They halted in a copse shaded by leafy elms. The air was damp and in front of them was a grotto, overhung with ferns. Dominating the small cleared space was a memorial stone dedicated to Venetia and Hector Hawthorne.
“Venetia died seven years ago, yesterday,” he said, clearly glad to change the subject as her gaze went to the posy of flowers at its base. “I gather Caro didn’t mention it?”
Sarah evaded his look. “She mentioned it.”
“Since Caro turned twelve she’s refused to accompany me here. She says she hates her mother. Can I ask you what she said to you?”
Weighing up whether to spare him the truth, Sarah stared at the limp dewdrops upon the woodleaf floor. Everyone at Larchfield had remarked upon the anniversary yesterday. Seven years after her death Lady Venetia and her powerful influence over her husband – amongst other men – continued to provide the servants with a rich source of gossip.
When it was clear he intended waiting for her answer, she said, hesitantly, “Caro asked why her father would erect a memorial to a harlot.”
To her surprise he looked amused. “Caro has spirit. It’s not customary to cultivate the society of our adolescent daughters. They can seem like strangers on occasion.”
Sarah thought of her own father. He had not been customary in his approach to her upbringing, throwing at her books she must read, quizzing her, arguing with her. He even took her shooting when only close friends were visiting.
She felt a pang, but as ever her resolve hardened when she thought of his parting words: “Marry James, or my doors are closed to a crotchety spinster who insists on spurning life’s bounties.”
Well, she’d be going home soon, if only to prepare herself for her return to Mr Hawthorne.
“Yes, she has spirit. Like her mother.” Boldly, Sarah moved closer, putting her hand on the mossy surface of the rock face for balance. He did not step back but the gaze he levelled at her was harsh.
“Venetia was a poppy eater. Did the servants tell you that?”
Shocked, she shook her head. It explained so much.
“Her addiction made her moods volatile and unpredictable.” His eyes left hers and he gazed over her shoulder. His reflective smile suggested happier memories. “When Venetia needed me she was everything I could have wished for-” He gave a short, wry laugh, adding, almost imperceptibly, “Well, almost. Sarah saw his pain as their gazes locked. “It’s one thing to be needed, Miss Morecroft. His voice was now so low she strained to hear him as he finished, “quite another to be loved.”
She was not prepared for such a revealing confidence. Nor what he required of her. Sympathy? Understanding? But it was her heart, not her head that dictated her next impulsive move. As if it were the most natural thing in the world Sarah raised herself upon her toes and put her hands on his shoulders. She closed her eyes. An instant later she felt the answering touch of his lips upon hers. His hands cupped her face, and her senses were assailed by sandalwood and leather, yearning and desire as his strong hard body pressed her back against the stone.
She might have been a seasoned flirt, but Sarah had little experience of physical desire. Tingles of sensation rippled through her as she twined her hands in the short hair at the nape of his neck and felt the roughness of his skin against her cheek, the sweet gentleness as his tongue skimmed her upper lip before he deepened the kiss. Her bones became jelly as he rained kisses upon her lips, her eyes, her neck. He kissed her like a drowning man replenishing himself, and Sarah responded like a flower soaking up the sun.
He released her suddenly. Breathless, she steadied herself against the rock behind. The turbulence in his eyes revealed mixed emotions. She could see he wanted her still. Against his will.
The rapid rise and fall of his chest mirrored the turbulence of her own reaction, but she was aware of the need for restraint.
“A gentleman would apologize to you, Miss Morecroft.” His voice was strained as he stepped back. “Yet I’m not sure I’m entirely to blame.”
She felt stripped bare, from the inside out. Unable to respond, she touched her lips.
“It shan’t happen again.” He turned, but she could not let him go.
“If I am to blame, then forgive me,” she ground out. If he didn’t blame her, he was blaming himself, and hating her for it. She couldn’t bear it.
“Pretend it never happened.” She lurched towards him, stopping herself before she stayed him with a hand upon his sleeve. “Don’t let it spoil what was between us.”
He turned, his eyes drinking her in. There was more than just regret in his expression, as he responded. “There was, and is, nothing between us, Miss Morecroft.” At the devastation in her look his tone gentled. “Nor ever will be.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
He was wrong, but now was not the time to persuade him. Smoothing her skirts as she stepped away from the memorial stone, Sarah managed at last to control her trembling mouth and in a voice that was light and careless, said, “It’s getting late. We should return to the house or Caro will wonder what’s become of us.” With an inviting smile she indicated the path and was relieved when he began to walk with her. “Which brings me to the matter of Caro’s Birthday Ball.” Her chatter was deliberately inconsequential. “I was hoping you’d do me – and Caro – the great honour of allowing me to be final arbiter of in the choice of Caro’s gown. Mrs Hawthorne, you see, has her heart set on primrose. Caro exhibits great fashion understanding when she declares that in primrose she’ll rather resemble Banquo’s ghost dressed for a wedding.”
Chapter Seven
GEORGIANA AND PHILLY were constant visitors to Larchfield in the lead-up to Caro’s ball. The daily curriculum of dance practice, deportment lessons, drills in how to use a fan to convey a hundred moods and meanings, and how to execute the perfect curtsy had been gruelling. Despite that, the girls’ enthusiasm seemed to have rubbed off on Caro.
In another couple of weeks her work here would be done, thought Sarah with a pang. Caro, her ‘special mission’ had proved far more amenable than expected, which was not surprising. Caro was like any normal young girl. A boost to her self confidence, and a few friends, had made an enormous difference.
Mrs Hawthorne, inferring at the outset that a lowly-born piece of goods like Sarah would know nothing about such matters, had soon entirely discharged to her all duties related to Caro’s initiation into the adult world.
Mrs Hawthorne’s ill opinion amused Sarah. Mr Hawthorne’s feelings were another matter. He ignored her. No amount of persuasion from the young ladies would induce him to partner them in their dance lessons. Sarah knew she was the reason.
She felt hurt. He had confided in her. The connection had not only been physical. Clearly, he feared his attraction for Sarah, the lowly governess.
If it were to be a battle of the wills, she thought, fluttering her fan as she dropped a curtsy in mock deference to Caro at the conclusion of a minuet, practiced in the drawing room with the chairs and tables pushed against the walls, hers would prevail.
But for once, she was not entirely convinced that her powers of persuasion matched her powers of attraction.
Roland watched the spray of droplets catch the light as two birds bathed with rapturous abandon in the birdbath a few yards from his study windows. It seemed a lifetime ago that he and Godby had bathed in the river that ran through Larchfield, splashing water at each other with similar abandon. Venetia had eaten his heart for breakfast the day he’d met her, and made short work of the rest of him. He had nothing left of himself to offer anyone. When Miss Morecroft had made clear she thought otherwise he’d responded with a resurgence of symptoms indicating his dangerous susceptibility to her overtures. How nearly he’d become a fool in love yet again.
He groaned inwardly, trying again to turn his mind to the accounts with which his bailiff had presented him. The man was breathing over his shoulder, waiting for him to endorse his monthly summary so Roland could send him on his way.
Roland turned th
e inked paper over in a useless gesture, while he re-lived his encounter with Miss Morecroft at the grotto. Godby’s daughter, charming and as apparently careless and forthcoming with her affections as her father, was never far from his thoughts.
Through the open window his eye caught a flash of white sprigged muslin. So much more interesting than the paper in his hand. His gaze followed Miss Morecroft’s graceful figure down the path across the sloping lawn towards the woods. Flanked by the two little girls, the three appeared to be chatting easily. He smiled as he imagined Harriet insisting on another worm expedition.
As if she knew she was being observed Miss Morecroft turned to look over her shoulder. She smiled in his direction then returned her attention to Augusta who was pulling her arm and pointing.
With a final, lingering look at the disappearing figures, he picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkpot. In a moment Cecily would knock on the door to show him the guest list for Caro’s ball. Launching Caro in the hopes she’d find a suitably connected and indulgent husband was Roland’s immediate priority. He hoped Caro would never suffer the disappointment that had blighted her mother’s happiness. But Caro, less beautiful, more practical, had become increasingly grounded in reality since Miss Morecroft had entered her orbit.
Caro entered the nursery, tying the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin. “I’m ready, Miss Morecroft?” There was excitement in her voice.
Sarah gazed at her with approval. The girl’s simple white muslin gown with its blue sash flattered Caro’s slender figure and set off her striking combination of dark hair and pale skin. The ensemble had been selected by Sarah after a battle of wills with her employer. Mrs Hawthorne was reluctant to countenance any expenditure upon her niece, even though Mr Hawthorne paid the bills.
“I’m afraid you younger ones must stay here,” Sarah told them from the doorway. “This is Caro’s special treat.”
“How can you bear them clinging to your skirts, Miss Morecroft?” grumbled Caro as they descended the stairs. “I daresay you’re used to it, with so many brothers and sisters.” Clapping her hand to her mouth as she remembered her error, she turned on her heel. “I’m so sorry, Miss. They’re all gone now. You’re alone in the world.”
Sarah could not feel personal sorrow for the death of all those Morecroft children she had never known, but she felt a pang at the fact she had no siblings. She enjoyed Augusta and Harriet’s happy chatter and the way they clung to her skirts. “I don’t dwell on what can’t be changed,” she said briskly. “Now what do we need? Ribbons for you and-”
Caro skipped across the black and white flagged entrance hall. Turning at the sweep of stone stairs, she said with an impish grin, “And something for a fine gown for you to wear for my birthday ball.”
Sarah laughed. “How do you suppose I might pay for that out of my wages, Miss Hawthorne? No, I shall refurbish your aunt’s cerulean blue velvet. You won’t recognize it.”
Caro slanted her a secretive look as they made for the bridle path that led over the hill to the village beyond. “Perhaps you’d relish an even greater challenge. Like constructing a garment entirely from new.” Her eyes shone as she looked at Sarah. “Of any material you choose. I asked father yesterday and he has given his consent.”
Before Sarah could respond, Caro rushed on, “I said I couldn’t possibly enjoy my birthday ball unless Miss Morecroft, who loves fine clothes far more than I do, had the prettiest gown of her imagination. We’re going to the village today to choose a bolt of fabric, and all the trimmings, for you!”
Caro laughed at Sarah’s silence and the expression of shock on her face. “You’ll enjoy sewing it yourself, won’t you? There’s plenty of time.”
Sarah beamed. “I couldn’t think of a nicer surprise,” she said, clapping her hands together. “What a capital girl you are, Caro.”
In the village shop Caro deliberated over a bolt of Egyptian Brown sarsanet and a silver grey lutestring called Esterhazy.
Sarah felt moved beyond words. There had been more than a few occasions when she’d wondered if her young charge positively disliked her. How curious, she reflected, that this home-sewn gown, conceived by Caro and sanctioned by Mr Hawthorne, filled her with more honest excitement than any extravagant creation she had devised with her seamstress.
“Hardly an appropriate colour for one’s foray into the world, Caro.”
They turned to see Lady Charlotte, flanked by her nieces, regarding their choices with disapproval.
Sarah sent a swift look at Caro, to indicate she would deal with this, but with a petulant tilt to her chin, Caro announced, “I intend wearing scarlet to honour my mother, Lady Charlotte. This is in fact for Miss Morecroft.”
Sarah’s heart sank. “Caro should not have spoken like that,” she apologised, but Lady Charlotte ignored her.
“Mr Hawthorne must pay you handsome wages to teach his daughter decorum and respect if you can afford such finery, Miss Morecroft. Georgiana, Philly.” She put a hand on each girl’s shoulder to shepherd them out of the shop. “Your visit to Larchfield this afternoon is cancelled due to Caro’s gross incivility.”
Caro looked abashed but her eyes flashed defiance when she turned at Sarah’s gentle rebuke. “That woman has never said a kind word about either you, or mother,” she began. However as Mrs Willow, the shop proprietor, returned to show them a selection of ribbons that would complement each fabric, Sarah decided not to pursue the matter.
Caro had regained her former ebullience by the time they’d left the shop, and when she saw Philly and Georgiana running towards her across the village green, she beamed.
“We’re so sorry Aunt Charlotte was such a gorgon.”
“How did she agree to you coming out again?” Caro asked.
Georgiana giggled. “We had a harpsichord session, and Philly did lots of very loud singing, until Aunt Charlotte positively begged us to leave her in peace. Oh Caro—” She took her friend’s arm and fell into step. “Isn’t it exciting to have so many men in red at the ball? What a boon that Hetty Siskin’s brother is so well connected. Your father has agreed, hasn’t he?”
Caro nodded.
“And is he inviting Mr Hollingsworth?” Philly’s tone was urgent. “Please say you’ve asked him?”
“Who is Mr Hollingsworth?” Sarah’s tone was sharp.
The three girls gasped. “Talk of the devil,” said Philly. “He’s over there. Do you think he could have seen us and come out specially?”
Before anyone could respond, a tall, smiling gentleman strolled up to them.
“Ladies.” He removed his low crowned beaver with a bow. “You all look especially lovely this morning.”
When the introductions had been performed, Sarah silently observed the newcomer’s disquieting effect upon the three girls.
He was, she judged, several years older than herself, with the kind of handsome looks, detail to fashion and personable manner calculated to win him female admirers. Caro, Georgiana and Philly crowded round him, chattering as if they’d known him forever.
“And where do you hail from, if I may be so bold as to cut in?” Sarah asked, eventually. Not only was it growing cold on the damp grass, there were some who’d consider it unseemly for all the world to witness the young ladies feting an unfamiliar gentleman.
His smile was as warm for the governess as it was for the young ladies. A shrewd touch. Sarah wondered for whom he might have a possible interest.
“I’ve leased Hawthornedene for the season.”
Caro took Sarah’s arm. Sarah had rarely seen her so animated. “Uncle Hector’s house. Well, he owned it though he didn’t live there, of course. It’s beautiful, Miss Morecroft.”
“You must be my guests some time,” the young man said. “I shall organise a picnic by the lake.”
This was greeted by squeals of enthusiasm. Sarah realised it was hardly fair to criticize him for looking so self-satisfied but when she’d dragged Caro away from the group she demanded, “Since w
hen has Mr Hollingsworth become your latest bosom-bow?”
“I did not think it a crime to speak to a young man.” Caro’s tone was defensive. “Or that you’d think ill of me, Miss Morecroft. He’s a friend of Hetty Siskin’s brother. I’ve met him several times on walks and once when we were at Hetty’s house.” Caro wrapped her cashmere shawl more closely around her and stuck her nose in the air as they walked across the common.
Wrapping her own, more serviceable woollen shawl around her shoulders, Sarah followed. “Don’t be cross with me, Caro. I must be accountable to your father and aunt.” She put her hand on Caro’s shoulder and was relieved that her conciliatory gesture wasn’t rebuffed.
“It seems I’m to be criticised whatever I do,” Caro grumbled. “Aunt Cecily harps on at me to be more sociable, but she’s such a high stickler that only means being nice to Lady Charlotte and mean old cats like her.”
“That would have been a good start.” Sarah’s tone was dry. “But now we are nearly home, so let’s say no more about it. I was not criticising you for talking to Mr Hollingsworth, merely executing my duty as your governess by ensuring he’s a nice, suitable young man worthy of your addresses.”
Caro halted and fixed her with an intense look. “Oh, he is, Miss Morecroft,” she breathed.
Chapter Eight
“THERE ARE NOT nine pence in a shilling, Augusta,” Sarah snapped, tossing the gown she was sewing onto the nursery table.
Remorse was swift as she saw Augusta’s trembling lip. She sighed as she acknowledged she was taking her frustration out on the girls as she drilled them, in between sewing straight seams and fine pin tucks. “I’m sorry I was sharp,” she said, more kindly. “Tell me the cost of a loaf of bread, and there’ll be no more sums for today.”
But they could not, and Sarah did not know the answer, herself. She tried to bolster her spirits but it was no use. What was the point of the lovely creation taking shape? Mr Hawthorne would pay her no attention. He’d gone to pains to keep his distance since their encounter at the grotto. He’d hardly seek her out at Caro’s birthday ball.
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