* * *
The trip back to Stiffkey Hall was strange and beautiful, all at once. They conversed on many topics, including Arthur, who had been hired as Mary’s driver for the day, and Miss Lutton, who had looked after Mary in her distress. Both apologised, each to the other, for the angry words they had exchanged after nuncheon the other day. Nicholas informed Mary that Miss Cushing’s security had been agreed and she was happy to hear it.
Reluctant to allow the journey to pass too quickly, Nicholas kept the horses to a walk. After Beetley he took her hand and she allowed hers to rest there. In their guarded speech, they began assembling again those gossamer-thin connections that had been so harshly sundered these past few days. They each disclosed the assumptions they had made about the other and laughed at their own foolishness.
There were yet no kisses, as they warily and carefully rebuilt the foundations of the friendship that had become so essential to both of them. ‘If only you had felt able to confide in me!’ he said ruefully as they passed through Fakenham.’
‘Oh, I wanted to. I knew you to be a man of integrity. Yet too much was at stake. With some more time, I suspect I would have told you the whole. But then Miss Cushing, and your sister, and the Bow Street Runner...everything was upon me at once, and I knew not what to do.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘My poor Mary!’ he said roughly. ‘Never again will you carry such burdens alone. This I promise you.’ His gaze pinned hers, and she nodded mutely, before leaning her head against his shoulder. Letting go of her hand, he instead snaked his arm around her. She cuddled close and closed her eyes, feeling safe. Feeling loved.
Nicholas had politely but firmly declined Sir Harold’s invitation for them both to stay for dinner, stating that he preferred to leave for home before darkness fell. Now, as they neared Stiffkey Hall, the evening star, Venus herself, appeared in the western sky as if guiding them home.
Nearly there. For the first time since Nicholas’s defence of her, Mary began to feel nervous. As they turned into the drive, he must have sensed it, for he smiled at her, saying, ‘Have courage, little one. After all you have been through, my sister is no match for you.’
A lump formed in her throat at his kind words and the warmth behind them. She sent him a misty smile, the remade connection between them a balm to her recent wounds. They both knew that next Tuesday would mark a closing-point, but neither spoke of it.
He handed her down from the curricle, then kept her hands in his for a moment. ‘I still stand with you, Mary,’ he murmured. ‘Now, let us face her together!’ He winked, which made her laugh.
And so, Mary was able to respond to Mrs Fenhurst’s displeasure and Miss Cushing’s disapproval with polite equanimity. She had been, she explained, staying with Miss Lutton in Houghton St Giles, but Sir Nicholas had persuaded her to return to Stiffkey Hall.
‘This time, Sister,’ he informed Mrs Fenhurst, ‘Miss Smith is our guest rather than my employee. She is free to enjoy her visit and be at her leisure.’ He turned and bowed deeply to Mary, the honour in the gesture apparent to all present. ‘Your room awaits you, Miss Smith—unless you would prefer a larger chamber in the family wing?’
‘Oh, no!’ Mary felt herself blush. ‘My own room is delightful!’
‘Excellent!’ he declared, rubbing his hands together. ‘Susan, be sure to inform Cook that Miss Smith has returned and I shall expect dinner just as soon as we have both changed.’ They left the parlour together, separating at the top of the upper stairs with a joyous shared smile.
* * *
Nicholas had sent a groom to Miss Lutton with a message, and had invited her to visit Miss Smith the next morning. She arrived bright and early, bristling with protectiveness. Mary, who had chosen to wear a primrose-yellow muslin, as it matched her mood, greeted her with a sunny smile and a fierce hug.
Miss Lutton naturally wished to hear of everything that had occurred and to check that Miss Smith was content to once again be residing in Stiffkey Hall.
‘Oh, yes!’ Mary confirmed. ‘Indeed, I regret not telling Sir Nicholas the truth sooner as you suggested, for he has been extremely fair.’ She explained the plan to Miss Lutton, who declared herself to be ‘fair impressed’ and hopeful that it would lead to Mr Smith being released at last.
Her words revived that eternal knot in Mary’s chest. Not until she saw it done could she believe that all would be well with Papa. After Miss Lutton departed, Mary joined Nicholas and Bramber in the library.
Bramber was already writing the false lists, complete with a slightly amended copy of the covering note—one which suggested that this was the first, not the second package. Neither of the two local vicars had ever, he was sure, seen his handwriting.
During their conversation Mary sensed a change in the connection between Nicholas and his secretary. There was some easiness there that she had not before seen and which allowed Nicholas to tease Bramber about Miss Reeve, whom he happened to have encountered in the village that very day. Bramber took this in a good-natured way, but Mary had no doubt of his particular interest in the shy Miss Reeve.
They will do very well together, I think.
The notes were done and Bramber departed to instruct Fred the groom on the discreet task. Mary and Nicholas, alone together, grinned like children. Leaning across the table—the very one where the children had worked on their art what seemed like a hundred years ago—Nicholas reached for Mary’s hand. She gave it, her body leaping to life as his thumb gently caressed her palm. ‘Tuesday,’ he said softly.
‘Tuesday,’ she agreed. It felt like a vow.
* * *
Tuesday came, and Nicholas and Bramber set off for Norwich. They took the curricle, Nicholas vowing to return as quickly as he could. As far as the rest of the household was concerned, he was away on matters of business. He raised a hand to Mary in farewell and she, proud and anxious all at once, returned the gesture.
* * *
It was quite the longest day of Mary’s life. She filled the time playing with the children, reading with Beatrice, and enjoying tea and politeness with Mrs Fenhurst. That lady had still not forgiven Mary for thwarting her attempt to be rid of her, yet, buoyed by Nicholas’s evident regard, Mary was well able to weather the occasional barbs.
* * *
In the early evening, with the temperature dropping and her impatience rising, Mary donned her cloak and went walking in the woods and along the river. So much had happened since she had had that first, shocking letter from Miss Lutton. That day, her life had changed for ever. Today, regardless, it would change again. A thousand things could go wrong with the trap they had set. The vicar—whichever of the two was the traitor—might not act on the note, thinking better of it. What would that mean for Papa? The papers might not be collected afterwards. This was less important from Papa’s standpoint, but Mary did hope that the next villain in the chain would be captured.
Crucially, would Sir Harold agree to have Papa released, based on today’s events? Or would he instead declare Mary to have been guilty of perjury?
Mary shuddered. At least I have Nicholas.
He had made it clear in these past days that he believed her. Even now, when he was gone from her side, Mary felt—nay, she knew that he stood with her. She had to have faith that all would be well.
As she walked briskly back through the darkening woods, her ears pricked up. Was that the sound of a carriage? She broke into a run. Sure enough, it was the curricle.
Breathlessly, she reached the edge of the gardens just as Nicholas brought the curricle to a halt. Throwing the laces to Bramber, he jumped down, running towards Mary. She, too, kept running, their shared haste eating up the yards between them. They collided fiercely, arms immediately enveloping each other in a desperate embrace. He kissed her neck, her ear, her cheek, before searching for her mouth. Neither cared that they could be seen from the house. Neither cared for anything
in that moment, except for their desperate need for each other.
The kiss lasted just moments, both knowing they also needed to speak. They leaned back enough to look into each other’s eyes, bodies still aligned at the hip, arms still entwined. ‘It worked!’ he declared with delight. ‘We have the traitors and your father is to be freed!’
Abruptly, the strength seemed to disappear from Mary’s legs. Her knees felt like water and she sagged in shocked relief. He held her, murmuring reassurances. ‘Sir Harold has already sent a message to the Runners to release your father, along with instructions for him to be brought to Sir Harold’s own town house. You are invited to travel to London tomorrow, as Sir Harold’s guest.’ He grinned. ‘He sends fulsome apologies for doubting you, my love.’
He called me his love!
In her joy, she was all generosity. ‘It was not unreasonable for him to doubt me. I just hope that Papa is yet well, and that he has not succumbed to prison fever. I—thank you for having faith in me.’
He kissed her again, this time gently. ‘How could I not, my darling?’ He nuzzled her cheek. ‘I shall accompany you to London in the morning. I have an urgent desire to meet your papa, for more reasons than one.’
His intentions could not have been clearer. Mary’s heart felt as though it were flying, soaring through the sky as if Venus herself could be reached. She swooped on his mouth and lost herself again in his kiss.
Epilogue
Mr Smith, lately recovered from illness, presided over the wedding of his daughter, Mary, and Sir Nicholas Denny, Baronet, in the simple village church of Houghton St Giles. There, before the villagers, farmers, Stiffkey Hall staff and all the local gentry, the bride and groom exchanged their vows, pledging their love and loyalty to each other.
The bride looked delightful in an elegant gown of pale blue silk, adorned with intricate silver flowers, and had a garland of flowers in her hair. Sir Nicholas wore dark breeches, a dazzling white shirt and cravat, and a well-cut black jacket over a richly-embroidered waistcoat. He carried a top hat in one hand and kept a firm hold of his bride’s hand with the other.
Miss Lutton, previously the vicar’s housekeeper, cried tears of happiness and afterwards she was the first person whom the bride embraced. Miss Lutton’s recent betrothal to Mr Smith was now openly discussed in the village. She had, with the bride, lovingly nursed the vicar back to full health following an illness that had struck him down while he had been away from home. The villagers, who had known and admired Miss Lutton for years, firmly approved of both weddings. Mr Smith and his daughter were, it was universally agreed, good, kind and deserving people.
Word had also reached Houghton of the shocking news that Mr Fuller, vicar of Walsingham parish, had been arrested, with rumours that he was accused of treason. Sir Harold Gurney had been honoured by the Prince Regent himself for helping to uncover a network of spies and was basking in the well-deserved praise he was receiving. He congratulated the happy couple most heartily, wishing them a long life, happiness and a brood of fine, healthy children.
As they walked along the herb-strewn path outside the church towards their carriage, the sun broke through the clouds, sending a warm light over the bride and groom. They would complete the short journey to Stiffkey Hall for their wedding breakfast and next week they would leave for an extended honeymoon in the north and Scotland. Sir Nicholas handed his bride up into the carriage before climbing in beside her. They eyed each other, grateful for this first moment to have private speech together since they had kissed goodnight at the vicarage gate the night before.
‘Good day, Lady Denny,’ he murmured. ‘Never have I seen you look so beautiful.’
She felt a glow of happiness radiate through her. ‘Good day, Husband,’ she returned. ‘I must say I had never thought to have such a handsome man place a wedding ring on my finger. Indeed, there was a time when I believed I should never marry.’
He grinned, his eyes caressing her face. ‘I love you, my Mary. Have I told you that before?’
‘A hundred times in these past weeks, yet I never tire of hearing it,’ she replied softly. ‘I love you, too, Nicky.’
His eyes darkened, a heated promise in them. ‘Tonight, finally, we can be together as we have wished to be.’
‘I cannot wait!’ She dimpled at him, squeezing his hand tightly.
A cheer from the crowd alerted them to the fact that the carriage was now moving. As they waved to their friends and neighbours, Mary’s eye was caught by the sight of young Arthur Todd. He was saluting them with pride, a huge grin on his face, as he lifted a fine new beaver hat.
* * *
If you enjoyed this book, why not check out
these other great reads by Catherine Tinley
The Earl’s Runaway Governess
Rags-to-Riches Wife
And be sure to read her
The Chadcombe Marriage series
Waltzing with the Earl
The Captain’s Disgraced Lady
The Makings of a Lady
Keep reading for an excerpt from A Family for the Titanic Survivor by Lauri Robinson.
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A Family for the Titanic Survivor
by Lauri Robinson
Chapter One
1912
Bridget McGowen had always known that this day would come, but now that it had arrived, a mixture of emotions as thick as a pot of stew that had simmered too long filled her stomach. America. Da had saved every penny possible for this dream to come true. To send her to America. It was the dream of nearly every Irish family—saving enough money to send a child across the ocean.
Not to become a household servant or laborer, but to rise above, like others had, including Da’s cousin Martha.
Martha had become a wealthy woman, a successful woman, all on her own.
A heavy and long sigh slowly seeped out of Bridget.
Today was so bittersweet.
Leaving everything she’d ever known to embark upon a voyage across the sea and arrive in a new country, an entirely new world.
It was exciting—the jubilance of so many people surrounding her, talking, cheering, giddy about their adventure, made it so. But to her, it was also sorrowful.
Da had died last week.
That pain was still strong, still so consuming it made her eyes sting. If anyone was to notice, they might think it was the mist from the salty sea air. A silly thought, indeed. Everyone was too busy, too excited to board the steamer, to notice she had tears in her eyes, or a broken heart in her chest.
In Da’s last breaths, he’d told her to lift a board beneath his bed and take out the metal box hidden there. She had, and she’d cried because she’d known the significance of the money in that box. It was for her trip to America. The pennies, nickels and dimes he’d pinched, saved and hidden away for her to have this opportunity.
I’m here, Da, in Southampton, and will soon set sail for America. I’ll make your dream come true.
Da had made her promise that she’d do just this. Travel to America and open a boardinghouse like his cousin Martha had done in Chicago. Martha had returned to Ireland several times dressed in the latest finery and touting to friends and family that the opportunities in America were endless.
Bridget had promised to go, but not until Da no longer needed her.
A nudge in the center of her back urged her forward, shuffling shoulder to shoulder and toe to heel with a crowd the likes of which she’d never seen, up the angled wooden pier that creaked and swayed with the weight it upheld as people made their way aboard the Titanic. A ship so massive, so long and wide and tall, Bridget had a hard time believing it c
ould float.
She also had a hard time believing she was boarding it. The greatest luxury liner ever built. The greatest luxury she’d ever known was when there was a slow night at the pub and she’d slip away to enjoy a long soak in a hot tub of water, reading until the water grew cold.
Uncle Matt had claimed the Titanic had a bathtub made of pure gold. She’d heard him say that from the kitchen of the pub, where she’d been washing the constant flow of mugs and cups used by the patrons, just as she had for as long as she could remember. Da had always said that Uncle Matt had kissed the Blarney Stone more than once; that’s why he could talk at the rate of two men. Normally the constant rattle of Uncle Matt’s voice had entered one ear and gone out the other without taking any sort of root in her mind.
That night though, mere days after they’d put Da in the ground, the way Uncle Matt had been boasting made her step away from the wash pan and move closer to the door. She’d heard of the great ship. Of its maiden voyage. Men had been peddling tickets for the ocean liner for months. Just as they had for every ship heading for America. The Titanic had been built in Ireland, which gave Uncle Matt more to brag about.
Disbelief had entered her when she’d heard him boast about securing a ticket on the ocean liner.
For himself.
That’s when her disbelief had turned into something more. She’d hurried up the stairway in the back room, to the living quarters she and her father had shared above the pub, and into the room that was barely large enough for her bed and chest of drawers. Upon opening the top drawer, digging past her ironed and folded aprons, anger like she’d never known had coiled into a hard knot in her stomach.
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 24