The Governess of Penwythe Hall

by Sarah E. Ladd

  She frowned, realizing this was one of the only times that she and Horace had been alone since she arrived. When she first stepped foot in the vicarage, all focus had been on Elizabeth, and in the days after her death, an endless processional of visitors and mourners demanded attention. Now Elizabeth was buried. All things related to her were settling down, but instead of a feeling of relief, a sense of discomfort descended upon her.

  When Delia looked at Horace, she glimpsed evidence of the boy he had been. He was plumper now, and his hair was thinner, but there was still that thread of somberness that had been part of his countenance since they were children. So many times over the last years she had thought of him, but instead of fond remembrances, bitterness had crept in.

  He’d given his permission for her to marry Robert. He’d encouraged it. She’d been too young, too innocent to know of the rumors surrounding the Greythorne family, but he had known them. It had been her decision to marry Robert, of course, but never did he voice a concern or share what he knew about the family’s reputation. The only explanation she could conjure for his silence on the matter was that he no longer wanted to be responsible for her care. Now she was independent, but her heart still hurt at the rejection she’d felt.

  He looked up, and when he saw her peering at him, he lowered the newspaper. He removed his spectacles. “I’m glad we’re alone now, for I’d like to speak with you.”

  Trepidation crept in at the weightiness of his tone. “What would you like to talk about?”

  “Penwythe Hall.”

  She sucked in a breath and stiffened her spine. “What about it?”

  “I don’t think you should go back.”

  Ghostly silence prevailed. His words seemed to echo as if they had been shouted.

  “You can live here, in Whitecross.” He continued when she did not respond. “With us, of course. Your chamber is available now, and I know Mary could use your help with the children. Wouldn’t you rather share your talents with your relations? Besides, we can always use help with parish responsibilities. There are so many ways you can share your gifts with others.”

  At his words, her chest tightened, and the beating of her heart intensified. She’d anticipated this conversation, but she was not prepared for it so soon. Though his words sounded kind, helpful even, she wondered whose best interest he had in mind.

  She stared down at her hands. They looked gray and pale in the low light. Over the past weeks she’d considered what it would be like to live in Whitecross again after such a long absence, but her life was different now, she was different, and the vicarage was nothing like the childhood home she remembered. Independence had changed her, and after having to answer to her brother nearly every time she stepped out the door since her arrival, she knew she could never go back.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” he said, shattering the silence. “I know it probably doesn’t sound very enticing to live here, but consider, Delia. You’d never be alone. There are people here you have not met. Men here you have not met. There is a future for you here. Maybe even a family.”

  Her face and ears grew hot. She recalled Mrs. Angrove saying similar words, but the tone had been so different. Mr. Twethewey flashed in her thoughts. It was possible for her heart to love again, she knew. She’d felt the glimmer of it, but at the moment, Penwythe Hall seemed so far away, and her past seemed so near.

  Chapter 41

  Delia was just about to retire for the night when a faint knock sounded at the door.

  Mary, who had just joined Delia and Horace in the drawing room, glanced up from her sewing, a frown marring her round face, and fixed her tired eyes on her husband. “Are you expecting someone at this late hour?”

  “Not that I know of.” Horace lowered his pipe. “Must be a parishioner or the like.” He waved off the approaching maid and rose to answer the door himself. He disappeared into the entry hall, and the door creaked open.

  A young voice echoed, “Is Mrs. Greythorne here?”

  Before the sentence had been fully uttered, Delia, spurred to action by the familiar voice, jumped from her chair and ran to the door. “Liam?” she cried, breathless, as she rounded the corner, clipping her shoulder on the threshold.

  Horror raced through her when she saw the boy—her Liam—standing in the door frame against the black of night. His wet clothes clung to him. No hat covered his head, and his ebony hair stuck to his forehead and temples in thick locks.

  She pushed Horace aside and took Liam by the shoulders, all the while studying his face. “How did you get here? Why are you here?” She pulled him inside, ignoring the rainwater that splashed from his coat and boots to the wooden floor. She grabbed a shawl from the nearby peg and wrapped it around him. “Is it Sophy? Hannah?”

  Without waiting for a response, she guided him onto the sofa, and he blinked away the rain and looked around the modest room before he fixed his attention on her. “We need you to come home. Aunt Beatrice visited, and we’re afraid she is going to take us to London.”

  With a shaky sigh of relief, Delia lowered her shoulders.

  Nothing was wrong. Not seriously.

  Her tense muscles relaxed, and she dropped to a nearby chair to look him more fully in the face. Dirt smeared his wet cheek, and his wet hair was tangled. Her heart swelled with affection for this young man who had been in her care for so long. He was such a protective young man, so she was not surprised that he’d act on behalf of his siblings, but as he sat on the sofa, she saw the little boy she’d met when she first arrived at Easten Park. He was fiddling with the cuff of his soaked coat and he bit his lower lip, something he often did when he felt ill at ease.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Liam glanced to Mary and then up to Horace over her shoulder. He drew a deep breath and then pivoted to face her. “Aunt Beatrice wants us to live with her in London. We heard Uncle Jac and Mr. Andrews talking about money, and we are worried they will send us to live with her. We don’t want to go. We didn’t know what to do. So I came to find you.”

  Understanding began to dawn. The children were perceptive, and the thought that they might feel unwanted broke her heart. “Does your uncle know you are here?”

  He shook his head slowly, looking down at the rug covering the floor.

  She drew a sharp breath, and the realization that Mr. Twethewey must be beside himself with worry trickled through her. “You shouldn’t have come all this way without your uncle’s permission.”

  “I know, but the children were scared. And they were afraid you weren’t going to come back.”

  She tilted her head. “Why would they think I’d not come back?”

  “Aunt said the only reason you were kind to us is because Father paid you, and now that the trust is in trouble—”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Everyone is talking about it. I first heard it from the groom in the stable the other day.”

  “Liam, did you talk to your uncle about any of this? All of it probably could have been avoided by a simple conversation. I think you’d find that he does care for you very much. All of you.” She paused to take a breath. “How did you get here?”

  “I rode a horse.”

  “All this way?” She huffed in disbelief. “The horse must be exhausted. Where is it now?”

  “He’s tied outside. I promise, I wouldn’t have come if you weren’t needed.”

  “Well, first thing tomorrow you must go back. I’d wager your uncle is frantic at your absence. Do you not see how dangerous this was?”

  The boy bit his lip, and his eyes were red rimmed. Regret filled his face, so she softened her tone and stood. “Come, let’s see to the horse and get you out of these wet things. A good night’s sleep will set this all to right.”

  * * *

  Rain dripped from the brim of Jac’s hat and slid down the back of his collar. He pounded on the vicarage door. Again. Why would no one answer? It was the midnight hours, but still, he was making enough noise to
wake the dead.

  The horseback ride had been difficult. Rain—precious rain—had plagued him nearly the entire way. He’d had to be very careful. Water flooded parts of the road. He was cold. Tired. But most of all, he was worried sick. He pounded on the door again and shifted his weight from foot to foot, stretching his muscles.

  The door did not open.

  He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the window next to the door. All looked dark, but this had to be the correct place. The vicarage next to the church in Whitecross.

  He raised his gloved fist and pounded again. What would he do if he couldn’t find Liam?

  The possible scenarios of what could have happened to the boy flashed before him, twisting his stomach and squeezing his heart.

  Sudden commotion sounded from behind the wooden door. He jerked his head up, and hopeful anticipation flickered.

  Horace Abbott, dressed in a dressing gown and nightcap, answered the door.

  “Mr. Twethewey.” He blinked at him sleepily, like an owl from above his spectacles. “I thought we’d see you soon.”

  “I’m looking for my nephew,” rushed Jac. “I believe he came here searching for Mrs. Greythorne.”

  The man stepped backward, rubbed his face, and opened the door farther. “Come in, Twethewey. No need for alarm. The boy is here, safe and sound.”

  Relief warmed within him. Liam was here. Safe.

  He took a deep breath to ward off the frustration flooding him. What could the boy have been thinking?

  Jac swept his hat from his head, careful not to let the rain fall to the floor, and ducked his head through the low doorway. The rooms were dark, given the lateness—or rather earliness—of the hour, but when he turned, he saw that a small cluster of people had gathered. Abbott’s family, no doubt.

  “My apologies.” He nodded in their direction. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind the gathering, and another face—a much more welcome one—appeared.

  Mrs. Greythorne.

  At the sight of her, a peaceful calm washed over him.

  She stepped purposely through the group. A long black shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and her hair was gathered in a thick, long braid that fell in front of her shoulder. The light from her candle flickered on her smooth cheek, highlighting her dimple and her eyelashes.

  Liam had been his focus for the entire ride, through the rain and dark of night. The boy’s safety had been paramount. But now that he knew Liam was safe, the tension pinching Jac’s shoulders eased. Her very presence was a balm, and she hadn’t even said a word.

  “Liam’s here, isn’t he?” Jac whispered as she drew near.

  She nodded, her eyes wide. “He came to see me. I am sorry he worried you.”

  Further commotion in the hall drew his attention, and he looked up to see Liam standing there, hair mussed, white shirt untucked from his trousers. He approached cautiously, as if Jac were a snake ready to strike.

  But at the sight of the boy, all frustration and anger fled.

  Liam was alive and well, but his eyes were red with tears. “I’m sorry, Uncle Jac, really I am. I—”

  Jac took two large steps forward and embraced the boy, mindless of his wet clothes. After several seconds he released Liam and held him at arm’s length. “Don’t do that again! I’ve never been so worried, thinking about what tragedy could have befallen you.”

  Liam’s eyes flicked to Mrs. Greythorne and then back. “But Julia heard you. You and Mr. Andrews want to send us away.”

  Jac swallowed hard. He glanced up and saw all eyes fixed on him. He did not like having his personal business on display, yet he needed to clear this up once and for all. “Listen to me, and listen well. I don’t know what Julia heard. But you’re not going to London. Not a single one of you. You all belong at Penwythe Hall, and that is where you’ll stay.”

  He softened his tone. “The Twetheweys have been through a great deal the past several months, haven’t we? It’s not been easy, but nothing worth having ever is. You have my word, and I’ll never go back on it. You and your brother and sisters will always have a home at Penwythe. Always.”

  Chapter 42

  Delia lay in her bed, awake. Her two worlds had collided hopelessly, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  The rain still pelted down, and the steady, staccato rhythm, which initially was such a source of peace, now added to her tension. When sleep would not come, she rose and paced her small chamber, trying to organize the thoughts and feelings churning within her.

  Mr. Twethewey was here, in the vicarage, just one floor below. He’d not come all this way to see her, of course, but he was here nonetheless.

  After uncle and nephew had reunited, Liam returned to the cot in the kitchen where he had bedded down for the night, and Mr. Twethewey had accepted the invitation to sleep on the drawing room sofa.

  She imagined Mr. Twethewey was tired. Both he and Liam were. Her carriage ride alone was unpleasant. How much worse would it be on horseback? Despite the exhaustion Mr. Twethewey must be feeling, she felt she knew him well enough to know that he was not asleep.

  Not here. Not now.

  Mr. Twethewey had said little when he arrived, but one thing he had said caught her attention: the children would always have a home at Penwythe.

  Perhaps it was being here in her childhood home—the place where she first learned to dream—but oh, the sight of him after more than a fortnight of separation had awakened something in her heart. Her stomach quaked nervously, and she paced the room like a giddy schoolgirl.

  The next morning, as soon as filmy light crept across the heavens, Delia rose and began her preparations for the day. She wanted to speak with Mr. Twethewey before the rest of her family woke. She dressed quickly, feeling a little foolish for taking extra care with her gown selection and how she arranged her hair. She caught a glimpse of her face in the looking glass as she prepared to leave the chamber. She looked pale. She pinched her cheeks for color and then headed downstairs.

  All was quiet except for morning sounds coming from the kitchen. One of the servants had made coffee, and the smell wafted to her. She paused near the door to the drawing room and held her breath. The sound of a newspaper rustling caught her attention.

  Her heart leapt within her. She went to the kitchen, assembled a tray of coffee, and bit her lower lip as she made her way to the drawing room. Mr. Twethewey looked up as she entered. He was seated on the edge of the sofa, newspaper in hand, blue eyes bright in the dawning light.

  Heat rushed to her face. “I thought you’d be awake.”

  He chuckled but said nothing. He only pushed his fingers through his still-damp hair. He stood, the shadowed stubble on his chin and jawline making him seem approachable.

  There was something comforting about his nearness. His manner was relaxed. He’d borrowed dry clothes from her brother. The fit was terrible, but even so, he was handsome.

  “I thought you might need this.” She set the coffee tray on the table.

  “Ah, you’re right.” He accepted the cup she offered. “Thank you.” He took a drink and returned to the sofa where he had been sitting. “I am sorry to intrude on your family like this. I have no idea what would make Liam act in such a fashion.”

  “It’s no intrusion. Everyone is just happy Liam is safe and sound.” Delia sat on the settee opposite, under the room’s front window. She took advantage of the early-morning light to study him. He wore no cravat. The corded muscles in his neck tightened with each movement. His square jaw was clenched, his eyes bright, even in the pale light.

  “It could have been disastrous.” He slowly rubbed the rim of the cup with his thumb. “That ride through the moors is treacherous. My horse stumbled a handful of times. I’m surprised he made it. I never could have forgiven myself if something had happened to him.”

  “Liam may be only fourteen, but he’s resourceful.” She reached for the shawl she had left on the
sofa the previous evening and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You left the other children well?”

  He nodded, stretching out one booted leg before him. “They are confused by everything that has happened, but they are well. And they miss you.” His expression sobered. “They are not the only ones who miss your presence at Penwythe Hall.”

  Her eyes flashed upward, her gaze locking with his. “I—I have missed you all as well.”

  He surprised her by standing. He moved from his chair and sat next to her on the settee.

  Her heart was wild in her chest now, beating and thudding as if she’d run a race. He smelled of rain and weather, of wildness and the moors. It was intoxicating. Suddenly after the long days of feeling restless and sad at her family home, a reviving strength surged through her—purpose and desire were intermingled.

  She wished things could be different—that he was not a guardian and she was not a governess—that they had met at another time and under different circumstances. She recognized the passion in his eyes, even though it had been years since someone looked at her that way.

  He felt it too. Surely he did. The inexplicable thread that bound them to each other, that grew tighter with time and experience. They’d been acquainted for over two months, but had she not established her feelings for Robert in much less time?

  “I almost forgot.” He stood, crossed the room, and retrieved something from the pocket of his coat. He returned to the settee and sat near her—so near she could feel the warmth radiating from him. He leaned his elbows on his knees and carefully unwrapped the item.

  Her pendant.

  Maria’s hair.

  A gasp choked from her. Her hands flew to her face, and tears blurred her vision. She took the piece from him. Her most precious keepsake. Relief mixed with gratitude, yet everything around her seemed to slow. She clutched it close to her chest. “You found it.”

  “It was in my study. Somehow it must have come loose from the chain.”

  She shook her head, unable to tear her gaze from the jewelry. “I—I don’t know how to thank you.”