“I’ve not had time to pack my bags, sir. No doubt Mrs Hawthorne has instructed I be dismissed on the spot.”
Wearily he waved her to a chair. “Be seated, Miss Morecroft.” He took her place in front of the fireplace. Standing a little to one side so he didn’t block the heat, he removed a gold enamelled snuff box from his coat pocket and toyed with the lid. Finally his eyes travelled from the apparently fascinating object to meet hers.
The hunted look in their intense depths shocked her. He ran a distracted hand through his dark hair and said, “Contrary to what happened at dinner, Mrs Hawthorne does not override my authority. The irony is that my reaction to the terrible injustice meted out to the men charged in relation to the Peterloo uprising blinded me to the injustices perpetrated at my own dinner table. I apologise.”
She was caught off-guard by the plea for forgiveness in his smile. Then she realised his apology was meant as a dismissal.
She would not be that easy to be rid of. She smiled back. “You fight your battle on many fronts, Mr Hawthorne.” They were not the words of a governess, but then, theirs was not a conventional relationship. She eased herself from the depths of the armchair and moved towards him.
He stood his ground. The wary look in his eyes amused and angered her. He had every right not to trust her.
She stopped inches from him, forcing him to lower his head to look at her. “I admire a man who holds to principle with such passion.” Her voice was low. “My father was more interested in passion than principle, it would seem. I’ve heard whispers that connect him with your late wife and I can only say how sorry I am for the damage caused.”
She had to stop herself from reaching up to caress the vein that throbbed at his temple. Anticipation crackled between them but he made no move to touch her.
Unsteadily, she went on, “I apologise if my frankness offends, but as my days are numbered I want the satisfaction of giving voice to my feelings.”
He said, tightly, “I have already assured you, Miss Morecroft, your position is safe.” He deposited the snuff box on the mantelpiece and clasped his hands behind him. “At Larchfield the principles of fairness I hold dear are enshrined. Last night, Lord Miles’s calls for bloodletting drowned out my entreaties for reason but at least I am master of my own home. I repeat, your position is safe.”
He would have gone on. Perhaps he did. Sarah had no recollection of what happened next. She could only register deep, stultifying shock.
“Miles? Lord Miles?” The words forced their way through her constricted throat. She covered her face with her hands.
Lord Miles, her own father. She couldn’t bear it. Blinking, she dropped her hands to stare at her employer. Then, unable to bear her agitation, she took a few steps towards the window, gripping the heavy gold curtain as she turned. Anguish for her darling father swamped her, replaced by the realisation her position was hopeless. Her feelings for Mr Hawthorne had just been consigned to a dusty grave. She really was the daughter of his nemesis, only this time, it was no lie.
“Yes, Lord Miles.” Mr Hawthorne ground out, staring into the flames. “Crusader for the status quo. God knows how he can harden his heart to such suffering.” He became silent, his frown deepening. “But grief changes a man.” He turned slightly, but did not meet her eye. There was hesitancy in his voice as he went on, “It can open his heart to compassion, or harden his heart through fear.”
Helplessly, Sarah watched him. She was losing him. With every word, their distance increased.
“The fear of being hurt, twice, Miss Morecroft, will drain the courage of most men. Slice away at our legs and our arms, but don’t tamper with our susceptible hearts.”
She searched vainly for an appropriate response. But what could she say? ‘I am not the daughter of the foster brother who betrayed you? I’m the daughter of your sworn political enemy.’ The silence lengthened and she lost her opportunity. He turned and when he addressed her directly the passionate undertone had left his voice. “Lord Miles, pity the man, is deranged with grief at the loss of his daughter but he hardens his heart when it comes to the loss of others.”
Sarah closed her eyes as she continued to grip the curtain with both hands. She was in orbit, her world was spinning. Mr Hawthorne’s words taunted her. Shame, remorse and fear at her deception swamped her. The curtain, worn with age, tore and she stumbled forwards. Unable to focus through her tears, she started blindly towards a chair. Had he realized? Was disgust about to replace his earlier grudging admiration?
“Miss Morecroft!”
Before the ground met her, strong arms swept her into the air and against his chest. She squeezed shut her eyes, drinking in the heat from his strong, hard body, breathing in his comforting, familiar smell. Exhaling on a sigh of disappointment as he lay her on the leather sofa, her senses snapped back to life as he knelt, his face inches from hers.
“You are ill. Shall I send for a doctor?”
She reached for his hand, unable to open her eyes. Or unwilling? His anxiety would only be further reproach.
With a small shake of her head she whispered, “It’s nothing. I shall be myself in a moment.”
Unconvinced, he raised her head with gentle hands to push a cushion beneath.
“So weak and foolish of me.” She turned away and covered her face with her hands. Tears threatened and her voice wavered. “I’ve never succumbed to the vapours, yet your talk of injustice fuelled my fears for my precarious situation.”
It was true enough. No artifice required here. Without a shadow of a doubt she’d be punished for a situation entirely of her making. She had no one to blame but herself. Once the truth were known her father would hate her … and Mr Hawthorne would hate her even more. It was enough to reduce the strongest of women to heart-wrenching sobs.
Sarah could not hold them at bay. Here was Mr Hawthorne at her side, on his knees in fact, yet her life lay in tatters. Her selfishness had resulted in this terrible situation of her own making. He’d never forgive her.
“Please, don’t cry.”
The depth of feeling in his whispered entreaty sounded a breath of hope. This was her moment. She must tell him now. But as his arms encircled her and she was pulled against his chest and set across his lap, and she knew he was about to kiss her, her resolve melted. This was the clearest and most passionate declaration she’d had yet of his feelings. She had not the courage to test them to such an extent.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. He cupped her cheek and with his thumb, gently traced her lower lip. “I’ve unfairly attributed to you Godby’s disregard for the feelings for others.”
Sarah closed her eyes against the heartbreaking concern in his eyes. In a moment the tables would be turned. She’d be the one uttering the apology and she felt sick with apprehension. She chose her moment before he could kiss her again, knowing she’d never have the strength to utter her confession afterwards. “I’m not Godby’s daughter.” She took a quavering breath, tensing for his response, but he misunderstood. Brushing an escaped tendril of hair from her brow he said, hoarsely, “No, Godby has no part in all this. You are a woman, whom I must judge in your own right.”
His breath tickled her ear and sent shivers down her spine. She cried even louder, and fearing he was holding her for the last time, sobbed into his neck, “I don’t ever want to leave you.” He’d certainly set her away after that admission.
He did not. In the heartbeat and a half it took him to digest the enormity of her confession, she felt him stiffen. She opened her eyes and stared into the depths of his tortured soul before their hearts collided. With one hand supporting her head, the other cupping her cheek, his mouth claimed hers.
It was a kiss that demanded surrender.
And she surrendered everything, except the truth, for she knew now that would be the death knell of all the hopes and dreams that were at last being satisfied here, on the Chesterfield in his library.
She met him at every level. The initial urgency of his hu
nger became the rapture of discovery as he trailed kisses along her jawline, her throat, her collar bone and she responded, leaving him in no doubt as to the intensity of her feelings.
“Father!”
They heard Caro’s cry in the passage before she threw open the door and burst into the room leaving them just enough time to rise to their feet.
“Father, you can’t let Miss Morecroft go!” Breathless, Caro gripped his coat sleeve. “Aunt Cecily says she won’t tolerate any more impertinence, but Miss Morecroft was only defending me. She is the most wonderful governess I’ve ever had - and I love her!”
Mr Hawthorne cleared his throat. Above his daughter’s dark head he gazed into Sarah’s face, as if he were seeing it for the first time. She saw the softening in the depths of his intense dark grey eyes.
With a rare, sweet smile, he said, “Miss Morecroft is going nowhere. She will be very busy making sure tomorrow is everything you could have wished for. After that” — the look he sent Sarah made her tremble — “I think it’s time to review the current arrangements.”
Caro and Sarah stood in the centre of the ballroom Venetia had had built and gazed with satisfaction at the huge vases of flowers placed on plinths in each corner. Swathes of pink muslin tied in bows — Sarah’s idea — adorned the gilt chairs arranged around the walls.
“I hope I don’t spend my evening occupying one of those,” sighed Caro.
“You’ll be so sought after you’ll want nothing more than to rest your tired feet sitting in one of those,” Sarah prophesised. “I’ll wager there are more than a couple of eligible gentlemen, as we speak, who’d like to engage you for every waltz.” She squeezed Caro’s shoulder as they turned their attention to the refreshments table, before adding slyly, “Perhaps that nice Mr Hollingsworth is one of them.”
Caro blushed. “Philly is much prettier than I am,” she mumbled, pretending concentration on a silver urn filled with Lilies of the Valley.
“Only if one prefers plump, giggling girls.” When she saw Caro was staring at her, eyes wide with expectation, she added, “In my opinion Mr Hollingsworth appears far more interested in tall, dark, serious young ladies.”
Caro put down the urn with a clatter and clasped her hands together in a semblance of entreaty. “I don’t suppose I could borrow a touch of your Olympian Dew?” she asked.
“I thought blue-stockings didn’t approve of such artifice.” Sarah pretended to sound prim as she took Caro’s hand and led her to the stairs. “Only three hours until the guests arrive. We might as well start preparing ourselves now.”
When they reached her tiny room, Caro sat on her lumpy bed while Sarah rummaged in her drawers for the pot of magic ointment.
“Didn’t you say it was possible to be both a blue-stocking and a beauty?” Caro asked.
“I did.” Sarah unscrewed the lid and dipped in her finger. “Aren’t I just such a manifestation? Now you shall have just the merest suggestion of a blush of roses upon your cheeks, if you will allow me to do it. Exercising restraint is the secret. With your lustrous dark curls to set off your perfect pale skin, a tinge of colour will instantly transform you.”
Caro returned to her own room to finish dressing with the help of Aunt Cecily’s maid, Betty, but was soon back so that Sarah could complete her toilette. Betty could not be trusted with tales of Caro’s use of complexion enhancers.
“What a couple of beauties,” declared Sarah as they stood side by side in front of the small tarnished mirror which balanced on her chest of drawers. “Your father will be so proud of you tonight.”
“And of you,” replied Caro. But when Sarah glanced suspiciously at her she was met by Caro’s ingenuous smile. She swallowed down her nervousness as she recalled Mr Hawthorne’s expression when he’d vowed she’d remain. Dear Lord, dare she hope it would all end well?
“Let me help you into your dress, Miss Morecroft. I haven’t seen it yet in all its glory.”
“Only because I sewed the last stitch at four o’ clock this afternoon.” Sarah was pleased with the finished work. The esterhazy lutestring, the colour of rain-darkened sky, was cut low and fell in shimmering folds from just beneath the bust. A sense of devilry had inspired her to use the silver grey netting from one of Mrs Hawthorne’s cast-off gowns for the puffed sleeves and a decoration of leaves around the hem which ended at Sarah’s ankles. She still had the unusual silver and green dancing slippers beneath her bed which Caro had given her the night she’d supplied her with Venetia’s clothing for her demonstration.
Caro gasped. “I cannot believe that with just a simple bolt of silver fabric you have made … this! You should be a modiste.”
Sarah preened at the compliment. “Your aunt helped,” she said, smiling at Caro’s open-mouthed amazement. “You remember her grey round dress from last season which she gave me? The one with the ugly, bulky rouleau just above the hem? I unpicked the rouleau, smoothed it out and cut from it the sleeves and leaf decoration.”
Caro giggled. “I can’t wait to draw her attention to it. She’ll look like a boiled chicken.”
“Now, now, Caro,” Sarah admonished mildly. “Life has dealt your aunt a poor hand whereas you can look forward to a glittering future. As to becoming a modiste, it is a hard way to make a living but more than that, I’d miss you too much.”
Caro stared at her for a long moment. “You won’t ever leave Larchfield, will you?”
Studying the silver-backed brush in her hand, Sarah weighed up her response. The lie she was living had turned into a nightmare. She longed to unburden herself, but how could she under present circumstances?
“Not willingly,” she said, unable to predict Mr Hawthorne’s response to her deception? So much depended on how she conveyed to him the truth.
She gave Caro a quick hug and pushed her towards the door. “Your aunt and father will be looking for you. It’s nearly time to start receiving guests downstairs.”
Apparently satisfied, Caro turned the door knob then hesitated, her thoughts now focussed on herself. She looked suddenly stricken. “What if I’m not good enough?”
“Good enough?” Marching over to her, Sarah grasped her shoulders and looked into her face. “You, my dear,” she said, severely, “will be the toast of the town.”
Caro’s frown vanished. Smiling, she stepped across the threshold, “My mother would have been proud of me, I think.”
Sarah watched her disappear down the stairs, her fondness for the girl suddenly replaced with terror at her own imminent entrance. It was ridiculous. She’d been to dozens, if not hundreds of balls, all far grander than this small, country birthday celebration for Caro.
But Mr Hawthorne would be there, and that changed everything. She swallowed nervously as she smoothed her hair which she had dressed with ribbons to match her dress.
When it was time, she took the stairs from her bedchamber to the ground level. Servants scurried about, making last minute preparations, replacing the occasional wax candle that would not sit straight, glancing anxiously out of the window as the crunch of gravel heralded the first arrivals.
From half way down the stairs Sarah watched Mr Hawthorne greet his daughter as she was about to progress into the ballroom.
“I have never seen you in greater beauty, Caro,” he declared, as she curtsied.
His gaze moved on to Sarah. She saw admiration flare into astonishment and her heart pulsed into renewed life. In a state of self conscious turmoil, she took the last few steps to the bottom.
“Miss Morecroft,” he murmured, the touch of his lips sending shivers of excitement fizzing through her veins as he bowed over her hand, “you are without equal.”
“Roland, there you are—” Mrs Hawthorne stopped abruptly as she rounded the corner. She frowned at the trio, her eyes drawn to Sarah’s dress. “I had no idea you possessed such a fine gown, Miss Morecroft?” She slanted a suspicious look at her brother-in-law.
“Miss Morecroft has done a magnificent job making up the fabric w
e gave her, hasn’t she, Papa?” Caro burst out. “It’s a pity you didn’t ask her to make your gown, Aunt Cecily.”
Bridling as she glanced at her own gown of ruby velvet, adorned with every embellishment, Mrs Hawthorne presented Sarah with her back as she took Caro’s arm. “Lavery is admitting the first arrivals. It’s time you and your father did your duty.”
Mr Hawthorne ignored the departing pair. His gaze locked with Sarah’s. Laugher pealed in the hallway. Sarah recognised it as Philly’s. She heard the click of the front door closing, the approach of voices, the rustle of silk. The lengthening silence was heavy with a thousand unsaid words, but Mr Hawthorne’s eyes reflected everything she longed to hear. With a final lingering look at Sarah, he stepped back, ready to do his duty by his daughter but not before he’d asked in a voice hoarse with longing, “Promise the first waltz to me?”
Unable to speak, she nodded, admiring the way his evening clothes hung on his strong, athletic body and the confident way he carried himself as he strode into the saloon after Caro. Like a schoolroom miss, she shrank against the wall and covered her eyes with her hands, shivering with excitement.
He loved her! She’d known in from the start. And Caro endorsed their union. Arriving at the entrance to the ballroom she was still shaking, though now fear outweighed her excitement. She was going to have to exercise every piece of cunning and understanding of Mr Hawthorne’s character if her heart’s desire were to be realised.
Chattering and giggling, Philly and Georgiana entered the ballroom by the door opposite, accompanied by their dignified aunt. Sarah watched as the girls crowded around Caro, marvelling at her fine dress and improved looks. Some time later, their entrance was followed by a group of officers, dashing in scarlet, who stood, rather awkwardly in the centre of the room, casting surreptitious glances at the young ladies.
Sarah’s mouth curved into a smile which took on the added joy of being collaborative as Mr Hawthorne joined her, observing, “The boys admire the girls when they think they’re not looking, and the girls pretend ignorance, ogling the boys the moment their backs are turned.” Leading her towards a corner, he plucked a glass of orgeat from the tray of a passing footman.
Lady Sarah's Redemption Page 9