A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

by Catherine Tinley

  What if she had taken up with some man as her only option? So, marriage, perhaps? A special licence from a London bishop? Surely Miss Smith would not be so lost to all reason that she would run away with a young man without promise of marriage? And how on earth could she have found a man so swiftly?

  His hands gripped the ribbons tightly, causing the horses to slow a little. Deliberately, he softened his grip, yet the emotions remained. On the surface, anger and wounded pride. Beneath, only pain.

  Why? Why had she done this? Oh, he knew how low she must have felt when she had been turned off that day. He also knew how women who were truly destitute often had very little choice about how best to survive. But had she actually turned to this unknown man? He couldn’t imagine so.

  He shuddered at the thought of her being voluntarily intimate with the man, shuddered even more at the possibility that she had not submitted willingly. Oh, she might have been compliant of necessity, but every instinct in him was crying out that, whatever the evidence, Mary remained a person of good character.

  He recalled her vehement defence of Miss Cushing, herself a vulnerable woman with limited choices...and yet Bramber’s account had been clear. Mary had been engaged in intimacies with this man, according to the scullery maid. The thought slew him, as pain greater than any he could ever recall blinded his mind and prevented him from reaching any rational conclusions. Yet his heart remained convinced of her innocence.

  Leaving the village, he managed the curricle around a particularly nasty bend, then pulled up as he saw the aftermath of an accident ahead. To his right, a gaudy phaeton lay on its side, an axle clearly broken. A groom was attempting to settle two terrified horses, while a gentleman who looked a little the worse for wear sat on the verge. To his left, a farm cart had been knocked into the ditch, although it looked intact. As his carriage, slowing, approached the cart he realised there was someone there, in the grass by the side of the road. A young red-haired man, and he was gazing down at a lady, holding her in his arms.

  Mary! Without clear thought, Nicholas halted the carriage, wrapped up the reins and jumped down. ‘What on earth are you—?’ He broke off, as it became clear to him that the woman was strangely still. No! His heart lurched.

  He rushed forward, noting absently that the man with her was extremely young and that he looked terrified.

  As well you should be, he thought grimly, trying to tell himself inwardly that Mary was not dead. She could not possibly be dead.

  ‘She ended up in the hedgerow, sir—I’ve only just lifted her out. And now she will not awaken.’ The youth’s red hair accentuated the paleness of his complexion as he eyed Nicholas.

  This was the man Mary had been intimate with? Why, he looked barely eighteen!

  Oh, why did you not trust me, Mary? It need not have come to this.

  He knelt down beside them. The youth was cradling Mary protectively, her head lolling in the crook of his right arm. The sight was highly offensive to Nicholas, but at this moment he had more pressing concerns. Leaning down close to Mary, he felt the faintest of breaths caress his cheek.

  She is alive!

  There were some small cuts to her cheeks, but no visible serious wounds. Gently, he ran his hands along her arms, checking for injuries.

  ‘No broken arm,’ he muttered, then, with as much detachment as he could muster, he checked her legs through her woollen dress. ‘Apologies, Miss Smith. I am your only doctor in this moment.’

  The youth had noted Nicholas’s use of Mary’s name. ‘Then you know her!’

  ‘I do and I am wondering why she is here with you.’

  The youth looked bewildered. ‘You will have to ask her yourself, sir.’

  This was reassuring. If this young man had been her beau, then surely they were bound for a specific destination, agreed between the two of them. Why would the youth not say so?

  He went to question the young man again, but just then, Mary stirred. One hand moved towards her face and then her eyelids fluttered open. Nicholas could not help it. He put himself directly in her line of vision, determined to ensure that her first sight would not be the youth’s face, but his.

  ‘Which prisoner died? Who was it?’ she murmured sleepily. Her eyes then focused on his. ‘You are not the prison guard,’ she announced firmly. ‘You are Sir Nicholas.’

  Prison guard? What on earth was she talking about?

  She is raving. She must have hurt her head.

  ‘I am,’ he confirmed, his voice cracking slightly.

  ‘Last time, it was the guard—and he turned out to be kind.’ She glanced around. ‘Wait. Where am I? And why are you here?’ She espied her companion. ‘Arthur!’ A dull flush suffused her face and neck. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Quite,’ replied Nicholas, leaning back as she struggled to sit up. Her face was pale and she swayed a little, even in sitting, but she did not swoon. The youth, having assisted her, now shuffled back from her so that they were no longer touching. It looked as though the lad had only been assisting her while she was unconscious. At least, Nicholas desperately hoped that was the case.

  Part of his mind was still functioning. She had called the young man ‘Arthur’, he noted, yet only once, during that episode in the woods, had she referred to him as anything other than the formal ‘Sir Nicholas’.

  Because she was your employee, he reminded himself.

  She had been his hireling, not his social equal. And he had never given her permission for a more informal form of address. Of course she and her friend would address each other by their given names. A pang went through him as he realised she would never again call him ‘Nicky’.

  She sat for a moment, looking from one to the other. ‘The accident!’ She frowned. ‘That carriage was travelling dangerously fast!’ She wriggled, pressed her stomach and touched her face. ‘I appear to be largely uninjured,’ she confirmed, ‘though my head aches. But—’ she eyed Nicholas ‘—why are you here?’

  ‘I am here,’ he replied grimly, ‘because there are matters I wish to discuss with you.’

  Her gaze shifted sideways. ‘I know,’ she replied quietly.

  His heart sank.

  So does that mean it is true? Is this lad her beau? No, I cannot believe it.

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘not yet. I must again be cowardly, and delay this reckoning for a little longer. In the meantime I must visit Sir Harold—immediately!’

  ‘Sir Harold?’ This was completely unexpected. ‘Why on earth would you wish to do that?’

  She ignored this. ‘Arthur, please may we continue? I must speak to Sir Harold today.’

  Again, Arthur.

  ‘What is your name, boy?’ Nicholas knew he was being arrogant, but the thought of this boy being intimate with Mary was too much to bear.

  ‘Arthur...’ He gulped. ‘Arthur Todd.’

  ‘Todd?’ Sir Nicholas frowned. ‘Are you, then, related to Mr Todd of Houghton St Giles? The haberdasher?’

  ‘I am his son, sir.’ Nicholas now recognised the lad.

  I did not know she was friends with the Todds. Why are they in her confidence, yet I am not?

  ‘So is that where you have been?’ He fired the words towards Mary. ‘While my entire household was searching for you, you were plotting with the haberdasher’s son!’ No doubt the boy was enamoured of her. She was, of course, bewitching. But what was her plan? And why was she so intent on visiting Sir Harold? Nothing made sense.

  Mary was still frowning. ‘Plotting?’ Her brows lifted. ‘Have you, then, heard about my papa?’ She placed a hand on Nicholas’s arm. ‘I assure you, Sir Nicholas, there is no plot. It has all been a mistake!’

  He snorted, too confused and hurt to believe her earnest tone and wide-eyed expression. ‘A mistake. Really?’ His raised brow and ironic tone indicated what he thought of that. He should have been the one she turned to. Not—not
Arthur Todd!

  The reference to her papa was confusing. Had her papa washed his hands of her? Where, indeed, was her papa? The situation, he realised, was becoming more confused by the minute. He did not like it. Not one bit.

  ‘I might have known you would not believe me,’ she said softly. ‘I had suspected it, wondered if I might have trusted you. Now I know I was right to keep my own counsel.’

  Arthur had wandered away to assess the rear left cart wheel, which was currently lodged in the ditch. ‘It is not damaged, only stuck,’ he called to Miss Smith. ‘It will take at least a half-hour to get the cart back on the road again,’ he offered, ‘and I shall need assistance.’

  She stood, brushing grass and other debris from her skirts. She was clearly unaware of the numerous twigs in her hair. Nicholas, his dander up, did not enlighten her. His mind was racing, trying to figure out why on earth Miss Smith had taken up with the Todd family so soon after leaving Stiffkey Hall. It did not make sense. None of it made sense.

  ‘Be on your way, sir. We have no need of you.’ Her tone was dismissive and, contrarily, when he had had every intention of leaving them there, he now decided on a different course of action.

  ‘Miss Smith,’ he said, his tone honeyed, ‘I shall convey you, if you wish it, to Sir Harold Gurney’s residence. Young Todd here may seek the assistance of yon gentleman and his groom—’ He indicated the broken-down carriage a few yards away. ‘Indeed, they will undoubtedly require assistance to get to the nearest village for help.’

  Mary opened her mouth to respond, then seemed to think better of it. After a pause, she looked at him haughtily. ‘Much as I desire to give you a sound trimming, I am a rational being and I can see that your suggestion has merit. It will get me there a lot more quickly than if I wait for Arthur.’ She stepped towards her young man. ‘Arthur, I think you should assist that gentleman, even though his dangerous way of driving caused the accident. He should pay you for your assistance.’ She smiled and patted Arthur’s arm. ‘Who knows, you may have two new hats!’

  With this obscure comment, she picked up the reticule which was lying on the ground, checked inside it, then walked towards Nicholas’s curricle. ‘Well, hand me up, then,’ she commanded tartly. ‘I cannot climb all the way up there by myself!’

  Feeling strangely put out, Nicholas walked across to obey her. Quite how she had turned the tables on him, he was unsure. He was the one who had been castigated, his character blackened by her blistering assessment of him. He was the one who had gone searching after her like a lovesick fool, thinking her dead in the woods, only to find her with the son of the respectable Mr Todd. A youth who yet lived with his parents in the village.

  No. Something was not right here. He had no idea where Miss Smith had spent the past two nights, but her approach to young Arthur Todd, despite the pat on the arm, was not at all loverlike. Dismissing the tale by the scullery maid that she had been ‘intimate’ with her companion, he now had to figure out what was actually happening.

  He frowned as he handed her up into the carriage. Why did she have such a pressing need to visit Sir Harold Gurney? As far as he was aware, she had met Sir Harold precisely once, on the night of the musicale. The night they had kissed under the stars. A different pain lanced through him. This time, there was nothing of anger in it. It was made entirely of loss and sadness.

  Wordlessly, he climbed up beside her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mary stared straight ahead, hoping Sir Nicholas would not speak to her. Despite her confident charade just now, she still felt crushed inside. After everything she had endured, to now discover that her instincts had been right and that he was not to be trusted, was difficult to accept. Deep inside, she had hoped for some sort of miracle, where she could find again the connection to Sir Nicholas that she had sensed at different points during her time at the Hall.

  It was not to be. He, like everyone else, would judge Papa and her and find them both guilty. He had just accused her of plotting. Did he honestly believe she was capable of treason? The thought hurt her immeasurably, but she could not give into weakness right now. Papa still relied on her.

  If this was the response of Sir Nicholas who, she had thought, had seen something of her true character, how then could she hope for clemency from Sir Harold, who had already assumed Papa to be guilty?

  She clutched her precious reticule close, wondering if he would even be interested in this second secret letter. Was there a form of words that might attract the magistrate’s interest? Should she show him the letter first, or tell the story initially? Perhaps it might be better to—

  ‘Do you intend to remain silent throughout this journey, Miss Smith?’ Sir Nicholas’s tone dripped with mockery. She closed her eyes briefly as she felt his words arrow through her, then gathered herself.

  ‘We might speak of the climate, I suppose,’ she offered, with seeming equanimity. ‘The weather is strikingly wet for this time of year, is it not?’ Her hands shook in her lap. She pressed them tightly together in case he should notice.

  His jaw tightened. ‘I do not wish to speak of the weather.’ He stared grimly ahead and she was conscious of having scored a hit. There was no pleasure in it.

  How sad that such a promising friendship had come to this! How sad that he would never know of her true regard for him. Tears started in her eyes and she closed them tightly. They must not fall! She sensed him turn towards her, his arm brushing against her shoulder as he turned. Opening her eyes immediately, she stared directly ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. After a moment, he turned his attention back to the road.

  If he heard her sniff a moment later, he did not acknowledge it and, when she fished in the reticule for her handkerchief, he politely ignored it. Heartbreak had reared up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her once more. Having stopped the waterfall of grief that had overcome her that first night away from Stiffkey Hall, she sensed it was now threatening to break through again. Terrifyingly, she recognised that if she broke again, she had no way of knowing if she could find any sense of control.

  Desperately, she focused her mind on distractions. Her own nails, digging in to her palms. Her poor sore feet, still blistered from her night of walking. The soothing rumble of the curricle as it travelled along the road. The sight of the horses, as near perfect twins as she had seen. Birds soaring in the huge sky above them. Her breathing steadied a little.

  The sun glinted through the clouds, illuminating the landscape beneath, soothing her soul and helping her turn her attention away from her troubles.

  There are greater things than my own difficulties.

  Determinedly, she ignored the man beside her as best she could, and concentrated only on breathing, not crying and not feeling anything.

  Beside her, she heard him sigh. ‘Very well, Miss Smith. Please will you tell me why we are visiting Sir Harold Gurney.’

  She eyed him warily. Should she tell him?

  He will discover the truth soon enough.

  Her shoulders slumped. ‘My father was arrested.’ Her tone was flat. ‘He is falsely accused of treason.’

  He gaped at her. ‘What? Treason! When did this happen?’

  ‘Before I came to Norfolk. I have been visiting him in the Bridewell.’ She took a breath. ‘You have met him, before this happened. He is the Houghton vicar.’

  ‘Reverend Smith!’ His voice was tight, his expression shocked.

  ‘Yes. But I assure you he is entirely innocent!’ She eyed him warily, hope warring with dread inside her.

  Will he believe me?

  * * *

  Nicholas was astounded. Whatever it was he had thought Mary might say, this had not ever crossed his mind. His mind was awhirl. Her father, a traitor? And she had known since before coming to Stiffkey Hall. All this time and she had never said anything?

  Instantly he felt a wave of ire at the person or pers
ons who had done this to the gentle scholar he remembered. If Mary’s father had been imprisoned wrongly, then everything must be done to ensure he was released.

  Wait. A lifetime of caution, of not acting on others’ behalf, pulled him back. Instead of allowing his gut to rule him, he should apply logic. Treason was no small matter.

  If Mr Smith was guilty—and he must consider the possibility—then Mary was either denying the truth to herself, or she was dishonest. No. That he could not believe.

  If it had been the case then she, too, might be taken up and imprisoned by Sir Harold. Considering her demeanour as she had spoken just now, he did not believe this possibility had occurred to her. Or perhaps it had, but she was too brave to show it.

  His thoughts were awhirl, and nothing made sense. Stop. This was not a conundrum to figure out with his clever mind. This, he realised, was a moment to look into his heart.

  So, sitting there in his curricle, his heart thumping and his mind in turmoil, finally he asked himself the core question. Is Mary false, or true?

  Instantly he was overwhelmed by memories, swirling around in a whirlpool of emotion. Mary working hard to help young David overcome his suspicion of maths, encouraging Beatrice to believe in her own capabilities, taking the younger ones outside to run and play. Mary deceiving the children’s mother about those very same ‘lessons’.

  Mary, who visited prisoners, perhaps not because she was a good person, but because her own father was among them. A man who might well be a traitor. Mary, who also visited the poor, tended the sick and criticised him for not doing more.

  Mary, who had been accused of being ‘intimate’ with the young man in the cart. Who had patted Arthur’s arm as though he were one of her young charges.

  Mary, who had been shockingly intimate with himself in the woods, causing him to reconsider the very course of his life.

  A sudden thought occurred to him. If she were truthful, and her father was indeed the respected and innocent Mr Smith, then he might marry her without objections even from his sister! Not that he would ever allow Susan to determine such an important choice. It was only...