strength, Mary knocked on the vicarage door. It was well past midnight, the rain had finally stopped, and her body was racked with shivering. When Miss Lutton opened the door, Mary saw that her father’s housekeeper was in her nightgown and nightcap, a candle in her hand and a fearful expression on her face.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘for taking you from your bed. I—I need your assistance, for I have nowhere else to go.’

  Miss Lutton’s eyes grew large. ‘Oh, you poor dear. Come inside!’ She took Mary’s arm and guided her in, exclaiming at Mary’s state. ‘Have you been outside in the rain all this time? My word, what a calamity!’ She fussed and chattered, but before long she had provided Mary with hot tea, helped her out of her wet clothes and lit the fire in Papa’s spare bedroom. After what seemed like a long time Mary began to feel its warmth. She still could not speak, her body was still shivering ferociously, but she understood that she yet lived and would—sometime—be warm again.

  Miss Lutton fussed around her and Mary’s soul was soothed a little by the woman’s warmth and caring. Somewhere deep in her mind were bad things that must not be looked at. For now, though, her physical discomforts were so great that they were drowning out the anguished voices inside. When Miss Lutton bade her lie down in the bed, she did so obediently. All was lost, and nothing mattered.

  * * *

  Nicholas had never experienced a night so long. When dawn finally broke, he rose from his bed with a sense of relief, having barely slept. Each time oblivion had overcome him, he had awakened with a start, fear coursing through him at the thought of Mary, lost and alone.

  In the hazy delirium of half-sleep, her words had haunted him. ‘I see you, Sir Nicholas, and I do not like what I see.’

  He clenched his hands into fists and walked to the window, the wooden floor morning-cold under his bare feet. Pulling back the curtains, he scanned the gardens, the trees, the morning sky. The rain had ceased and dawn was sending purplish hope across the horizon. Not even the woodland creatures were astir. Was Mary in those woods somewhere—injured, perhaps?

  A lone crow cawed, its tone somehow mocking.

  She does not even like me, while I—I—

  He refused to complete the thought. Every accusation she had laid before him had been damning. At the time, full of outrage, he had wanted only to defend himself. Now, regret was his shadow.

  He rang for his valet. Quite where he was supposed to begin his search, he simply did not know.

  * * *

  Mary’s second dress had been aired before the fire and when Mary donned it the warmth of the soft fabric against her skin felt somehow consoling. In her haste Mary had instinctively packed the darkest and plainest of her gowns—a plain grey wool walking dress that was serviceable and comfortable, with nothing of adornment or beauty about it. A gown for sadness.

  It fits my temper, she thought as she went downstairs. And my future.

  It was, in essence, a half-mourning gown. Half-mourning. Half-alive, half-grieving. Fully broken.

  Now the housekeeper was offering breakfast, but Mary felt sick even at the smell of it. Miss Lutton, seeing her response, took it away, biding her to go to the parlour and drink the tisane she had made. Mary did so, and brushed and pinned up her hair at the same time. Such small measures gave her an illusory sense of ordinariness, of an everyday habit sustained. A dreamlike quality pervaded the room. Papa’s books. A warm fire. Hairpins. Nothing of this was real.

  * * *

  A little later, Miss Lutton joined Mary in the parlour, an air of decisiveness about her. ‘I shall not pry, miss, but I should tell you that Sir Nicholas Denny was here last night, seeking news of your whereabouts.’

  Mary almost dropped her tisane. ‘Oh, no! He must not find me!’

  Her true alarm must have been apparent, for Miss Lutton’s expression turned grim. ‘Lord, miss!’ She nodded. ‘Very well.’ She began untying her apron. ‘I know your father to be a good, decent man as has been wronged and I trust you are cut from the same cloth. If something has occurred to distress you, I do not need to know what it is. I shall mention to no one that you are here.’ Folding her apron, she sat it on Papa’s desk. ‘I shall have to go out now, as is my habit, to buy provisions for the day. Is there anything in particular you would like to eat?’

  ‘No, nothing. Thank you.’ Miss Lutton tutted at this, but said nothing.

  After a few minutes Mary heard the back door close, and a moment later she spied Miss Lutton, in cloak and bonnet, leaving through the front gate. The same creaking gate she had come through some hours ago. The same gate Sir Nicholas had come through last night.

  Looking for her.

  Why? Memories came flooding back. Sir Nicholas’s sister had made it plain that she had the power to dismiss Mary. Why, she had even paid her! Sir Nicholas himself had stated that he would forget her once she was gone.

  The memory sent pain needling through her. Of course he did. As a governess, despite her efforts with the children, Mary had brought nothing but vexation. She had been an inconvenience. Headstrong. Plain-speaking. Critical of her employer.

  I do not like what I see.

  Had she really said such a cruel thing? An agony of mortification washed over her. She had called him selfish. Indolent. Had accused him of being unconcerned with other people’s needs. Harsh words, spoken in anger. When would she ever learn to bite her tongue?

  An innate sense of fairness led her to recognise that she had been entirely unjust. Yes, Sir Nicholas had been used to pleasing only himself. But she had also seen him offer numerous kindnesses to others, including herself. She put her head in her hands. Circumstance had led to Papa’s misfortune. Her own was entirely of her own making.

  She tried to consider events from Sir Nicholas’s perspective. He had been drawn to her—but then, she had heard many ladies warn that some gentlemen would indulge their fancy with any willing maid. Sir Nicholas was clearly driven by the same desires—Mary felt a now-familiar heat go through her at the recollection of their abandoned behaviour in the woods.

  Yet he was enough of a gentleman to recognise that she was not a suitable target for dalliance. I am your employer and you are in my care, and this cannot be right, he had said. Because he was a gentleman. Becau
se he had a sense of morality and enough self-control to overcome his body’s urgings. Tears pricked her eyes.

  A true gentleman. And to think how I abused him!

  She recalled anew how vehemently she had attacked him after his comments to Miss Cushing, how shocked he had looked at the time. She had given him no real opportunity to speak, and besides, he would have needed time to properly hear and understand her cruel words.

  He had ensured she was dismissed, yet had come seeking her afterwards. Why?

  The conclusion was inescapable. He wished to defend himself. To tell her, in turn, how she had misjudged him. To tell her what he truly thought of her.

  Fear and distress coursed through her. It was, of course, no more than she deserved. Yet she was too much the coward to withstand his displeasure, broken as she was. Justice dictated that Sir Nicholas should have his chance to speak—as Papa surely would in a London courtroom. Weakness on her part meant that she could not give him that opportunity. Not yet, at least.

  Fairness meant she ought to. Cowardice meant hiding here until she was stronger.

  The gate squeaked, causing her heart to jump. She glanced to the window. Thankfully, it was not Sir Nicholas, but a stocky dark-haired man in breeches and a plain black coat who looked as though he might be a messenger or tradesman. Sure enough, he came to the back door, not the front, and knocked loudly.

  Mary bit her lip. What to do? While she did not wish anyone to know she was here, the man might already have seen her. She glanced around distractedly, her eye falling on Miss Lutton’s apron. She jumped up and donned the apron as she walked through the house to find where the back door must be. Taking a breath, she opened the door.

  His eyes swept over her, noting the plain dress and apron.

  I am a housemaid, she thought silently. Naught but a simple housemaid.

  Thankfully, the man came to the right conclusion. ‘Is your master at home?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Mary, with what she hoped was suitable deference. She gave no further information.

  He tutted and fished under his coat, withdrawing a sealed parchment. ‘When he returns, you may pass him this.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And your name, sir?’ It would be normal to take the name of such a person.

  ‘Never mind my name. Just pass on the message.’

  Something in his manner was not quite right. Caught up in her own situation, it had taken a moment for Mary to sense it. She glanced down at the letter in her hand. The parchment was of good quality, the penmanship clear. The only writing on the outside were the words Vicar, near Walsingham, Norfolk. Instantly her mind ran to a conclusion that seemed impossible.

  Desperate to hide from the messenger the thoughts that were now tumbling through her fevered brain, instead she feigned disinterest. ‘Very well, sir.’

  Vicar, near Walsingham. Vicar, near Walsingham.

  Hiding in the hallway until she heard the creaking gate signalling the messenger had truly left, Mary tiptoed back into the study, her heart racing. Sure enough, the man was now mounting a piebald horse that he had tethered outside the vicarage. As she watched, he trotted away, passing Miss Lutton who was now returning, a basket on her arm.

  Mary opened the front door. ‘Miss Lutton! Come quickly!’

  A look of alarm crossed the housekeeper’s face. ‘What is it, miss?’

  ‘That man, riding away. Have you seen him before?’

  The housekeeper set down her basket on the hall tiles and began untying her bonnet as Mary closed the front door. ‘Yes, I have. He came with a package for your father—oh, it must be two months ago.’ She paused, reflecting. ‘It was the day we had snow, for I recall commenting to him about it. That means he came in early January.’ She frowned, belatedly working out why Mary was so interested in the man. ‘Is this to do with your father and the accusations against him? Could it be he who brought the—’ her voice dipped ‘—the secret papers?’

  ‘I do not know. But we must consider the possibility.’ Briefly, Mary detailed her conversation with the man. Was it possible this was the error that had condemned Papa? ‘Look at the direction. It is vague in the extreme!’

  Miss Lutton studied the package. ‘Vicar, near Walsingham... I see what you mean. That could be any one of three men—your father, Mr Easton in Great Snoring, or even Mr Fuller in Walsingham itself, for the vicarage is on the outskirts of the village. If the messenger is not a local man, he may not know of the other vicarages.’ She frowned. ‘But that would mean that the true traitor is definitely a man of the cloth!’

  Mary took her hand. ‘I know, Miss Lutton. It seems impossible. And yet, surely we must at least consider it?’

  ‘Of course we must!’ She nodded firmly, yet her air of bewilderment persisted. ‘But, Miss Smith, what should we do? Is there a man who might assist us in knowing what to do for the best?’

  ‘A man? Why do we need a man?’ Fleetingly, Mary thought of Sir Nicholas. If only they had still been friends... Shaking herself, she replied brightly to Miss Lutton, ‘We must read it ourselves, of course!’ Mary led the way to the parlour. ‘The Bow Street Runner told me they had been following the messenger and saw him deliver the first papers here. That was why Papa was taken. I saw no one else outside just now, so perhaps this time he has delivered his letter undetected.’

  Miss Lutton looked concerned. ‘This entire situation is shocking! And to think we might open Mr Smith’s personal letter!’ She nodded firmly. ‘Yet we must. You are right, miss.’

  Mary laughed nervously. ‘If it is simply a sermon or a letter about Dante’s masterpiece, we shall know we are being fanciful. I am not in the habit of interfering with my papa’s private correspondence, but these are not usual times.’

  Selecting a sharp letter opener from Papa’s desk, Mary broke the seal, taking care to preserve it as much as possible. She studied the wax imprint carefully. It was of poor quality and not a pattern she recognised. There seemed to be a dog or wolf in the centre, with something indistinct on the left side.

  With great care, Mary unfolded the leaves and spread them out on the desk. It seemed to be mostly lists, with titles such as Cadiz and Food Supplies. Remembering her conversation with Papa in his cell, Mary realised that this was more secret information.

  Her heart pounding, she glanced at Miss Lutton. ‘This is information from the War Office, I think. Information that Napoleon would pay a great deal for.’

  Miss Lutton put a hand to her bosom. ‘Lord! Spying! It is true, then!’

  Mary was only half-listening. ‘Look, instructions for the traitor!’ She read aloud the handwritten note she had found on the back of one of the lists. ‘“My dear Vicar, I hope this finds you well and that you received the first package without mishap. My contact has not yet received the first package and I am assuming that something occurred to prevent you from passing it on the first time...”’ Mary looked at Miss Lutton. ‘So the spy does not know that Papa has been taken to gaol!’

  Returning to the note, she read on.

  ‘“This time I require you to follow different instructions. You will take both packages to Erpingham Gate on Tuesday next, the twenty-sixth, and there leave them hidden, in the alcove below and to the left of Sir Thomas. As originally agreed, once this second package has been transferred you will receive your payment. Not before.”’ She took a breath. ‘There is no signature.’

  Her hands, she realised, were trembling. If I can figure out who the true villain is, I can perhaps even show Papa to be innocent.

  ‘Well!’ Miss Lutton was transfixed. ‘Well!’ she repeated. ‘Such nefarious activities amid Christian men! I was never so shocked.’ She blinked, seemingly incapable of comprehending the complexities of the situation. ‘I have brought some good meat, miss, for you must eat something!’ She bustled off, muttering about spies and wickedness.

  Mary watched her go, he
r mind racing. Why involve the nameless vicar at all—whichever vicar it was? Surely the messenger himself could have been charged with placing the package at—she rechecked the note—Erpingham Gate, wherever that was. A village, perhaps? Or an actual gate?

  She sat down by the fire again, trying to understand the reasons, but her mind seemed incapable of operating. It was hardly to be wondered at, she supposed. She had left her bed in Stiffkey Hall yesterday morning, after the ball. She had slept briefly, last night, but it felt as though a month had passed since she had been truly at rest.

  First there had been the encounter in the window yesterday morning, where Sir Nicholas had looked at her in such a way...then the meeting in the woods, where she had been lost to all reason. Her memories unfolded like a play. Miss Cushing. Her harsh words to Sir Nicholas. Mrs Fenhurst ending her contract. Papa who might have died of fever. Papa who was on his way to Newgate. Despair. Walking for hours last night in the rain... She had snatched a little sleep in Papa’s guest room, yet still her mind was foggy and unclear.

  The heat of the fire and the comfort of the armchair was her undoing. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

  * * *

  Nicholas made his way through the woods slowly and carefully, his head continually turning left, then right. What if she was nearby and he failed to see her? A few yards away to his left, James the footman walked. To his right, Bramber. Two grooms flanked them on either side. This was their third and final pass through, with all of the small wooded area now having been searched. The other two farmers, along with their sons and labourers, were systematically checking every barn within four miles. Jarvis, the butler, was out with one of the farmers, checking all of the local roads in daylight, while the other footman—Seth—waited at the house under strict orders to come immediately to find Sir Nicholas if Miss Smith should arrive or be discovered.