A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

by Catherine Tinley

  Where are you, Mary?

  In daylight, some of his fears seemed fanciful, yet Nicholas could not shake his concern. He, and no one else, knew of all the trials Mary had faced yesterday—including her near-seduction in this very woodland.

  I should not have done it, he told himself for the hundredth time. She, an innocent, gently-bred female, and I, little better than a beast.

  She had been stung by his rejection then and he, also bereft and longing, had been unable to find gentle words to explain why they had had to cease. He recalled the furious pride in her eyes as she had whirled away from him, that absurd gold cloak swirling, and he smiled sadly at the memory.

  ‘What next, sir?’ Bramber’s question brought him back to the present. They had reached the edge of the woodland. Ahead was the great empty field leading to the river, to their right the road that led to the house.

  ‘Call me Denny,’ he murmured abstractedly. From now on he was determined to afford Bramber all the privileges of friendship, while continuing to pay him well.

  All is changed, now.

  ‘We return to the house and hope she is safe.’ He gathered the men around him and thanked them for their efforts, before trudging home in silence, Bramber by his side.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mary awoke with a start, surprised to find herself curled up in an armchair. Then memories flooded back, and with them anxiousness.

  What time is it?

  Her head lifted to view the clock on the mantel. Three o’clock.

  Oh, no! She had slept for hours.

  Jumping up, she hurried to find Miss Lutton, her mind racing.

  Papa is bound for Newgate, but I have proof that might save him.

  Miss Lutton was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of delicious stew. Despite her urgency, Mary’s stomach growled with hunger. When had she last eaten? She could not remember. Nuncheon yesterday, perhaps.

  ‘Ah, there you are, miss!’ Miss Lutton gave a welcoming smile. ‘I brought you some food earlier but thought it best to let you sleep. Now, sit down and have some of my lamb stew. You’ll like it, I promise.’

  The stew, and the freshly baked bread that accompanied it, turned out to be quite the most delicious food Mary had ever tasted, sitting at a scrubbed wooden table, on a plain chair, in a kitchen. It brought her back to childhood memories, and a cherished feeling of being safe.

  Her mind now clear for the first time, Mary thanked Miss Lutton, then, banishing Sir Nicholas from her mind, turned to matters at hand. ‘Where does Sir Harold Gurney live, Miss Lutton?’

  ‘The magistrate? He lives about fifteen miles from here, near Dereham.’ Miss Lutton frowned. ‘Are you thinking to bring the letter to him?’

  ‘I am, in the hope he might take it to London to speak on Papa’s behalf. It will be dark soon and fifteen miles is much too far to walk tonight. I shall have to leave at first light tomorrow and walk through the day, which is not ideal. Such a pity he did not live closer.’

  ‘What about...?’ Miss Lutton bit her lip. ‘I do not wish to know what passed between you and Sir Nicholas, but can you not call on him to assist?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘Sadly, that is impossible. I am the last person he would wish to aid.’

  Miss Lutton thought for a moment. ‘In that case...young Arthur!’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The haberdasher’s boy, Arthur. He is about seventeen now, and his da—Mr Todd, that is—sometimes sends him to Fakenham or even as far as Holt to pick up deliveries. He might be willing to take you to Sir Harold, if you pay him.’ She flushed. ‘I have a little money put by. It is not much, but you are welcome to it, miss.’

  Mary placed her hand on Miss Lutton’s. ‘Thank you, but there is no need. I, too, have some money.’

  Though not very much.

  ‘Very well. Can you ask him today?’ She halted. ‘But, no, he might mention it to someone and they might tell someone from Stiffkey Hall, and then...’

  The thought of Sir Nicholas coming here to berate her was too much.

  I remain a coward, she admitted.

  ‘I shall tell him that it is I who needs to travel to Dereham. Then when he comes in the morning, you can take my place.’

  Another deception. Now Miss Lutton was being poisoned and having to be untruthful—and all because of Mary’s own actions. Mary shook her head. ‘No, there is no need for you to deceive him. Just say that someone staying with you has need of it.’

  If Sir Nicholas comes here, I shall simply have to endure it.

  Miss Lutton agreed and set off for the village centre again. Mary, feeling decidedly strange, washed her dishes, shook out her other dress which had dried beside the kitchen fire, then returned to Papa’s study.

  She spread out the papers again, but could make no more sense of them than she had before. Her mind could not focus and her heart was sore. It was bad enough that she was so worried for Papa, but that aside, leaving Stiffkey Hall in disgrace was surely one of the worst days of her short life.

  It was not simply her failure to behave as a governess ought, although the notion stung. It was her restless mind speculating on how the children would speak of her abrupt departure. How Miss Cushing might react. The things Mrs Fenhurst might say about her. Sir Nicholas’s sister had a strong need to be right and, since she had been the one to let Mary go, she would undoubtedly be justifying it to anyone who would listen.

  Briefly, Mary allowed herself to remember various moments when Sir Nicholas, amused or irritated by his sister’s latest vacuous statement, or some nonsense from Miss Cushing, would make an ironic remark that only Mary—and sometimes Bramber—would comprehend. Now and again, when Mrs Fenhurst or Miss Cushing was being particularly absurd, his eyes would meet Mary’s and they would share a moment of perfect understanding. There had been no cruelty in it, despite the accusations she had thrown at him.

  Mary closed her eyes hard against the tears that had sprung up. ‘Lord,’ she said aloud, ‘I am becoming a watering pot! How tiresome!’

  Her sensible tone cracked as the brokenness within her rose up again. That would be my heart, I believe.

  The realisation was overwhelming. Her heart was affected. Not just her pride. It was too much to consider. Desperately, she pushed the notion away.

  * * *

  Arthur was red-haired, broad-shouldered and tall for seventeen and, he assured Mary, he was well able to handle his father’s cart and the plodding horse that was currently standing stoically in the dawn light outside the vicarage.

  Mary had not met him before and was glad to understand he did not know of her recent connection to Stiffkey Hall. It would make the situation less complicated. She had already tucked the secret papers into her reticule and Miss Lutton had given her some bread, cheese and sliced meat, all wrapped in a clean muslin cloth, to eat on the way.

  Mary had not slept well, despite her exhaustion and despite truly appreciating Miss Lutton’s welcoming her in without question. When dawn finally appeared, glowing coldly, Mary had been relieved.

  Miss Lutton fussed and chattered as Mary climbed up into the cart and gave young Arthur some detailed last-minute instructions about keeping his passenger safe and stopping to shelter should it rain, as she remained unconvinced that Miss Smith would not take a chill.

  Arthur bore this with equanimity, seemingly used to adults continually giving him instructions. He requested that Mary call him by his given name since, he said, being addressed as ‘young Mr Todd’ was not something which he took any pleasure from in life.

  They set off, Mary tying her bonnet with deliberation and trying not to show fear as they passed through the village. Thankfully, at this early hour no one was around. Mary had deliberately asked to set off soon after dawn, partly because it would take most of the day to travel to Dereham and back, but also because she knew the servants would be bu
sy in Stiffkey Hall at this time, while the family would still be abed for another couple of hours yet.

  Still, there was a tingling along her spine as she constantly worried about any sound that might indicate someone was following them. Thankfully, Arthur had no curiosity about her or her purpose in visiting Sir Harold, having clearly assumed she was related to Miss Lutton. Mary did not challenge this.

  * * *

  It was not until they reached Fakenham that she began to settle a little and think more about her forthcoming conversation with Sir Harold and less about the chance that Sir Nicholas might find her.

  And so it was that Mary entirely failed to notice Sally, the Stiffkey Hall scullery maid, who had been given time off yesterday evening to visit her ailing mother in Pudding Norton. Sally was returning to work in her uncle’s cart, the two vehicles passing each other at the Hempton Road junction, and it was only afterwards that Sally realised that it had been none other than Miss Smith the governess sitting bold as brass with a man in the middle of the main road from Fakenham to Dereham. She had barely seen the man, but had the impression he was young and well-proportioned.

  ‘Well, I never!’ Sally sniffed. ‘To think that the whole house was in an uproar, the master thinking something terrible had happened, and all the time she was eloping with a young man!’

  Her uncle was gratifyingly interested and they spent the rest of the journey to Stiffkey Hall discussing the matter. It was not long before Sally had formed the opinion that Cook ought to know the truth about the governess. ‘Stands to reason,’ agreed Sally’s uncle. ‘If they know she is safe, they can forget about her.’ By the time they had reached Stiffkey Hall, Sally had convinced herself of Miss Smith’s shocking depravity and a number of embellishments had been unconsciously added to Sally’s account.

  * * *

  Oblivious to the scullery maid’s recognition of her, Mary continued on her journey. Arthur was a pleasant lad, Mary realised, eager to please and grateful to be earning a small sum for the day’s work, for his papa had agreed he could keep the entire amount for himself, rather than handing it in to the household.

  ‘It will be the first time,’ Arthur confessed shyly, ‘that I shall have earned money of my own.’

  Mary, glad of this reminder that she could play a happy role in another person’s story, encouraged him to talk about what he might do with the money. She had to stifle a small smile when he revealed he planned to buy a new hat—a dashing dark beaver, in fact, he being deeply unsatisfied with the boyish cap he was forced to wear.

  In the midst of sorrow and unease, there are always moments of harmony, if we can but see them.

  Mary hugged the thought to herself. Just yesterday morning, in rain-drenched despair, who would have thought that she would now be on her way to see the magistrate, hope concealed within her reticule? Sir Nicholas was lost to her, but Papa could yet be saved. And only she could save him.

  * * *

  The knocking came again, this time more loudly. It reverberated through Nicholas’s brandy-aching skull, penetrating the oblivion that he had been seeking as the night ticked slowly by. The sound persisted, forcing him to open his eyes.

  ‘Stop that infernal racket!’ he roared, realising as he did so that he was in his library, cold cinders in the grate and an empty bottle by his side. Daylight was slicing through a gap in the curtains, hurting his eyes. His neck ached from sleeping in the chair and—

  Mary! Memory flooded through him and, with it, the same sense of loss that had haunted him since her departure.

  ‘I apologise, sir, but I need to speak with you. The matter is urgent.’ It was Bramber.

  Have they found her?

  ‘Come in!’

  The door opened, admitting a nervous-looking Bramber.

  ‘Well, spit it out, then!’ All pretence of politesse was gone. Nicholas felt exposed, bloodied, vulnerable.

  She is gone and I am nothing.

  ‘Miss Smith has been sighted. Possibly.’

  Nicholas sat up straighter, gripping the arms of the chair tightly. ‘Is she—?’

  Please do not tell me she is dead.

  ‘Sally—the scullery maid—swears she saw Miss Smith today. Less than an hour ago, in fact.’

  ‘What? Where?’ He could barely take it in.

  ‘Just south of Fakenham, on the Dereham road. She was travelling in a cart with a young gentleman. They were reportedly being...intimate with one another, which seems unlikely.’ Bramber’s tone was flat.

  Nicholas caught his breath. She is alive!

  Then the second part of Bramber’s information hit him like a punch to the gut.

  Intimate.

  He closed his eyes, as pain lanced through him, cold and knife-like.

  No. Of course it cannot be true.

  ‘A cart, you say? They will be no match for my curricle.’ He jumped up. ‘Tell the stables to prepare the horses and send my valet to my chamber!’

  He strode from the library, barely registering Bramber’s ‘Yes, sir’.

  In the corridor he saw his sister. ‘Ah, there you are, Nicky.’ She tutted. ‘You look a sight! When are you going to start being sensible again? This unseemly focus on a governess is beneath you, you know.’

  ‘Susan,’ he bit out, ‘remove yourself from my sight this instant, or I shall be forced to say things that both of us will wish unsaid.’

  Her eyes widened. Paling, she stepped aside, her usual serene self-regard briefly shaken. ‘I—of course, Brother. I did not mean to cause offence.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, passing her without breaking stride. ‘You never do.’

  * * *

  Just beyond East Bilney, the sky began to darken, and the wind to pick up. ‘Looks like rain,’ Arthur commented and something about the glowering sky made Mary shiver a little.

  ‘Let us continue faster, then,’ she replied. The wooden cart seat was decidedly uncomfortable and she wriggled, trying to find a way of easing her discomfort. Suddenly, she felt strangely unsettled, as though some nameless threat was upon her. She resisted drumming her fingers in frustration as Arthur drove a little faster, but yet with care.

  He seemed to have sensed her impatience, however, for he glanced sideways at her, muttering, ‘My da always makes me drive carefully. Better to be sure than to be sorry is what he says.’

  ‘A wise man,’ she commented, while inwardly repeating, Hurry! Hurry!

  The cart rumbled on, inexorably, following the road to Dereham.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sir Nicholas Denny, when he was inclined to do so, was known as a man who could have true mastery of his horses. His black-and-red curricle was top-of-the-trees, costing a tidy fortune from Messrs Frame and Barlow at Tattersall’s itself. As a young man, he had won numerous races with his friends and it was rumoured he had once flown from London to Brighton in just four hours. More recently, he had had neither the time nor the inclination to race his horses and used his curricle merely for pleasure jaunts around his own neighbourhood.

  Today was different. His matched bays pranced and sidled, sensing his mood, and he was happy to let them have their heads once he had passed beyond his own gates. Those who saw him pass watched with awe at his handling of the ribbons, for he could wheel around a corner with tremendous accuracy and skill, and pass a lumbering cart within a hairsbreadth.

  The horses ate up the yards with ease, while their master drew upon all his skill, all his dormant power. Nicholas, grim-faced, continued on resolutely, his mind remaining entirely focused on finding his fugitive and her companion.

  * * *

  The village of Beetley was small, with a solid medieval church on the main thoroughfare. It was a pretty place, Mary supposed as they passed through, and yet she barely noticed it. Dereham was now only about three miles away and her apprehension was acute.

  The nameless drea
d that had been following her for the past few miles had now taken over her thoughts entirely. She could not for the life of her understand why she was feeling such fear.

  Perhaps it was because so many terrible things had already occurred that her heart refused to believe that she could simply arrive at Sir Harold Gurney’s house and he would then instantly agree to free Papa. Or perhaps, having lived for so long with fear and mistrust, she was now frightened even when there was no sensible reason for feeling so. Yet, when she heard the jingle and rumble of an approaching carriage behind them, she instantly became even more uneasy.

  She was right to do so. The increase in noise indicated that the approaching carriage was travelling at quite some speed. She turned to look back, but could see nothing, as they had just come around a bend. Another twist in the narrow road was ahead but, sensibly, Arthur was already pulling the cart towards one side of the road. ‘Easy now,’ he said reassuringly. Mary was unsure if he was speaking to his horse, or to her.

  In a thunder of hooves and heavy wheels, the pursuing carriage was suddenly upon them. Mary, twisting, had time only to see that it was being pulled by two greys and was a high-perch phaeton, of the kind she’d used to see regularly in London, before it collided with them, knocking the cart sideways. She felt herself fly through the air towards the hedgerow, understood there was about to be an impact, then the world went black and she knew no more.

  * * *

  Beetley. Nearly there. Nicholas knew that, assuming Miss Smith’s destination was the town of Dereham itself, he needed to catch her on this road. Otherwise a frustrating search of Dereham lay ahead.

  What if they were travelling on further, to Norwich or beyond? Or perhaps taking the other road from Dereham, if they were bound for Bury St Edmunds, Cambridge, or even London?

  It depends, he conceded, on their purpose.

  Intimate.