The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Feeling anxious, she moved to her desk. She needed to write to her brother and sister to let them know of her whereabouts. They’d been the one part of Cornwall she had held on to. She’d never told them the specific details leading up to her departure, but they’d never asked. Regardless, she smoothed a piece of paper and dipped her quill in the inkwell.

  A bird in flight outside the window caught her attention, and she gazed toward it. Despite the warmth of the sunlight, she shivered. It did not matter that she was in a new home and surrounded by new people.

  She was not free from her past, and she doubted she ever would be.

  Chapter 12

  Dusk’s purple light and long shadows were pushing out the day’s brightness as Jac walked along the path from the stables to Penwythe Hall. The previous evening’s rain had settled the dust and sliced the mounting humidity, and now the evening could not be lovelier. How odd that merely twenty-four hours prior all was normal, and in one single instant—the arrival of a carriage and the delivery of shocking news—his life changed.

  He glanced up toward the west wing. The windows, which had been closed for years, now stood open. The breeze caught white curtains, blowing them inside and then drawing them out again as if on a whim. He had little desire to step foot in those forgotten chambers—where memories haunted every room and lurked in the shadows. They were thick with memories of another time—happy times, free of blame. Free of guilt.

  With Cadwur at his side, he moved to the wing’s side entrance, the very door from which Randall and he would escape when their old tutor dozed off during summer’s long afternoons. He lifted the latch and pushed the old wooden door open. Immediately he was met with a spiral staircase that was so narrow Cadwur had to go ahead of him for they’d not both fit walking side by side.

  Higher and higher he climbed, passing the first-floor landing that would lead to his own chamber in the west wing, upward to the second-floor landing. Before even reaching it he was met with the scent of musty disuse. A cool wind whipped in from open windows, and the day’s last light falling on the abandoned space made it seem almost frozen in time.

  He listened, expecting to hear voices, or at the very least movement, but none came. His own footfalls and the click of Cadwur’s toenails were the only sounds in the cool corridor. Up ahead, the door to the schoolroom was open, and he approached it.

  Inside, Mrs. Greythorne stood atop a stool, facing away from him, at the bookshelf. Her dark hair, which earlier had been in a tidy chignon, was still bound at her neck, but long russet wisps hung down to her trim waist and swayed with her motion. A striped apron protected her gray gown, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, exposing her forearms’ fair skin.

  He cleared his throat to gain her attention.

  She turned, discarded the pile of books in her arm on the shelf, and stepped down from the stool. “Mr. Twethewey. I didn’t see you there.” She wiped her hands against each other before she faced him fully.

  Almost as an afterthought, he removed his hat and held it in his hands. Cadwur circled him before he sat next to his boot. “I’ve come to see how things are progressing.”

  She drew a deep breath and looked around her at the pile of books. “This will suit our needs quite well, I think.”

  He spied the cobwebs in the corner of the paneled ceiling. “I fear it’s in quite a state.”

  “It is nothing that a little bit of work can’t fix, and I think it is good for the children to have an activity.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Mr. Andrews took them down to the stables. The boys were getting restless after being indoors all day.”

  A pang of guilt stabbed Jac. As their uncle he should have been the one to take them, not Andrews. He cleared his throat. “Are they getting settled?”

  “Yes, quite nicely. I’d be happy to show you the arrangements, if you’d like.” She led the way back into the hall. This wing was one long corridor. Along one side were the common rooms—the library, the parlor, the schoolroom, and the vestibule and landing area for the main oak staircase that led to the lower floors. On the other side were the sleeping chambers—four in all.

  As they made their way down the hall, Mrs. Greythorne said, “The boys will share the end chamber. It is large and big enough for two, and they’re fond of it since it was their father’s. Julia will have this smaller one, and the two younger girls will share the one next to it because it connects to the chamber I will be using.”

  “And Mr. Simon?”

  “Your staff has been kind enough to find him a chamber on the floor below.”

  He walked in silence next to her, their footsteps clicking on the planked floor. Light flooded in from the windows, spilling through the bedchambers and tumbling into the corridor. He exhaled quietly—perhaps the first time he had allowed the tension in his shoulders to ease since the children arrived and he learned about his brother. And yet overwhelming sadness rushed him as he walked this hall where he and his brother used to play, learn, and live.

  In contrast to his restless spirit, the lady to his left seemed at ease. Her movements were graceful and her expression calm, almost as if she were the one who had lived her entire life here, untouched by death or hardship.

  They approached the library entrance, and she paused and turned. “This entire situation must be very difficult for you.”

  His eyes met hers, and he was struck by the color of them. Gray, pure and colorless, like the sea just before a storm.

  He looked down the hallway. Now was not the time for noticing pretty eyes. He weighed his response, wary of revealing too much. “It is. It’s been years since we spoke, but Randall was still my brother.”

  “Whether death is imminent or comes suddenly, one can never be prepared for it. I am very sorry.”

  He looked at her again, expecting to see that her attention had moved on to something else after she shared her condolences, but her intent gaze was still fixed on him, her narrow brows drawn together with concern. She was a stranger to him, but something about her demeanor made him feel as if he’d been acquainted with her for much longer than one day. Honesty and sincerity radiated from her.

  Rightly or wrongly, he judged people quickly. Sometimes his judgments were right, other times not. Mr. Colliver had called him impulsive that day out in the orchard. He was not the first person to do so, but in that moment, he decided she was trustworthy.

  He cleared his throat and refocused his attention. “Can you share the specifics of what happened to Randall? Steerhead told me very little.”

  She lowered her head and the softness in her expression darkened.

  Fearing that he’d overstepped his bounds, he prepared to retract the request, but then she lifted her gaze to him once more.

  “It was a fine day,” she began, brushing a lock of hair from her pale face. “The children were ecstatic to have your brother home at Easten Park. He traveled a great deal, you see, and the majority of his time was spent in London. But he came home for Easter and had remained there a few weeks.

  “He was due to depart the following day when the accident happened. They were hunting, and he jumped a fence that he’d landed a thousand times before. Something spooked his horse, a rabbit or mouse or something, and the horse twisted while in the air, causing its hoof to come down unevenly. And from there the horse lost its balance, and who can really be certain of the events then? From what I was told, Mr. Twethewey fell to the side, and the horse fell atop him.”

  Jac folded his arms over his chest and stared to the window at the end of the corridor, where he could glimpse rolling hills and vibrant blue sky.

  He did not see the scenery, however.

  He could not dislodge the vision of a young Randall from his mind, nor the mental image of the horse falling, angular and heavy. He wanted to leave this corridor, forget this conversation, and yet his more practical side needed to know more. “Who was with him when it happened?”

  “He was with Mr.
Steerhead, two associates who were visiting from London, and Liam and Johnny.”

  “The boys were there?” His stomach tightened. “I didn’t know.”

  She bit her lip, then nodded, her gray eyes finally meeting his.

  Hungry for more information, he forged ahead. “Steerhead said he was conscious long enough to revise his will.”

  “Indeed. Initially it was thought Mr. Twethewey would recover, but after several hours his condition declined.”

  “Did you speak with him after the accident?”

  She nodded. “I did. Mr. Simon and I were called to his bedside, where he asked us to stay with the children after he was gone.”

  “And how long have you been with the family?”

  “Three years. Mr. Simon has been with them even longer. Six years, I believe. He arrived when Liam was eight years of age.”

  “I remember Mr. Simon. I met him once when visiting Easten Park, but that was many years ago.” He cleared his throat, pushing the memory away. “And are you from Yorkshire, Mrs. Greythorne?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. As a matter of fact, I am from Cornwall.”

  “Cornwall? I thought your accent was familiar.”

  “Yes, my father was a vicar in a small village about twenty-five miles south of here.”

  He paused, waiting for her to share more. He expected her to speak of her husband, but she pressed her lips together and looked to the ground. It was clear she did not want to speak on the topic further, and it would not be proper to ask her to do so.

  “I see,” he responded. “Perhaps in returning home, the relocation to Cornwall might bring brightness.”

  At his words the conversation they’d been enjoying fell flat. The hall felt too narrow, the air too thin. He prided himself on his evenness of nature, but in this quiet moment, he felt his composure slipping.

  With a quick bow he bid her good evening and then retreated back down the corridor to the winding staircase with Cadwur on his heels. He might be able to leave the west wing and the things associated with it, but the memories, he was sure, would haunt him for days to come.

  * * *

  “The terrain changes quickly and becomes quite rocky and dangerous.”

  Delia lay awake in her new chamber, staring, as best she could in the darkness, at the silk canopy above her bed. Thoughts, wild and rampant, raced through her mind, keeping sleep at bay.

  She’d thought of so many things as she tried to sleep: Of Liam’s outburst. Of Mr. Simon’s foul mood. Of the girls’ excitement over their new chambers. Of her late husband and Maria. Of her mother-in-law’s warning. Of her sister’s illness. But at that moment Mr. Twethewey’s description of the coast held her mind captive.

  Delia had grown up close to the sea, and it had always been one of her favorite places to visit, but it really became a part of her life once she married Robert. Greythorne Hall overlooked the southern coast, and Robert often would take her sailing when the weather was fine. Some of her happiest memories were of the long afternoons spent picnicking on the shore.

  If she’d had an inkling that the sea would ultimately play a role in her husband’s demise, she doubted she would have found such happiness there. She had not thought about how it would feel to see the sea again, with its crashing waves and unmistakable salt scent, now but a short walk away.

  With a sigh she rolled over and retrieved the watch brooch from the small table beside her bed and squinted to see its white face in the faint moonlight. She groaned. Dawn would arrive soon, and with it activity would resume. Her mind was not yet ready for the day’s commotion.

  After several more minutes of tossing and turning, she sat up and swung her legs over the side. It was useless to try to resume slumber. Shaking free of the blankets, she stood and pulled her shawl from the foot of the bed. She wrapped it around her shoulders as she strode to the window and thrust it open. It was spring, but the early morning was chilly. The faintest hint of sunshine was just beginning to lighten the cloud-heavy sky. The invigorating air awoke her senses and an idea formed.

  With sudden energy Delia dressed as best she could. At Easten Park, Agnes, the children’s maid, had always helped her prepare for the day. Here she had no such assistance. Delia donned her heaviest boots and cloak, and before considering the wisdom of her plan, she exited her chamber into the darkened corridor. She scurried down the servants’ winding staircase and made her way to the first floor and out to the terrace.

  Perhaps it was the thrill of the unexpected or the freedom of being completely alone for a while, but a strange excitement soared through her as the fresh air enveloped her, billowing her cloak and whipping her hair around her face.

  She stepped toward the garden—the very one she could see from her window, with its rhododendrons and bluebells. She held her cloak tightly and made her way along the winding path to the door on the other side, then pushed open the gate.

  Above her, the sun was creeping across the heavens, pushing out the blackness with silvery light. Swatches of blue stretched farther and farther into the west, and behind her, faded pink-and-orange ribbons splayed across the sky.

  Mr. Twethewey was right. As she moved past the garden, the shadowed terrain shifted from the manicured lawns to orchards and then to open moorland. Wild and beautiful, it was waking with the morning sun. After a short walk she thought she could hear it—the sound of waves crashing and tumbling. It beckoned her, calling her like a lullaby, as strongly as if the voices from her past were once again vocal and vibrant.

  The breeze grew even stronger the closer she drew, and the salty scent of sea air, faint at first, intensified. Her hair whipped around her face, but she cared not. The road ended at a cliff, and she eased to the edge that dropped sharply to the sandy shore below. White seabirds stretched their wings and soared overhead, their abrupt call muted only by the crashing waves.

  The cool sea air reached the part of her heart she’d been purposely shuttering since the morning she left Greythorne Hall. Her breath caught at the beauty before her in spite of herself.

  Blue as far as she could see.

  How it reminded her of how she and Robert would walk along a similar coastline, hand in hand, planning their future. Yet the sight brought with it more somber memories. Robert would disappear for hours upon end at such a beach, racing to outrun his fears and guilt. Ultimately, it was a shoreline much like this one where his body had washed ashore, battered and barely alive.

  She shivered. The memory of the night he had died rushed to the forefront, as it did so often, demanding that she remember it in gruesome detail.

  A lump formed in her throat.

  That fateful night all those years ago, winter’s frost filled the air with the harsh scent of wood smoke and fish, stamping out any trace of the sea air that now seemed so beguiling.

  From the very day she left Greythorne, she had done her best to bury those emotions—not to linger on them. Like it or not, the truth would not be ignored: Robert had been a smuggler.

  For the first couple years of their marriage, she’d tried to deny it, but in time he ceased all effort to hide his true profession from her. He, along with his brothers and family, controlled the stretch of beach that bordered Greythorne property. Nothing escaped their iron grip, and even the local law could not infiltrate the tightly bound smuggling ring. The Greythornes owned their own boats, the land, and the local businesses. No one would dare speak out against them. They were too powerful. Too dangerous. It was for this reason she still regarded her mother-in-law’s warning with fear and trepidation. Years had passed, but she’d be a fool not to take such a threat seriously.

  A seabird squawked close to her, jarring her from her reflection. The sky was fading from vibrant pink to blue, and it would be time for the children to rise soon.

  She retreated down the cliff, back the way she came. The winds that had come so strongly off the sea weakened as moorland gave way once again to orchards and then to the verdant lawn. The sea air’s sal
ty tang was soon masked by the scent of apple trees and freshly cut grass, but the dormant memories had been revived by the familiar scene, and she doubted they would leave her in peace.

  Chapter 13

  Delia made up her mind almost instantly upon meeting Mrs. Angrove that she liked her. She had first met the older lady that Sunday morning on their way to church. As Mr. Twethewey promised, they walked to church, but Delia was surprised when their walk took them past Fairehold Cottage.

  Their pace slowed considerably, but the spunky lady refused a carriage, determined to walk to the village church. She had rejected Mr. Twethewey’s arm and offer of assistance as they walked and insisted upon Liam helping her. Now church was over, and the family picnicked on the lawn.

  Delia relaxed back into her chair, tipped her face upward to the emerald canopy of branches and leaves, and allowed the gentle breeze to wash over her face. The afternoon was a fine one. Sunlight danced and bounced through the fluttering leaves, casting lacy patterns on the picnickers below.

  Mrs. Angrove’s airy voice broke Delia’s reverie. “Mrs. Greythorne, you look quite lost in thought.”

  Delia jerked her head up, surprised at first and then giving a little laugh, lifting her hand to still the wisps of hair blowing across her face. “Forgive me.”

  Mrs. Angrove gave her head a sharp shake as she poured herself another cup of tea. “You look far too serious for a young woman on such a fine day, but I can only imagine what thoughts would be in your head after this week’s events. My, what a trying time. ’Tis a true wonder you can keep a thought in your head at all. And yet”—she raised her gaze to the lawn, where the children played in the sun—“it is good to hear children at Penwythe Hall again, laughing and running. Do you not agree, Jac?”

  Delia had almost forgotten he was there, for he’d been so quiet since church.

  He sat opposite her at the table. Snippets of sunlight glistened on his hatless black hair, highlighting its tendency to curl when blown about by the breeze. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and watched the children on the front courtyard’s wide green lawn. “It is.”