It was the flaw his uncle always warned him about—the need for control.
He recalled one summer when a drought nearly destroyed the primrose garden. He’d helped his uncle and the staff transport water from other parts of the estate and water each plant. “You can’t control nature, boy,” Uncle William had said. “Try as you might, it can’t be done. The same God who makes the waves crash on the shore with such vengeance is the one who lets rain fall on these delicate roses, so gentle as not to hurt a single petal. Magnificent, isn’t it? And humbling. I love these flowers, but there isn’t a thing I can do to make them grow. God does it. I just take care of them.”
At the time Jac had dismissed his uncle’s comments as nothing more than sentiment. But now as he found himself grappling with the nature his uncle had spoken of, the truth in the words hit hard, and he’d give anything for one more conversation with the man.
With renewed focus, Jac returned his attention to the letters piled before him. He reached for the next one and was about to pop the wax seal when movement at the door caught his eye.
Whispers echoed and feet shuffled, and he looked up to see his three nieces, all in a row, filling the door frame. They were dressed in nightclothes, each with a wrap around her shoulders. Cadwur stood from his spot on the rug beneath the window and nudged Julia’s hand with his nose, his tail thumping. Julia’s dark hair fell over her shoulder as she bent to pat his head.
“Good evening, ladies.” Jac lowered the letter. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The sisters exchanged glances, and then Sophy nudged Hannah closer. Hannah stumbled in.
He laughed at their uncharacteristic sheepishness. After leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms across his chest. “What’s this about? Does Mrs. Greythorne know you’re here?”
They stared at each other in silence for several seconds, and then Hannah lowered her hands from behind her back. Clutched in her tiny fingers was a haphazard display of cut rhododendrons and camellias. She stepped forward and extended it to him, and the earthy scent of wood and petals circled the space.
“Are those for me?” He straightened, surprised at the sudden offering.
Hannah rounded the desk and placed them in front of him on the desk. “Mrs. Greythorne said I shouldn’t pick them because they would die, but I wanted you to see them. I—we—didn’t want you to miss them.”
Jac wasn’t sure he’d ever received flowers from anyone, and yet the simple gesture warmed him. He stood from the desk, crossed the room to the side table, and retrieved an empty decanter. “Well, they’re very beautiful. Let’s put them in here.”
Sophy and Julia stepped in farther, and Hannah leaned on his desk with her elbow and watched as he placed the flowers in the glass. “Thank you for taking us to the sea.”
“You’re most welcome.” He moved the makeshift vase to his desk and placed it on the corner. “There, now I shall see them whenever I am working.”
Hannah smiled and stepped back to her sisters. “My papa liked flowers too. I made him bouquets whenever he was home. If there were flowers blooming, anyway.”
He looked to the child, realizing how little he knew of them—of their life before they came to Penwythe. A pang of guilt stabbed. He should have known more about his brother’s life.
“You must miss your father very much.” The words slipped out before he had a chance to really check them.
Sophy nodded. “Do you miss him too?”
The innocent question struck him. Yes, he missed his brother. He missed the relationship they could have had. If only they hadn’t been so stubborn.
The children’s presence had revived the happy memories of Randall, before arguments of rights and money and inheritance came into play. They’d been friends, and they’d been close. How many times since the children’s arrival had he replayed the arguments in his head? He tried to pinpoint the exact moment their relationship snapped but couldn’t. And what pained him more was the regret of not making things right with him before he died. “I do miss him.”
Vigor renewed, Sophy climbed onto one of the chairs opposite the desk. “Can I come to the Frost Ball?”
He gave a little laugh at the child’s uncanny way of saying exactly what was on her mind. “The Frost Ball is for adults and will be after your bedtime.”
“But one of the maids said that everyone can come. I’m part of everyone.”
It was impossible to argue with her logic. He threw his hands up in the air playfully, as a man who had just been defeated. “It’s fine with me, but you should ask Mrs. Greythorne.”
“But you’re our guardian,” Hannah reasoned. “That’s kind of like being our papa. You get to decide.”
“It’s nothing like being our papa,” Julia shot back, her expression darkening, her sharp words popping the congenial bubble encasing the conversation.
Jac stiffened. “No, no. Not like your father. I would never take your father’s place. I think being a guardian means that I take care of you.”
“Oh.” Sophy seemed satisfied, and she moved to the floor where she petted Cadwur.
Mrs. Greythorne appeared in the doorway, exasperation flushing her cheeks and widening her eyes. “Girls, what are you doing here? I left the room for but a few minutes and you disappeared!”
“We forgot to give Uncle the flowers we picked for him.” Julia gestured to the vase.
Mrs. Greythorne bustled into the space, placed her hand on Hannah’s shoulder, and took Sophy’s hand. “I am sure he likes them very much, but he’s working. We don’t want to disturb him.”
“They’re fine, Mrs. Greythorne.” Jac chuckled, leaning against the corner of his desk. “I’d take a visit from them over correspondence and ledgers any day.”
Sophy beamed at the words and turned her face toward Mrs. Greythorne. “Uncle Jac said we could go to the Frost Ball.”
Mrs. Greythorne bent down to Sophy’s level. “Well then, I am sure the Frost Ball will be lovely, but right now, you all need to prepare for bed.” She turned to him. “Good night, Mr. Twethewey. Will we see you at breakfast?”
He didn’t understand the effect this woman had on him. His words felt jumbled. His mind, scattered. “Y-yes.”
Mrs. Greythorne nodded with a curtsy, then nudged the girls to do the same, and as quickly as the crew had appeared, they disappeared in the corridor.
Mrs. Greythorne.
A rather unexpected dilemma flickered within him, and he needed to squelch it before it fanned into flame. He was thinking of Mrs. Greythorne far too frequently as of late. True, he found her steadiness and calmness comforting, but it was more than that. It was the pert slope of her nose, the quickness in her eyes, the entrancing curve of her mouth.
He needed to distance himself from her, and that would be difficult given their arrangement.
Andrews’s reference to the rumor raced through his mind. She had an entire life beyond what he knew. A child. A husband. And not just any husband, but a man rumored to have been involved in free trading. And yet whenever he thought of Mrs. Greythorne, he wanted to protect her. There was no answer to his growing predicament, but he had to be careful. Too much was at stake, and he could not risk an error.
Chapter 21
While everyone else seemed to anticipate the Frost Ball, Delia had been dreading it.
Mr. Twethewey had been forthright with her regarding the rumors, and in the days since, she’d heard whispers and noticed stares cast in her direction. Now hundreds of people were gathered on Penwythe’s grounds—hundreds of people who no doubt thought they knew all about her husband and what he’d done.
Despite Mr. Andrews’s offer to dance, she’d made up her mind not to venture from her chamber for the duration of the night. In all likelihood, no one would say anything to her directly, but it was the stares she dreaded and the ensuing discomfort she feared.
When the night of the event arrived, Delia sat in her small chamber in the west wing, a single lantern burning on top
of her writing table. The clock on the mantel struck the midnight hour. On the floor below dancers and guests celebrated.
Through her open window, strains of happy music and chatter danced on the breeze. Voices from the lawn and primrose garden wafted on the air, and she abandoned the letter she had been writing and moved to the window to look to the darkened grounds below. The rain had stopped, and the guests had spilled out onto the shadowed grounds. Torches had been placed around the lawn, making it seem more like a fairy land.
In spite of her reservations, the sights and sounds sparked memories of happier times when she and her brother would attend balls, and then when she would attend them with Robert. How she’d loved dancing.
A knock on her sitting room door sounded. Delia froze.
Almost immediately the door opened and Mrs. Angrove appeared, clad in a gown of violet satin with a black-lace overlay. It was not unusual for the older woman to be elegantly dressed, but the lace and piping trimming the gown and the pearls adorning her slender neck elevated her appearance.
“Mrs. Angrove! Why, you look lovely!”
“Well, it is the Frost Ball, after all.” Without waiting for an invitation, Mrs. Angrove stepped into the chamber. The scent of lily of the valley flooded the narrow room upon her arrival, and the rustle of her skirt echoed from the low ceiling. She stepped to the window and looked down to the torchlit grounds. “I’d forgotten what a splendid view there is from this wing.”
When Mrs. Angrove turned back around, her eyes twinkled and a playful smile quirked the corners of her lips. “You should be downstairs.”
Delia returned her quill to the table. “Someone must sit with the children. Their father never wanted them to be left alone, especially if visitors were in the house.”
Mrs. Angrove lifted her chin but did not respond. She approached the desk, lifted a vase of flowers, inhaled the scent, and then lowered it. “I’ve been thinking of what you said when we were at the shore the other day, and I’ve decided that I simply don’t agree with you.”
Delia gave a little laugh at the odd statement. “Oh really?”
“Indeed. You said that you didn’t intend to marry ever again. I believe that would be a mistake.”
Delia sobered at the personal comment.
Mrs. Angrove lifted her chin. “Perhaps you think it none of my business, but I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve seen more than most. Closing your heart off to love—in whatever form—is never a good idea.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I—”
“There is life to live, Mrs. Greythorne. Vibrant, beautiful life. I’m so grateful you are dedicated to the children, but tonight a ball is taking place at this very home, and I think it’s imperative for you to attend.” Without asking permission Mrs. Angrove stepped to Delia’s wardrobe and opened it. “Why, look at all of these gowns! Half of them I’ve never seen you in.”
Delia approached the wardrobe. She was not used to others touching her things, let alone rummaging through her personal items. “I—uh—”
Mrs. Angrove pulled down a pale-lilac gown and shook it out.
Delia’s breath caught in her throat. She’d not worn that particular gown in years, not since a dinner at Greythorne Hall a month before Robert died.
“Why, this is lovely! A bit outdated, I fear, but still it is far and away beyond what most of the townswomen are wearing. Why, you would be the belle of the ball in this.”
Delia nerves twisted as Mrs. Angrove pulled two more gowns from the wardrobe and splayed them across the bed. “Now, there’s no time to waste. If you will give no thought to your future happiness, then I must. Think of it. Every man for miles is in attendance tonight. For miles, my dear. If you’ve truly hope of capturing a man’s attention, you need to shed that dark garb you’ve been wearing. Trust me, no one else is wearing black downstairs. This is a celebration. If for nothing else, amuse me.”
Delia stared at the gowns. How could she make Mrs. Angrove understand? If word of her presence here were to get back to her in-laws, it could be disastrous.
“Don’t worry about the children. Alis has come with me, and she is in the parlor down the corridor awaiting my instruction.” With a decisive nod Mrs. Angrove selected the lilac gown and returned the others to the wardrobe. “Now, turn.”
Delia opened her mouth to protest, but her objection went unnoticed. Mrs. Angrove might be overstepping her boundaries, but she was still the children’s aunt, and while not her employer, she was a person of great import.
Before long, Mrs. Angrove’s maid had been summoned and helped Delia from her black gown. The new gown slipped over her stays and petticoat, and Alis fastened the row of tiny buttons down her back.
Delia turned to the small looking glass hanging on the wall. Gone was the confident governess. A ghost of her former self stared back at her—the timid, complacent wife and brokenhearted mother. She wanted to rip the dress from her body, discarding with it the accompanying memories.
But Mrs. Angrove’s eyes were fixed on her, oblivious to the emotion stirred within Delia. “You are a beauty, Mrs. Greythorne. That color does wonders for your complexion.”
Without invitation Alis tugged at the comb in Delia’s hair, releasing her locks over her shoulder, and then twisted it back up atop her head and pulled a few wisps down around her cheeks. “If we had more time we would do something more elegant, but this will do.”
Delia tore her gaze from the mirror and accepted the fan that Mrs. Angrove extended in her direction. Stunned, Delia smoothed a trembling hand over her hair. In a matter of minutes she’d gone from determined to sit the night out in her chamber to being dressed for a ball, and she was not comfortable with it in the least.
She consoled herself with the notion that she need only make an appearance to satisfy Mrs. Angrove, then return to her chamber at the first opportunity.
* * *
The dark coolness of the west wing’s second floor did little to calm her heated nerves as Delia made her way down the main staircase.
She never would have guessed that so many people could fit into the great hall and entrance hall, and yet a sea of people swarmed at the foot of the staircase. She lifted her gaze to see even more guests lining the open balconies to the long gallery and minstrels’ gallery on the floor above. Through the threshold to the great hall she spied couples dancing to the jaunty strains floating on the air.
As her foot tapped the flagstones of the main floor, she could feel sets of eyes burning holes in her.
Panic twisted within her.
Surely they all knew who she was—who her husband had been.
She bit her lip and lifted to the tips of her toes to see above the shifting crowd. She was pretty certain Mr. Simon was down here, and at the moment she needed a familiar face.
Lively music wafted down from the minstrels’ gallery, showering its spirited energy onto the guests below. Candlelight from sconces and candelabras flickered, painting the room in a cheery, happy glow. She scanned the room. Mr. Simon was not difficult to spot. He stood nearly a head taller than the others in attendance, and he was against the wall.
She skirted her way along the great hall’s plaster wall, weaving in and out of the chairs. He noticed her coming, and he lifted his nearly empty glass in greeting. “So you did decide to come down after all,” he said as she drew near.
“Alis is with the children. Mrs. Angrove all but insisted I come down.”
“And glad I am that she did.” He folded his arms across his chest as she stepped next to him.
She arched her neck to the side, following his gaze to the throng of people in attendance. “See, Mr. Simon, you judge the country too harshly. You think it void of society and activity. Yes, it is different from London, but it has its charms.”
“Charms?” He huffed. “Call it what you will, Mrs. Greythorne.”
He laughed in spite of himself, and it was a pleasant sound. Perhaps he felt more comfortable in such a social situation. Or perhaps i
t was the glass of spirits in his hand. But did it even matter? She was glimpsing her old friend, and maybe this was a turning point where he would shed his gloomy disposition and exchange it for the one more in line with the Mr. Simon she knew and liked.
He leaned close to be heard over the music. “I beg your forgiveness, because I’m about to take the liberty to tell you how lovely you look tonight.”
It was a girlish response, a foolish one, but a flush crept up her face. She waved him off. “Mr. Simon. Really.”
“What? You think I can’t notice such a thing? The one person I see daily, who has been clad in mourning garb for every day that I can recall, steps out in something different? Well, it would be shameful for me not to notice. I do hope you will continue this trend, Mrs. Greythorne. It doesn’t do for such a young woman to be draped in black. What exactly is that color?”
She flushed again. It was ridiculous—Mr. Simon speaking of colors and gowns. Yet it brought a smile to her lips. “I believe the color is called lilac.”
“Ah, like the flower.” He set his now-empty glass on the table against the wall and extended his arm. “Will you dance, Mrs. Greythorne?”
She laughed and turned to survey the couples gathering. “With you? You never dance.”
“Well, you’ve never seen me dance, but that does not mean I don’t know how. Tonight I may make an exception. Besides, who else will dance with me? I know no one, and everyone here looks at me as if I were a monster or had two heads.”
“Perhaps it is because of the sour expression you’ve been wearing as of late. I rather prefer this version of you.”
The caller summoned the dancers, and a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. She looked around at the guests again. No one stared at her, and the tension in her back eased at the realization. Maybe she had overreacted, letting her fears get the better of her. She might be wise to consider the truth in Mrs. Angrove’s statements.
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 14