She narrowed her eyes. She needed every ounce of energy she possessed not to shrink back and avert her eyes. Her chin trembled. It could not be helped.
Thomas’s eyes gleamed and he shook his head. “That does sting. We are, after all, family. Be that as it may, there is one way to ensure we go away, and you know what that is, don’t you, Sister? Simply tell us where it is, and we will be out of your life. Forever.”
“I’ve told you repeatedly,” she forced through clenched teeth, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well then, one of you is a liar, either you or Robert. Who is it?”
She stared at him.
He guffawed. “You’ve reentered our lives. Out of respect for Robert we were prepared to let you go silently into the night, but your presence here has reignited our desire to find it. After all, it belongs to us.”
The full force of his vehemence radiated from his face. “Should you suddenly remember where it is, you know where we can be found.” Thomas swatted his brother on the shoulder with the back of his hand, and they turned to leave. Then Thomas stopped and fixed his ebony eyes on her. “We are very patient people, but even we have our limits. We fully intend to find out where Robert hid our property, and as much as you deny it, we know you know. So you have a choice, Mrs. Greythorne. This can go smoothly. Or not.” A grin slid over his face. “You choose. Again, I’m terribly sorry about your sister.”
* * *
Delia could no longer bear the stuffiness of the room and the endless line of mourners paying their respects. She needed fresh air, open spaces, and blue sky—even if only for a few hours. There was a task she wanted—nay, needed—to do before she left the southern coast, and now her heart yearned for it.
She needed to visit Robert’s and Maria’s graves.
Upon her arrival at Whitecross, she had been nervous to do so, for visiting their graves would take her into the heart of Morrisea—right across from the Hawk’s Eye Inn—where she might encounter her in-laws. But they knew now she was here.
At first Horace had protested her going to Morrisea, especially alone. But Delia was not used to asking permission to go anywhere or do anything, and she certainly did not need a protector. At length she persuaded him, promising that she would only be gone a short while. He finally relented and allowed her a bit of solitude.
The hot morning sun shone brightly, its brilliance mocking her melancholy mood. Even as she drove her brother’s donkey cart along the well-traveled road, fear that the Greythornes may have lingered after their encounter in the garden wound its way around her heart, making her leery of the shadows lurking behind the trees lining the road and the sounds of the birds and animals nearby.
“Fear is an enemy—it will rob you of today’s joys and steal your strength to fight for your purpose.” Elizabeth’s words whispered to her as she traversed the path.
Yes, Delia was fearful.
The weight of it was suffocating her. It was as Elizabeth said—it was robbing Delia of her joy and strength. Whether she felt like it or not, she would try to fight. She owed it to her husband and daughter to visit their resting places.
As she approached the village, Morrisea’s familiar sights and scents conjured memories with poignant clarity.
Robert’s passion for her, his adoration of her.
Their whirlwind romance.
Maria’s birth.
Maria’s death.
The searing anguish of loss.
The pain of watching Robert spiral into a completely unrecognizable person—one who would risk life and limb for monetary pursuits and the approval of his family, regardless of how it might hurt those who loved him.
She curved her cart down the winding dirt lane and turned onto High Street, careful not to look in the direction of the Hawk’s Eye Inn. She did not want to see it, nor did she want to risk being seen. Mr. Twethewey had said Mr. Simon had entered that establishment, but even if he was still there, she did not want her two worlds to touch.
The graveyard was next to the ancient church that had stood there since before the village had taken root. For decades it had been the only church for miles, and families would travel from far and wide to attend services beneath its slate roof. But now villages and towns were plentiful, and the parish itself was rather small. This was her husband’s family’s village, and only people associated with or employed by the family remained.
She set the donkey cart brake, grabbed the small bundle of flowers she’d picked before departing, and adjusted her bonnet so it was lower over her face. Even with her vision partially obscured, her feet knew where to go. She’d traversed the tidy footpath so many times through tear-blurred eyes that she knew it by heart—four paces to the left, then twelve to the right. Turn again at the elm tree. And so she did just that and found herself at the head of a tiny grave next to a larger one.
At the sight, sharp, bitter emotions ripped at her heart, and tears that had been held at bay slipped down her cheeks.
How she missed them.
How she longed to feel her daughter in her arms once more, to feel the comfort of her husband’s embrace. She was beginning to forget the sensation of both, and that realization stabbed even more.
Time was fleeting. Love was precious.
Now she had plenty of time, but what of love?
Oh, precious love.
One by one, those she held near to her heart had gone away.
She knelt at Maria’s grave. Someone had left a smattering of daisies there. She added her wildflowers before she sank to a stone bench near the Greythorne family section. There she sat, staring at the markers in the shade of the grand elm. The warblers chirped in the leafy boughs overhead, and squirrels scurried in the undergrowth around the trees.
She was not sure how much time had passed as she sat there, wrapped in the fading memories, but the sun had shifted in the brilliant blue sky, and the light filtered through the elm at just the right angle that it created lacy patterns on her gown. After her tears were exhausted, she pressed her handkerchief to her face.
She needed to get home.
Her brother wouldn’t be happy she had been gone so long.
She found his strictness surprising and stifling. After being the one in charge of things for so long, she found it difficult to comply with his schedules and his demand to know where she was at all times. He was being protective, she knew. He cared about her. But she was no longer a child, and she wasn’t ill, like Elizabeth had been.
Drawing a deep breath, she stood, kissed the tips of two fingers, and pressed them to both headstones. The sudden urge to be free from the graveyard pressed against her. The vibrant memories were strong, and now that she was here, they tightened about her, binding her.
She turned toward the road to retrieve her cart. Almost by accident, or perhaps out of curiosity, she glanced toward the Hawk’s Eye Inn.
It had not changed much in the intervening years. Not really. It was a long, narrow structure, stretching two stories into the sky, and stood free from those around it. A dusty, dry courtyard separated it from its stable and coach house. A small group of men clustered around the wooden-pole fence that divided the property from High Street, and she quickened her steps to avoid being seen.
“Mrs. Greythorne!”
Delia jumped at the deep baritone voice booming behind her, thick with a country accent and raspy with age. She hurried faster.
The voice called to her again. A shimmer of recognition dawned, and she slowed her pace.
Could it be?
Uneven footsteps lumbered behind her. “Mrs. Greythorne, is that you?”
She halted and turned. “Philip?”
An old man, clad in a shabby tan coat and with unkempt white hair, approached. A broad smile cracked his weathered face, exposing two missing teeth. “Yes, Mrs. Greythorne. ’Tis me. Philip. At your service.” He clutched his hat in his wrinkled hands, and he ducked his head in a bow. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again, and it�
��s glad I am to be doin’ so.”
In front of her stood one of the only people she could say she truly missed from her time at Greythorne House. “Oh, Philip.” She smiled at the groundskeeper who’d been such a kind friend to her in the past. “How good it is to see you.”
“I heard you was back in the area, what with your sister and all, and I never thought I’d see the day.” He squinted in the bright sunlight, and Delia thought for a moment she heard emotion tremble his voice. “When I heard you was here, I thought for sure you’d be comin’ to visit your husband and the little one, so I’ve been stoppin’ by the graveyard every day, waitin’.”
“Was it you, then, who put the daisies on Maria’s grave?”
“Yes, ma’am. The missus took to puttin’ flowers there after you left. She did it regular. She’s gone now, so I do it for her. I know she’d want me to.”
“Your wife is . . . ?”
Philip nodded. “Yes, miss. Two years ago this autumn. She’s buried there, under the oak tree.”
Genuine sorrow tugged at her as her gaze followed his pointed finger to the graveyard’s north edge. Any words she could say felt inadequate, and yet she managed to utter, “I am sorry.”
“I don’t need to tell you the pain that comes with the loss of a spouse.”
She could only nod.
A breeze swept down, rustling the leaves overhead and pushing the hot air downward. “Are you back for good then?”
She shook her head. Even though she had been here only a short time, it already seemed like a lifetime since she hugged each child and bid Mr. Twethewey farewell. “No, Philip, I am not. I’m a governess for a family north of here. I need to return soon.”
“Will you be calling out at Greythorne House? I heard Mrs. Greythorne asking after you just this morning.”
Delia’s heart froze. She could handle seeing Thomas and Henry, but the thought of seeing Ada Greythorne again sent a chill to her very marrow. “After all that has happened, I am not sure I’m welcome at Greythorne House.”
Philip did not answer. He, of all people, was well acquainted with the mighty Greythornes. He knew the truth, and like so many others, he was powerless to escape them.
They stood for several moments, their unspoken understanding filling the silence between them. At length she offered a smile. “It really was good to see you, Philip. Thank you for putting flowers on my Maria’s grave.”
He nodded. “Good day to you, Mrs. Greythorne.”
She watched him for but a moment as he lumbered away, then glanced back at the Hawk’s Eye Inn. She would need strength as potent as Elizabeth’s to survive the rest of her visit, and she breathed a prayer for fortitude.
Chapter 37
Jac winced as the dry grass crunched beneath his boots, and he looked up, blinking against the sharp sunlight splintering through the still boughs. The leaves were not brown, not yet, but they hung limp and weak from the branch. He reached out to touch the fruit, noting its small size.
He clicked his tongue and fell into step next to Andrews.
The steward plucked a partially formed apple from the tree and held it close to examine it. “I paid a call over to the Stewarts’ orchard yesterday. Trees are as dry and weak as I’ve ever seen ’em. Their potatoes and turnips are faring a bit better, but they need rain as badly as we do.”
Crops all over the area were suffering under the unusual drought, and the Penwythe orchards were no different. “What about the Davies’?”
“I’ll call out there tomorrow.” Andrews peered through another branch, deeper into the tree, before he returned his attention to Jac. “Word is that they’re doing well, but time’ll tell, won’t it?”
Jac nodded, removed his felt hat to wipe his brow, and looked up at the clear blue sky that boasted nary a cloud.
“The men are bringing buckets up from the pond and watering by hand. For now it will have to suffice, but the trees could use a nice, long soak.” Sarcasm dripped from Andrews’s huff. “And to think, we were worried that waterlogged soil would be a problem.”
“What about having the pigs clear the dropped fruit?” Jac asked as the rotting fruit on the ground captured his attention. “Are the orchards ready for them?”
Andrews nodded. “I know you’re uncomfortable with the plan, but Stewart has employed that technique to clear the grounds and dropped fruit for years. We’ll work on one orchard at a time.” As they walked, Andrew reached in his breast pocket and retrieved a stack of letters. “I meant to give these to you back in the study.”
Jac accepted the letters in stride, and as he walked he flipped through the missives. Just as he suspected: a letter to Hannah and a letter to Johnny, written by Mrs. Greythorne’s hand. True to her word, she’d written the children. Every day at least one letter arrived for one of them. The children were thrilled, and he was happy for them.
Jac knew better than to expect a letter addressed to him, although he longed for one. It would not be proper for her to write, nor for him to write her. She was, after all, his employee and an unmarried woman. The children had given him updates on her from their letters, but more than anything, he wanted to hear that she would be returning to them soon.
They approached Penwythe’s servants’ entrance, and Jac led the way in. Once they reached his study, Jac dropped the letters to the desk.
Andrews helped himself to a drink from the side table. “Got a letter from as far away as Devon asking when it would be all right to bring fruit to the cider barn and what the cost would be. Word is spreading. Apparently the barn north of Plymouth was getting too high and mighty and charging a hefty sum.”
“Good. We’ll need the business.” Jac kneaded the back of his neck. “The crusher and cider barn and orchard improvements were costlier than anticipated.”
When Andrews didn’t comment, Jac straightened his shoulders. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
With a sigh, Andrews rounded the desk and lifted the ledger from the drawer. “I was going over the ledgers just yesterday, not just for the farmwork, but for the household too. Like you instructed, we’re keeping the money we’ve already received for the children out of it to use for future expenses. It’s not ideal. With five extra bodies and the costs of a governess, the future could be in jeopardy. If the orchards don’t produce well, we might not have the resources needed to prepare for next season, and then . . .” He glanced at the floor for a moment, then looked up. “It might be wise to consider selling the north meadow. Both Colliver and Tallack have been eyeing it for some time. Or perhaps you should take Mrs. Lambourne up on her offer to help care for the children.”
Jac snapped his gaze toward Andrews and then nodded toward the thick ledger. “Leave it here, will you?”
With a nod Andrews returned the book to the desk and took his leave.
Jac stared at it for several seconds, gathering the will to review it. It was not an option to send the children away, but the sale of the north meadow might be worth considering. He opened the cover when something sparkly caught his attention from the corner of his eye. The sun slid in through the window, and the object winked from beneath the chair just inside the door.
The plank floor creaked beneath him as he crossed the chamber, knelt, reached under the chair, and retrieved the item. It was smooth and cool under his fingers. As he pulled it closer, his breath caught.
Mrs. Greythorne’s pendant.
He smoothed his thumb over the lacquer. She’d be happy. Thrilled. Already he anticipated giving it to her and imagined how her face would brighten, how her gray eyes would sparkle, and how her smile would dimple her cheek.
But then Mrs. Lambourne’s words rushed to him.
What if Mrs. Greythorne did not return? What if her brother convinced her that her place was with his family? It had already been a couple weeks. Even if she did return, what would happen if he could not afford to pay her what she had been paid by the trust?
Questions he did not know the answers to bombard
ed him. The last several days with the children had proven what a large piece of his heart they were claiming, but he could not raise them alone, nor did he want to. No, he didn’t want to raise them with anyone but Cordelia.
Chapter 38
Liam was just about to close the book he’d been studying when the door to the schoolroom flung open. Julia stood in the doorway, her blue eyes wide and her face as pale as the day Papa died.
“What’s the matter?” He frowned, noting the scowl on her face. “You look as if you saw a ghost.”
She didn’t answer, nor did her countenance brighten. Instead, she shook her head, her curls bouncing, and stomped into the chamber. “Worse.”
On the settee Sophy lifted her head from her sewing, her face forming a pout. “What could be worse than a ghost?”
Julia crossed her arms over her chest and dropped to a chair. “I was in the kitchen and overheard something I shouldn’t have, and now I wish I hadn’t. Mr. Andrews told Uncle that they are running out of money.”
“I don’t believe it.” Hannah’s mouth fell open. “Look how grand everything is here.”
“It might be grand, but it doesn’t mean that Uncle has enough money to pay for it,” Liam said, standing from his chair.
Hannah leaned closer. “What else did you hear?”
“Mr. Andrews told Uncle that he thought he should send us to live with Aunt Beatrice because we are expensive and Mrs. Greythorne has to be paid. And all that costs money they don’t have. That’s all I heard.”
“Why didn’t you listen harder?” Sophy demanded. “I would have listened harder.”
“Young ladies don’t eavesdrop, Sophy.” Julia tilted her nose upward. “Mrs. Greythorne would be appalled. You know that.”
Johnny folded his forearms atop the table and rested his chin on his hands. “What if he sends us away? I don’t want to go to London.”
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 23