by Sara Bennett
She would probably come to resent him and he would come to hate himself for causing her to do so. They would end up just like his parents, and the very thought of it made him even more certain he was doing the right thing.
It was just as well he’d given her no sign that he meant to come home and marry her. Quite the opposite in fact. He’d struggled so hard to hide his love from her, and himself, that she could never have guessed the depth of his true feelings.
No, far better to do as Debenham suggested and write a lie to her, a quick cut that might sting for a while but would heal relatively quickly and allow her to get on with her own life. She’d meet someone else. How could any man not want her?
He tried not to let that hurt him, but it did. The pain was so great that he swayed and only just caught his balance. The swirling water looked inviting but he wasn’t a coward. He would not end it here, not when he had come through so much.
His mouth tight, Alistair made his way back to shore.
***
A week later Clarissa hurried home from school, hoping as she did every day there would be some news. A letter. And this time there was. The letter was waiting for her and Clarissa clutched it to her breast and hurried upstairs to read it.
She felt anxious. Annie had said something strange to her when she came for her lessons and she couldn’t shift it from her mind. Annie claimed she had been walking by the Cobb a week past and had seen Alistair standing on the far end of the wall, staring out to sea. “Only it couldn’t have been him, because this man was injured. He’d lost a leg and was on crutches. I would have gone to speak to him, but he was too far away and I was late.”
Clarissa agreed that it could not be him, and yet the words played with her mind, niggled at her fears.
With shaking hands she now tore the letter open and her eyes feasted on his familiar writing.
But as she read on the words seemed to blur and she blinked and read them again. ‘Will be marrying very soon . . . know as my friend you will be very happy for me . . . will always treasure our time together . . .’
He was marrying someone else. He wasn’t coming back to her.
After she’d sobbed into her pillow she wiped her eyes and tried to pull herself together. He’d never said he would marry her, it was true. He had never promised her anything, and yet she had believed . . . hoped . . . and now there was nothing.
At the end of the letter he’d wished her well and hoped she would soon find someone to give her as much happiness as he had found himself.
Clarissa shook her head. She would never marry. Alistair had been the man she loved, the only man, and there would never be anyone else. Teaching was her love now and she would make it the most important thing in her life. The only thing in her life.
Downstairs she set to work on supper, her eyes swollen and red, her face chalk white. Her father didn’t seem to notice anything wrong, and she was glad not to answer any questions.
Clarissa vowed to herself she would never speak of Alistair again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
20 YEARS LATER
“The Wentworth girl’s father will be here soon.”
Clarissa looked up at her senior assistant with a smile. Annie hadn’t changed that much over the years—a little plumper perhaps, but she had five children now, and was very happily married.
“I know. I’m ready for him.”
Annie pursed her lips. “Those girls are in the sitting room. They’re rather loud and I’ve told them to hush once. Should I tell them to go and do their dancing practise?”
‘Those girls’ were a group of five students who had become very close since they started at the Finishing School. Clarissa liked to see girls getting on together and she shook her head at Annie.
“Leave them for now. If they get too rowdy I’ll have a word with them.”
“Very well, Miss Debenham,” said Annie in her primmest voice and returned to her desk.
Annie was a treasure and Clarissa didn’t know what she would have done without her all these years. They’d first met that day at the inn, and then Annie had begun taking lessons, making astounding progress really, showing a talent for learning that Clarissa felt privileged to foster. Once Clarissa had moved to her own small school, Annie had been her first employee, and then the school had grown and she’d moved again, and finally she’d purchased the large house in Hampshire that became Miss Debenham’s Finishing School for Young Ladies.
Her school had built a fine reputation and she catered to the elite families in the country. Lately she had been thinking there never seemed to be enough hours in the day to do all that needed to be done. The school had grown far bigger than she’d ever imagined. She loved her work though; even after all the years—perhaps because she’d put so much of her time, so much of herself, into her schools.
And her students.
They had the daughter of a duke coming next term, and no doubt if she was happy then others would follow, but Clarissa wasn’t fussed by the quality. She liked to teach all girls and it didn’t matter whose daughters they were, not really.
There was a personal pride in seeing a girl arrive without the necessary skills to go through her life and then to see her leave with them tucked away inside her head. Clarissa didn’t just teach her girls the fundamentals of stitching and dancing and running a house; she taught them to hold their own in a world where women were becoming increasingly independent. Or at least, she hoped so.
She tried not to have any favourites amongst the students but some of them, especially those who came from less fortunate backgrounds, deserved more attention, she felt, than those who came from happy homes. Or perhaps it was just that she felt more empathy with them, considering her own background.
She was proud of her students and recalled every one of them, but just lately she had begun to wonder if the school had outgrown her. She was starting to remember when she was running a smaller school, with just a few girls, and how much greater the satisfaction was at seeing them succeed.
A burst of laughter reached her from outside, probably from the small sitting room. With a sigh Clarissa got to her feet and went to find the culprits. Annie rolled her eyes as she passed her but Clarissa only smiled. The five girls in question had lately formed a club called The Husband Hunters Club. They didn’t think anyone else knew; it was very secret, but Clarissa overheard things and was told things and knew most of what happened in her school.
When she reached the small sitting room the door was not quite closed and she paused a moment to listen. She could hear Averil’s clear, definite tones. Lady Averil Martindale was very definite about most things; she was an heiress and planned to give her fortune away to the poor. And there was Olivia Monteith, or Livy to her friends, with that pale English beauty so admired but with such a passionate heart beating beneath. And Marissa Rotherhild, who tried very hard to be a proper lady despite her infamous grandmother. Eugenia Belmont giggled at something Tina Smythe said; she had an infectious giggle. Both girls came from unfortunate circumstances, although Clarissa made certain to keep that to herself. Eugenia probably wouldn’t care—her family were notorious—but Tina would be mortified if anyone knew how desperate were her current circumstances.
Olivia was announcing to the others, “We cannot possibly live the life of spinsters. One of those women who end up being shunted around from relative to relative? Imagine being someone’s unpaid help, going out to fetch things in the rain, and trying to be grateful for it.”
“Nonsense,” said Averil. “There are lots of spinsters who do very well. Look at Miss Debenham. She seems perfectly happy on her own.”
“But is she?” Eugenie spoke up, always ready for mischief or a joke. “Perhaps she has a memory tucked away, of some sad love affair, never forgotten. A cad who broke her heart.”
“Oh, Eugenie, really! Miss Debenham?” said Marissa. “She is far too level headed to have ever given her heart to a cad.”
Clarissa felt a tremor in that pa
rt of her chest where her heart resided. It was silly really. The girls didn’t mean anything by it, and she knew that her girls respected her, but they had touched a nerve.
Time to put a stop to this.
She tapped briskly on the door and heard them whispering, but when she opened it wide they were all turned to her, books and needlework in their laps, wide-eyed and innocent. She tried not to smile.
“I think you should consider your dancing practise, girls. No man will marry you if you stand on his toes.”
Glances were exchanged and they rose and hurried out.
They were young, she told herself. They would learn that life never quite turned out the way you expected it to. Clarissa had also learned that a woman must stand on her own two feet if she was to make a fulfilling life for herself. No use in depending upon a man. First, her father whose only wish was for her to keep cooking his supper, and for her to marry a man who had no interest at all in her, and second Alistair, who had let her down . . .
She shook her head.
That wasn’t true. Alistair hadn’t let her down. He’d given her a great deal of joy and she’d loved him with all her heart, loved him so much that she’d never found a man to replace him. She had kept his letters and occasionally she would open them up and read them. They still made her smile.
And that was one of the important lessons in life Alistair taught her. How to laugh at adversity—how to smile when you were at your most miserable—how to look at the positives rather than the negatives.
By the time Clarissa was seated once more at her desk, the ormolu clock on her mantelpiece was striking the hour.
The father of Meredith Wentworth was late.
Meredith was a very bright and promising girl, but her family had neglected to pay their bills for the past four months and Clarissa knew she had let things go as long as she dared. Her school needed fees to keep operating, and although she saw much to like in Meredith she couldn’t continue to teach her for free. Surely some arrangement could be made? A small amount paid when possible, or at least the intention to settle the account at some future date.
She’d written to Mr. Wentworth and he had agreed to see her this afternoon at four. Now, in fact. So where was he?
With a sigh she went to the window and peered out. Down in the courtyard there were girls sitting and reading, others sketching, some simply gossiping. Her reflection stared back at her and she saw that her hair had become disarranged and patted it back into place.
At thirty nine she was still a young looking woman; her figure was slender and she was without a grey hair, well perhaps one or two. Her skin was good and any lines on her face were faint; her eyes had the same clear gaze they’d always had. Some days she felt ancient in comparison to the girls she taught, and sometimes she felt lonely, wishing she had a sibling, or a parent, with whom to share anniversaries and birthdays and memories. There was Annie of course, but she had a family of her own. But it did no good to dwell on what could not be, she reminded herself. In so many ways she was extremely fortunate . . .
The tap on her door took her by surprise and she turned, calling, “Come in.”
Annie poked her head in and there was something odd about her expression. As if she had seen a ghost. “Your visitor is here, Miss Debenham,” she said, and her eyes seemed to be trying to convey something.
Puzzled, Clarissa asked Annie to send him in.
When the gentleman came through the doorway she understood why Annie had looked like she’d seen a ghost. Because Clarissa was seeing him too.
The man who came into her room was someone she had thought never to see again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When the door opened Clarissa stared in disbelief. It flashed through her mind that all her remembering of the past was playing tricks on her eyes, because the man who came into her room was someone who could not possibly be here.
But he was! He was here!
Joy flooded her, and then washed away again, leaving only confusion.
He was older; his hair was not so long and there were lines on his face that had not been there before, as well as an old scar, but it was him.
Alistair McKay.
Was he Meredith’s father? But no, he couldn’t be. The surname was wrong.
He was standing inside her office, looking at her, but there was no recognition in his face. Why didn’t he recognise her?
Then she realised she was standing against the window and he probably saw little more than a silhouette, and with her heart beating faster than it had for years she stepped forward to her desk.
He saw her now and recognised her. Shock made his brown eyes grow wide and some emotion flickered in them briefly, before he looked down, away from her. When he looked at her again his face was wary and his mouth was tight. He gave a her a polite bow and spoke.
“I am here about Meredith.” His voice sounded the same. Another jump of her heart; her emotions were running wild and she forced herself to rein them in.
“Meredith Wentworth?”
“Yes. I didn’t realise you would be seeing me in person . . .”
Did he mean that if he had known he would not have come at all? Clarissa felt the last of her joy seeping away. She forced herself to smile, although the movement felt stiff and false. Her voice was brisk and businesslike. “I’m sure we can cope with a few fading memories, Mr. McKay. Is Meredith your daughter?”
He shook his head; he looked a little bemused still but he was quickly regaining his wits. “Meredith is my niece. She’s my sister’s child.”
“I see.” She would not admit it to herself, but Clarissa was glad Meredith wasn’t his daughter, although she knew how foolish she was being. Even if Meredith wasn’t his it didn’t mean he didn’t have several children of his own. Dozens, probably. Her own silliness almost made her laugh and it helped to release some of her tension. She sat down and gestured to the chair opposite. “Please, take a seat, Mr. McKay.”
He looked at the chair and seemed to gather himself before he made his way toward it. Clarissa was very glad she was sitting down. After his first few awkward steps she stared down at her ledgers so she didn’t have to look any more. Her hands, clasped beneath the desk, were shaking and there were tears in her eyes, blurring the cold hard fact that Alistair had been injured.
Beneath the plain brown stuff of his trousers he must have a wooden peg instead of flesh and blood. She could tell from the way he moved, fluid enough from practise, but no longer as fluidly as a real leg would move. Clarissa had seen such injuries before; in men who had fought in the wars of twenty and more years ago amputations were far from uncommon. She knew she must speak and act naturally. For his sake. She must not let him see how very saddened she was. The Alistair McKay she remembered would hate to be pitied.
When she heard the chair creak as he sat, she looked up with a determined smile, to find his hard eyes fixed on hers. Once he would have smiled and joked but there was no smile there today and, she thought, perhaps not for a long while.
“I wanted to talk about Meredith,” she heard herself say, and was glad her voice was its usual calm and even self. “As you know her fees—”
“Miss Debenham, there is no need,” he tried to stop her. “I’m aware of the situation. I wasn’t before, but I am now. My sister has been very ill and her illness has thrown her family’s financial affairs into chaos. My brother in law isn’t the best manager and he has rather let things slide. But it is all right. Now I am going to pay Meredith’s fees, just until they are able to take over once more.”
Clarissa found herself listening to his voice rather than his words, the sound of them brushing against her, taking her back to a time and a place she’d almost forgotten.
Alistair when she’d first met him outside Mrs. Frobisher’s shop, and then the bonnet he bought for her when hers was ruined, and his face as they clung to the capsized boat. His lips warm on hers. The memories were coming thick and fast and she was struggling to control them.
She picked up her pen. Put it down again. “Thank you for explaining the situation to me.”
“I’ll make sure the payment is made in the next few days.” His voice was clipped, and she wondered whether he considered her penny clutching. It seemed important to explain. For him to think well of her, despite how ridiculous she knew that sounded after all these years.
“There’s no need to be . . . that is, I wasn’t going to force Meredith to leave. In fact the opposite. She is one of my best pupils and I wanted to do everything I could to see she remained here. It is just . . .” she sighed. “I do not charge exorbitant prices for my pupils. Well, only those who can pay. Towards the others I am more lenient because I want to see them receive the sort of education they deserve.”
Her voice had become earnest and with a shock she realised that the closed expression had left his face and he was smiling. It was the same smile she remembered from long ago, and it softened his features, making him appear younger and less careworn.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his smile turning wry and twisting up one corner of his mouth. “It was just . . . you sounded as you used to in Lyme. So earnest, so full of the effect you could have on young lives, so determined to help.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?” she asked coolly, ready to take offense.
His smile faded. “Nothing, nothing whatsoever. I always admired you for it.”
Admired her? When Clarissa had loved him.
Her heart ached at the memory, as if it was yesterday instead of twenty years ago, the words and feelings of her younger self clamouring to be heard. But she forced them down, forced herself to be calm and cool, the headmistress again.
Clarissa knew she shouldn’t ask anything personal of him and yet it seemed churlish not to. She needed to behave as if all that they felt was in the past, for her at least, and they could chat like old acquaintances.
“And your wife, Mr. McKay? She is well?”