“I have a secret,” announced Augusta, from her cushion at Sarah’s feet, recovering her spirits.
“If it’s about Caro, then I already know it,” said Harriet who was sitting beside her. “It’s not nice to gossip about people behind their backs.”
“I’m only telling Miss Morecroft.” Augusta stuck her tongue out at her sister. “She’d not get Caro into trouble.”
“And what is this secret?” asked Sarah mildly, hiding her disquiet.
“I saw her with Mr Hollingsworth in the churchyard … alone,” said Augusta in weighty tones.
“The churchyard in the middle of the village?” Augusta’s tone was scornful. “Where everyone in the village pays their respects to the dead?”
“Well, I nearly didn’t see them,” said Harriet. “I was with Ellen and she was hurrying me along. But it was Caro and she was in the shadow of the yew trees where I’d seen them talking the day before, too.”
“I hope you don’t mean to gossip like this to your mother,” reproved Sarah, biting off a thread.
The girls looked indignant. “We never tell mama anything! Not even when we hear the servants gossip about her.”
“That is most wise,” remarked Sarah, with irony. “Not that your mother is the kind of woman to excite a great deal of gossip, I would imagine.”
With her heart — not to mention her dignity — bruised and battered by Mr Hawthorne’s rejection, it was difficult to concern herself with much else. She held up a seam for inspection, her eyes blurring as they ran across the stitches while she remembered the finality of his let-down.
Why? When she knew he was not insensible to her?
“Mama never does anything scandalous,” sighed Augusta, as if this were her greatest failing.
“And never did,” said Harriet. “She was never a beauty, like Aunt Venetia. Do you think I will grow up stout and turkey-necked like Mama, Miss Morecroft?”
“And that Caro will stop looking like a long-necked goose?” asked Augusta.
“Girls, girls! Where do you hear such things?” asked Sarah, sounding more shocked than she felt.
“The servants, of course,” Harriet replied, as if she were stupid. “They talk about such interesting things.”
“Only they think we don’t understand because we’re children,” said Augusta. “You didn’t know that Aunt Venetia ran off with my father and it was their sin which killed them, did you?”
Sarah was about to open her mouth and say that, indeed she did, thereby upping her status in the girls’ eyes when Harriet said, with a sly roll of her eyes, “But Father wasn’t her true love.”
“Harriet!” her sister hissed, with a meaningful look at Sarah.
Sarah knew she should nip such gossip in the bud, but she wanted to know how Harriet’s version differed from any other. She pretended unconcern as she worked the cloth in her hands, hoping they didn’t notice how her fingers trembled. “You’re obviously dying to tell us this latest piece of unreliable servants’ gossip, unless you’re just making it all up.”
“I’m not making anything up. Ellen and the other servants say her true love was Uncle Godby,” said Harriet.
“It was not!” cried Augusta with another meaningful look at Sarah.
Harriet looked suddenly guilty. Pretending concentration as she stuck pins into her cream sash, she mumbled, “Sorry, Miss Morecroft. I keep forgetting you’re Uncle Godby’s daughter.”
“So do I.” Sarah’s voice was distant. She hoped her creased brow would be attributed to shock at this bombshell regarding her supposed father. They wouldn’t know she was mentally digesting the implications of this altered history.
Hope surged through her. Had she just stumbled upon the real reason for Mr Hawthorne’s rejection of her?
“Why are you smiling, Miss Morecroft?” Harriet asked.
“I have an eyelash in my eye.” She covered her face with her hands to hide her joy. There was hope, after all.
In the small, gloomy antechamber which accommodated Venetia’s enormous wealth of sumptuary display, cobwebs hung thickly.
Roland had had to use his pocket handkerchief to wipe the dust from a window pane to let in enough light to see the location of Venetia’s fashionable, elegant furniture much less what was contained in the drawers.
He was so absorbed in his examination he did not hear the soft-slippered approach of his sister-in-law. But he nearly dropped the rope of pearls that he held, suspended between two hands, at her screech.
“You’re not giving Caro that?”
“It would appear you’re not in the habit of visiting Venetia’s old apartments.” Roland wiped a finger through the dust on the windowsill as he raised a disapproving eyebrow.
“I swore I’d never enter these rooms again.” Cecily shuddered. “I told the housemaids to stay away, too, but when I saw the door open …” Her voice trailed away. “Even after all these years these rooms still smell of her.” Her lower lip trembled as she looked at Roland.
When he offered no sympathetic rejoinder she begged him, “Give them away, throw them away. They’re bad luck.”
“I note the absence of one or two of Venetia’s favourite pieces. No, I don’t blame you, Cecily,” he added quickly, at her look of outrage. “Hector used your dowry with little regard for you. I’d be the first to sanction your behaviour. But these—” He swung the strand of gleaming pearls closer to her face. “Do you know how much these are worth? A perfect pearl ... rare and priceless. And dozens of them on this one strand. All because Venetia demanded-”
He stopped abruptly as Cecily shrank back, her mouth bared in a rictus of a snarl as she hissed, “They’re worth more than a king’s ransom which is all the more reason not to give them to Caro.” Her bulbous eyes flashed anger. “You surely weren’t thinking of it, Roland?” she demanded again. “They’re tainted. You didn’t buy them. They cost you nothing.”
“They cost me my wife.”
Cecily stamped her foot. “If Sir Richard was prepared to spend that sum on his mistress and bankrupt himself in the process then he was a fool!” She spat out the words with no regard to his feelings. “Though much good it did him. Venetia soon moved on to greener pastures, didn’t she?”
“She came back to me,” Roland observed, dryly.
Cecily put her hand to her stringy neck and her lip curled. Had her look not been not so venomous Roland might have smiled at the sight of a dusty spider’s web adorning the finely pleated rows of lace on her fashionable high crowned cap.
“You should have closed your doors to her forever, Roland.”
“When Caro was crying for her mother, every night?” Roland put his hand on Cecily’s shoulder. “Why can’t you put the past behind you? You’d be so much happier.”
“Like you, Roland?” Cecily’s tone dripped scorn. “You still live in the past, so don’t preach to me.” She turned on her heel. “You’ve not forgotten your interview with Miss Morecroft? Don’t be soft with her. I fear she’s insinuated her way into your affections just as her father did. It was a mistake to take her in.”
“We made the decision jointly.”
“In a moment of weakness when her poor mother all but swore she’d cut her own throat if we didn’t. Now, I’m going to see cook.”
She was gone before he could reply.
Venetia. On a whim he withdrew her likeness from his desk drawer, once he had returned to his study.
Proud and confident of her beauty she stared back at him. Dispassionately, he studied her features: the lustrous dark hair, curled at the front and cascading in ringlets from a high crown; the rosebud mouth, so divinely kissable when that was what she had desired.
Oh, she had taught him how to please her. It was just that he, alone, was not enough for one of her … vanity? He preferred to think that was the reason she’d strayed rather than that the fault lay with him, alone.
Replacing the miniature with the usual disquiet he felt every time he thought of her, he moved to th
e window. A team of gardeners was clipping the topiary-adorned hedge beyond the rose arbour. He watched them as he prepared himself. It was not Miss Morecroft’s position that was at risk in this upcoming interview, it was Roland’s heart and integrity.
At the gentle tap on the door Roland turned, unprepared for the sudden drumming of blood in his ears, although his voice was steady and cool as he said, “Please sit down, Miss Morecroft.”
So that she was under no illusions as to the nature of his request for her company, he said without preamble, “I hope I’ve not interrupted any plans you may otherwise have had for the engagement of the girls. However, I have promised Mrs Hawthorne to investigate a matter which is of concern to her.”
The young woman looked at him enquiringly while she settled herself in one of his large armchairs with that peculiar grace of hers.
Roland tried not to be distracted by the tendrils of chestnut hairwhich brushed the high planes of her cheeks in such an artless fashion. He cleared his voice and frowned but this did not have the desired effect for she merely deepened her smile as she waited for him to elaborate. The smile insinuated its way like warm honey through the cracks of his heart, thawing the ice which sheathed it. He fought to remain impervious.
“Yesterday,” he went on, feeling at a distinct disadvantage, “Mrs Hawthorne brought to my attention a matter which she considered betokened negligence on your part. Apparently Lady Charlotte observed my daughter conversing with an unknown gentleman, in the street in front of the haberdasherers.” He paused, waiting for her to colour at the recollection. When she did not — in fact her smile broadened — he continued in more sonorous tones, “Caro was alone and unchaperoned.”
“Scurrilous gossipmongers!” Miss Morecroft shook her head. “To report such tales reflects badly on all parties and is deeply insulting to Caro. It so happens that as we stepped into the haberdasherer’s yesterday afternoon to purchase some last-minute trimming for Caro’s gown, Caro was greeted by Mr Hollingsworth who, I’m pleased, you saw fit to invite to her birthday. Not wishing to interfere directly, I remained just within the building and listened to Caro and Mr Hollingsworth discuss the weather and his pleasure at having been included on the guest list for Friday’s entertainment. Shortly afterwards the young gentleman bade her good day and moved on again. I would say the exchange lasted about one and a half minutes.”
Despite her smile her fine hazel eyes were alight with challenge. “If you wish to verify my story, Mrs Willow, who works in the shop, will corroborate everything.”
“That will not be necessary,” Roland said, hastily. “It was merely incumbent upon me to investigate the matter at Mrs Hawthorne’s request. Please be assured that I, personally, have no concerns regarding your care of my daughter.”
He should have left it there. Should have nodded, politely, risen, and shown her the door. But he couldn’t help adding, “Caro’s confidence has increased under your tutelage. I would not want to disappoint her.”
The last was a thinly veiled warning. He did not need to elaborate. Miss Morecroft must be fully aware of her danger in making an enemy of the mistress of the house.
Expecting her to thank him and take her leave, Roland nodded in dismissal.
She rose.
“So I am in danger, then, of losing my position, Mr Hawthorne?” she asked, bluntly. “Once people like Mrs Hawthorne decide menials such as myself no longer give satisfaction it is usually not long before we are given our marching orders.”
He regarded her with a level look. “I have said I will protect you, Miss Morecroft.” He nodded in the direction of the door. She had to go, now. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could trust himself to refrain from reassuring her, in the most unseemly fashion, of her security. The knowledge made his expression sterner, his stance more rigid.
She took a step towards him. “You are to leave for London this afternoon for several days.”
He registered the rise and fall of her chest, the concern in her eyes. “That’s all the opportunity Mrs Hawthorne needs. After all, I am in charge of her girls, as well as Caro. What then, sir? Remember, I have nowhere else to go.”
Retreating, he turned to stare out of the window. “I am not one to tolerate injustice, Miss Morecroft.” He could feel his breath quickening and the blood surging to his extremities. This was madness. She had to go. Now!
“Yes, you are a fair man,” she said, angling herself so that she was within his vision.
He ignored the rustle of her gown but the scent of orange flower water made him turn his head.
“And that,” she said, the shadow of a smile upon her beautiful face, “is why I want to stay. That, and my sincere affection for the girls. Your warning suggests it would be wise to explore alternative avenues of employment.” Her eyes were dark with entreaty. “I do not know whether the fault is mine alone, or whether my father’s wrongs have sealed my fate, but I do know that I love it here, Mr Hawthorne — working for you — and that I don’t want to leave.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, suddenly finding himself in possession of her hand. He had no idea whether he’d taken it in response to her distress, or whether she might have offered it to him. “You have, I assure you, given every satisfaction.” He stopped, colouring at his choice of words, and did not like the fact that she smiled back, rather like a cat, her face tilted to one side, her eyes bright with mischief beneath demurely lowered lashes.
What might have happened next, had footsteps not sounded in the passageway, he did not care to dwell upon, for his actions were not about to be dictated by his head — he was uncomfortably aware of that. But the sound of Cecily’s voice was like cold water upon him and the next he could remember, he was leading Miss Morecroft to the door and bowing to her in polite dismissal.
The turmoil in his breast did not abate at her departure.
He stared at the papers on his desk and knew he’d be unable to concentrate. Then he headed for the door. Perhaps a bracing ride would help cast out the madness that was beginning to consume him.
Chapter Nine
“PAPA, YOU SHOULD see the ballroom.” Caro was barely able to contain her excitement. Sarah knew she could claim some of the credit for the girl’s recent transformation, but not all. Love was in the air.
Caro’s eyes shone. “Bows and flowers everywhere. People will talk about my birthday for months to come.”
She smiled at her father in happy expectation. The house had been a hive of activity and the air was thick with the anticipation of tomorrow night’s ball.
Sarah watched Mr Hawthorne finish the carp on his plate. If this couldn’t wipe the scowl from her employer’s face, she thought, nothing could. He’d not addressed a single word to his daughter or sister-in-law the entire meal. That he’d said nothing to Sarah hardly signified. Two afternoons ago, though, before he’d rushed off to London … She tried not to think about it. If Mrs Hawthorne hadn’t trumpeted her orders to the housemaid right outside the study door, who knew what might have happened.
With careful precision Mr Hawthorne put together his knife and fork and directed a reproving look at his daughter. “Just remember you are of the privileged minority, Caro. Few people in this country, much less the world, are as fortunate.” His voice was chilly.
Indignation on Caro’s behalf replaced Sarah’s romantic ruminations on what might have been. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from voicing a tart reminder that Caro was the last young lady who put her own pleasure above the needs and suffering of others.
Only the click of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece broke the tense silence.
“Tonight we dine in luxury while a large majority of Englishmen and their families will barely fill their stomachs. Tonight a dozen wives are weeping for husbands condemned to death for challenging a society which denies them a fair wage for an honest day’s work.” Mr Hawthorne glared at Caro, impervious to her quivering lip.
Sarah couldn’t help herself. “I do not think Caro’s enthusiasm is
a reflection of her indifference towards those less fortunate than herself.”
Mrs Hawthorne snapped her head around and looked at Sarah as if she had suggested they open their doors to the starving masses, and serve them, personally. “I do not believe, Miss Morecroft,” she said in clipped tones, “that your opinion was solicited.”
This had the opposite effect of dampening Sarah’s defence. “I deplore injustice as strongly as you,” she bit back. “Caro said nothing to warrant her father’s criticism. It was unjust to accuse her of selfishness when she is naturally excited about her ball tomorrow night.”
“Injustice!” Mrs. Hawthorne cried. “You accuse my brother-in-law of injustice when I can think of no other man who has expended more time and energy fighting for the rights of the working man. With an agitated hand she repositioned her vermilion toque which was favouring one ear, and nearly dislodged the squirrel’s tail hair piece. For once, Sarah was in no danger of succumbing to unwise giggles. Caro had started to cry. Though no tears came Sarah could see the trembling of her thin, white muslin-clad shoulders. She turned to Mr Hawthorne. Surely he knew he was in the wrong?
He was staring at the silver epergne centre piece, clearly resolved to have no part of the argument. Anger seared through her.
“How dare you answer back to your betters!” cried Mrs Hawthorne. “Leave the table at once, Miss Morecroft.”
With a cold, hard stare at her employers, Sarah rose. “I am sorry if the truth offends you,” she said with quiet dignity. Passing close to the back of Mr Hawthorne’s chair as she made her regal exit she hoped he could feel her anger.
He had been vastly unjust. Surely he must realize it.
Then she heard his voice, music to her ears, despite its arctic tone. “Wait for me in my study, Miss Morecroft. I will see you there when I’ve finished my dinner.”
Five minutes waiting for him had fanned the flames of Sarah’s fury to a blaze. Swinging round from the fireplace, she seized the initiative.
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