The alarm on her face propelled him forward. “Mrs. Greythorne! What’s the matter?”
As he drew nearer, she stiffened, drawing herself up to a more proper posture. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, and for several moments he thought she would invent an excuse to steal away.
“I’ve lost my pendant.”
He was not sure he heard her right. Surely a pendant would not cause such an emotional reaction. “Your pendant?”
After a shuddery breath, her hand flew to her chest where the pendant would normally lie. Her gaze scanned the floor. “Yes, my necklace. It held a piece of my daughter’s hair. My husband gave it to me and I . . .” Her words trailed off as her gaze met his.
Sophy’s words from the day by the seashore rushed him. “Mrs. Greythorne wears her hair around her neck. Not every day, but sometimes.”
This was the first time she had mentioned her daughter to him.
He fumbled for words. “Then we will find it. Where did you have it last?”
“I had it this morning. It must have broken free sometime during the day.”
“You didn’t leave Penwythe today, did you? It has to be here somewhere.”
“It is so important to me. It—” A fat tear plopped down her cheek.
The deafening silence screamed, preventing him from hearing his own thoughts.
She was trembling. Vulnerable. In a way he’d not noticed before. The urge to protect her that he had felt the night of the Frost Ball had not subsided. It had been quieted, perhaps, with what had happened with Mr. Simon, but the sight of her tears and the pain on her face reignited the impulse. “We’ll find it. It can’t be far. I’ll notify the house staff. You were in the gardens, correct? I will have the groundskeeper search thoroughly.”
Through all the pain of the past several weeks, she had been stoic, but today her facade cracked, revealing a glimpse into the tender heart beneath.
Seeing her in this different light stole his breath. He wanted to fix what was broken, to heal what was wounded. “Don’t worry. All will be well. You have my word.”
Chapter 28
Delia had barely slept. How could she? The ghosts that had arrived as a result of the lost pendant were plaguing her, preventing sleep. The night was more like a prison instead of a reprieve from the day.
At the very first glimmer of dawn, Delia rose, dressed, and made her way down to the primrose garden. The light, even though minimal, provided enough illumination to begin her search for her lost pendant.
She started by the bank of elm trees, where she and the girls had taken the day’s reading, and then moved on to the copse of elms. As she searched along the bend and around the daisies, the sense that another presence was there slowed her, pricking the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.
Then a voice gripped her.
“Mrs. Greythorne.”
Delia turned to discover the source.
Mr. Simon stood on the path in the garden, just where the bricks veered around the willows.
A smile twitched his mouth as their eyes met.
He was clad in a blue broadcloth coat—one she’d never seen before—and the early-morning shadows fell across him, making his snowy cravat appear that much whiter. He was clean shaven and pristine, as always. The breeze rustled his freshly trimmed hair, and he held his hat in his hand.
“Mrs. Greythorne.” The manner in which the name rolled from his tongue seemed soft and intimate.
Her task forgotten, she returned to the stone path, happiness momentarily eclipsing her distress. “Mr. Simon! What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you, of course. I thought I’d find you here for one of your early-morning walks, and here you are.” His knowing grin crossed his face.
She stepped closer. “I am so relieved to see you. What on earth happened?”
He heaved a sigh and motioned with his hat to the bench. “Shall we?”
She sat on the bench and arranged her skirts around her, anticipation mounting. Finally she would have answers. Mr. Simon would keep nothing from her.
He sat next to her, and the scent of smoke and sandalwood wrapped around her, familiar and comfortable. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and angled his head to look at her. “So tell me. What’ve you heard?”
She shook her head and gave a shrug. “Absolutely nothing. Only that you were dismissed. I was given no reason.”
“And this upset you?”
“What an odd question!” She gave a little laugh and lifted her hand to still her hair blowing across her face. “Of course it did.”
“I figured as much. That’s why I wanted to speak with you one last time before I leave the area. I’ve been staying in Wentin Bay looking for a position, but I fear it’s time to move on.”
Mixed emotions swirled. He’d been gone for two weeks, but the fact that he would be leaving the area permanently twisted her heart.
“In the early morning following the Frost Ball, when the carriages were departing, I happened to meet your brother-in-law near the stable.”
Delia frowned, dread flooding her. “Thomas?”
“Yes. We spoke for a few moments, merely in passing, mind you. I wasn’t even aware of who he was at first. I’m not entirely sure what happened, but after I spoke with Mr. Greythorne, Mr. Twethewey attacked me and demanded an explanation as to why we were speaking. He raved like a madman, claiming Mr. Greythorne was involved in illegal activity, and he accused me—me!—of being involved. And then he dismissed me.”
Delia’s heart tightened in her chest. Could this be true? Would Mr. Twethewey act so rashly, so unjustly?
She rolled her shoulders forward. If only she hadn’t talked with Mr. Twethewey about her brother-in-law and confirmed the rumors. “This is my fault, then.”
“Don’t say that, Delia.”
She stiffened her posture at the use of her Christian name and studied her hands clasped in her lap. “What will you do now?”
“A family to the west is looking for a tutor, so I have written them, but in the meantime I think I will travel back to Yorkshire. I’ve family there, and I long for their familiar faces. Besides, I know no one else here.”
She glanced up at him again. This would be the last time she would see her friend for a very long time. “It will be so different without you here.”
“Nonsense. You and the children will continue on as you have, but . . .” His eyes sought hers. “I would like to ask a favor, if it’s not too much to ask.”
She leapt at the opportunity to help her friend after so much perceived injustice. “Of course.”
“When I was relieved of my duties, Andrews packed my things, but he failed to gather all of my belongings. I wonder if you could retrieve an item from my bedchamber. I feel terrible even asking you, but if anyone—”
“Don’t give it another thought.” She stood from the bench. “Of course I’ll help you.”
He licked his lips. “There was a loose floorboard under the left window. You might consider this odd, but I felt I needed to protect my personal belongings. I put a small leather packet with letters underneath that floorboard.”
“Say no more, Mr. Simon. The house is still quiet, and I should be able to get to that area without anyone noticing. Wait here.”
His gloved fingers brushed her bare ones, then gripped them softly. “Thank you.”
Unsaid words hovered heavily like the morning mist, and she looked to his hand still clutching hers. She flicked her gaze upward. His soft expression met her eyes, and a shot of alarm raced through her.
She pulled her hand from his affectionate grasp. “I’ll return shortly.”
The halls within were still shadowed, but her feet had learned the quirks of the old staircase, leaving her mind free to contemplate the odd interaction.
She had always thought that at some point, there might be something more between the two of them than companionship. Was that what he’d meant by holding her hand?
Sh
e tried to shirk the thought and continued up the stairs, quietly so as not to alert any staff members who might be awake, and she made her way to the chamber that had been Mr. Simon’s. The door creaked on its ancient hinges as she pushed it open, and she paused to make sure no one had heard her.
She stepped inside. Immediately the chamber’s plainness struck her. At least hers had a small fireplace, two windows, and a settee. This room consisted of a bed, a wardrobe, a small table and chair, and little else.
With a sniff and swift feet, she set about her task. Just as Mr. Simon had said, the plank below the window lifted easily, as did the one right next to it, revealing a small pocket of space. The worn leather was cold and stiff as she lifted the portfolio from its resting place. She looked at it for a few seconds. What could be so important to him? She knew he corresponded with several people—he was forever writing letters—but why would he hide them?
Pushing her curiosity aside, she stood, replaced the planks, and retreated from the room. Quicker and quicker she moved. Delia rounded the corner and ran into something so hard, so unmoving, that black stars darted across her vision. She bounced back off of it and the packet flew from her hands, papers showering down.
Two hands grabbed her upper arms.
Embarrassment and confusion reigned, and she immediately knelt to begin gathering the papers. “I—I— Forgive me, but—” She looked up and jumped to her feet, clutching the papers to her chest.
For there stood none other than Mr. Twethewey.
Chapter 29
Jac stomped across the dewy lawn, gripping the portfolio in his hand, with a red-faced Mrs. Greythorne following closely behind him. He considered himself a fairly even-tempered man, but the events of the past couple of weeks had tested the bounds of his patience.
But this—this was not to be borne.
“Tell me, Mrs. Greythorne.” He turned abruptly and waited for her to catch up with him. “Did you invite Mr. Simon back to the property?”
“Of course not!” She stopped short, and the willful morning wind tousled her hair about her face. “As I told you in the stairwell, he left some personal belongings and asked me to retrieve them.”
He resumed walking. “And he just happened to find you in the morning hours?”
“It’s no secret I walk this time of day.”
“And you don’t think it odd that he didn’t just come to me and ask for his things?”
“After what you did to him, is it any wonder that he sought me out instead of you?”
Just outside the primrose garden he stopped again and faced her. “What are you talking about?”
“He told me how you attacked him.”
“Attacked him?” he shot back with a huff, then snapped his mouth shut.
Jac pushed the gate open and held it wide for Mrs. Greythorne to precede him. The scent of lavender that always accompanied her wafted on the cool breeze. He held his breath. He’d not have his good judgment distracted by the intoxicating allure of her scent or by the softness of the tresses that had escaped her chignon.
What was this effect she had on him?
And to think he’d been so worried about her after finding her crying in the corridor. He’d been unable to think of little else. But this—this was the last thing he expected. He’d thought that Mr. Simon was in the past. Evidently Jac was mistaken. Things were becoming clearer. He would not be made the fool. Not by her, not by Simon, not by anyone.
They walked in angry silence for several moments before Jac spotted Simon, bright and audacious as a peacock, in a bright-blue velvet coat.
Jac looked down at the leather portfolio in his hands. He doubted that the contents were the real reason behind Simon’s return. It would have been just as easy for Simon to write and request the items be sent to him. Jac would bet the whole of Penwythe Hall that Simon was back to see Mrs. Greythorne. To play on her feminine sensibilities. The fact that Simon had the gall to compromise her reputation by meeting her alone in the garden made him sick.
He’d not have it.
Simon turned as they approached. His initial look of surprise was quickly eclipsed by amusement. A grin formed.
This man had the ability to set Jac’s mood on fire.
He did not break his stride but stepped right up to Simon. “Thought I told you not to return.”
Simon chuckled and his dark gaze shifted from Jac, to Mrs. Greythorne, and then back to Jac.
Jac held up the packet. “I understand this is what you’ve come for.”
Simon eyed it. “It is.”
“I told you never to come back here. You could have written for it.”
Simon shrugged. “I’m staying over in Wentin Bay. I’d get here faster than a letter, I’d wager.”
Jac thrust it toward him. “You have it, then.”
With a smirk Simon took the packet, flipped it open, shuffled through the contents, and then tucked it under his arm. He lifted his gaze to look over Jac’s shoulder at Mrs. Greythorne.
Jac stepped in front of him to block his view. “Your business is done here.”
“So it is.” Simon returned his hat to his head and tipped the brim. “Give the children my best.”
“The children need nothing from you,” Jac snapped.
Simon took several steps and then turned. “Farewell, Delia.”
The use of her Christian name was meant to get under Jac’s skin.
And it worked.
Jac glared as Simon retreated back down the path to the garden’s south entrance. Once Simon was out of earshot, Mrs. Greythorne stepped next to him. Her expression had not softened. If anything, her cheeks flamed pinker. Her eyes narrowed tighter. “Is it true you dismissed him because he was talking with Thomas?”
He was caught off guard by the demanding tone of her voice. He was the one who should be angry, and instead her eyes flashed as if she were the offended party.
She folded her arms tightly across her chest. The morning breeze caught long strands of her russet hair and blew them across her face. She tossed her head to return them to their place. Her unblinking gray eyes were fixed on him as she awaited a response.
She deserved an answer. “Very well.” He’d tried his best to protect her. In hindsight maybe he should have told her sooner. “I saw Mr. Simon accepting money from Thomas Greythorne. Your brother-in-law has a fearful reputation, and I don’t want anyone in my household accepting money from him.”
“You misunderstood what you saw. Mr. Simon would never do that.”
“Are you sure?”
Her mouth snapped shut, but anger waged war in her eyes. Silence hung heavy between them. They stared at each other, neither wanting to be the first to look away.
Her chin quivered slightly. “If that was the case, why did you not tell me as much?”
“Because I didn’t want you to worry.” He softened his tone. “I didn’t want you to be afraid.”
She gave a little laugh, thick with sarcasm. “Oh, you thought I couldn’t handle it?”
“I know you could handle it. I wanted to . . .” He swallowed. “I wanted to protect you.”
The small muscles in her jaw twitched. “I don’t need your protection, and I certainly don’t need you hiding truths from me. As it is, I don’t believe for a second that Mr. Simon would take money from Thomas. Mr. Simon has been a trusted and dear friend for many years. How dare you say such things about him?”
He stared at her—her vibrant eyes. Her full lips. The wind toying with her hair. And a strange ache tightened in his chest.
There was no use denying it. Andrews had been right the night of the Frost Ball. He’d been letting his emotions—and affections—rule his interactions with this woman. He could feel his own argument weakening, but he’d not win this battle. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to.
He straightened his coat and looked past her. “I don’t want the children to know of this visit. If he comes here again, I want to know immediately. Is that clear?”
&
nbsp; She winced, no doubt surprised by the curtness in his tone. He’d not intended to be so sharp, but it was easier than discussing the other feelings he was experiencing.
He returned his hat to his head. There was still something he needed to do to make sure Simon was off his property for good.
* * *
The cool morning breeze cooled Jac’s hot face but did little to quench the fire boiling within him. He didn’t slow his steps as he exited the primrose garden and made his way to the privacy of his study.
Morning sunshine now spilled through the east window, illuminating stacks of newspapers and books, but it was the south window that drew his attention. From it he could see the iron gate that separated Penwythe property from the road that led to the village.
Simon was still standing there, in a tall black beaver hat, next to a gray horse. He appeared to be securing the packet in his saddlebag. Jac grumbled under his breath as he watched.
Simon untied his horse and mounted. He’d said he was staying in Wentin Bay, so Jac expected him to turn right. But Simon turned his horse to the left and gave the horse a swift kick with his heel.
Jac frowned. That wasn’t the direction of Braewyn or Wentin Bay. In fact, the road would eventually curve and take him south.
Uncle William had always said that intuition was one of the greatest gifts God could give a man. It guided his steps and gave him clarity during decisions. Jac’s intuition screamed something was amiss. The vein in his temple throbbed. Whether he liked it or not, it was no longer only his peace and security he had to concern himself with. There were children in his care.
Something had to be done. Simon was lying about something. And Jac owed it to the children—and to Mrs. Greythorne—to find out why.
Jac bolted from the study, out the workman’s entrance, and north to the stables. With quick hands he saddled his horse and led him from the stable. It didn’t take long to find Simon retreating down the lane. Fortunately, the road they traveled was rife with bends and turns, which made it easy to follow at a distance. Simon’s absurd blue coat made him glow like a beacon in the morning light, and the tune he was whistling made the task even easier.
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 18