She accepted it with a grimace. “I trust you’ll serve something a little more fortifying, later this evening.”
“You perplex me, Miss Morecroft.” He looked puzzled. Unconsciously, it seemed, he’d led her into semi seclusion behind the luxuriant fronds of a lush indoor fern. “When has champagne been the diet of a poor governess?” His hand moved to a small, faded scar above her wrist. Tracing it with the forefinger of his gloved hand, he smiled up at her as she trembled. “There is so much more I want to know about you.”
Not yet! a voice screamed inside her head. When the time is right … She swallowed and put her hand to her bosom to control her erratic breathing. Light strains of music drifted from the annexe where the orchestra was tuning up. The room filled with guests, but here they were alone. In a cocoon of intimacy.
“How can you possibly have escaped marriage” — his smile faded and his gaze grew more intense — “when you are so very lovely?”
Still she could not reply. He went on. “Or did you always wish to be a governess?”
Sarah tore her eyes away. Carefully, she said, “I became a governess because my father wished me to marry someone I could not care for. Not as a husband, anyway.”
Clearly, her response astonished him. “Godby-?”
She cut him off, quickly. “My father wanted me to marry my cousin. We were more like brother and sister. My cousin didn’t want to marry me, either, but when a parent believes he knows best” — she shrugged — “drastic action is sometimes called for.”
“I would not have thought it of your father,” he murmured.
“I nearly married—” She nearly said in her first season but stopped herself. She was treading a tenuous line between giving the truth and a reason for her actions. She could not risk being caught out, yet.
“Was it a match of your choosing?”
“We were mad for each other.” Over Mr Hawthorne’s shoulder, Sarah regarded the group of young men in the centre of the room chatting amongst themselves. What callow youths they appeared compared with Mr Hawthorne. She slanted a glance at him. He regarded her soberly, the flirtation gone from his manner. He understood she wanted to give an account of her past as straightforwardly as she could before she was ready to embrace the next phase.
If her courage didn’t fail her. “Two weeks before our wedding his regiment was called to fight. He did not return.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, but that is nearly six years ago now.” She met and held his eye. “Nearly as long ago as your wife died. At the time I believed I’d never get over it, but one can’t forever mourn for what one cannot have.”
“One can mourn for what might have been.”
“Only hopeless dreamers do that. And not forever.”
Mr Hawthorne’s smile held admiration. “Your presence at Larchfield has been good for us all,” he said. “The change in Caro has been remarkable. See, a young gentleman has just engaged her in conversation and she doesn’t look as if she’s about to sink through the floor.”
“That’s Mr Hollingsworth, whose innocent addresses to Caro nearly cost me my job.” She gave him a wry look. “He’s renting Hawthorndene until the end of the hunting season and appears a personable fellow. Certainly, he’s charmed Lady Charlotte who seems to want to push Philly his way.”
A group of young ladies brushed past Mr Hawthorne. When he stumbled against Sarah he did not move away. Sensation charged through her. She could tell he felt it, too. His breath stirred the tendrils that curled about her ears. “I need you about the place, Miss Morecroft” — his smile was self deprecating — “to keep me from descending into a crotchety dotage.”
She could have adopted the light, bantering tone he’d employed, perhaps to put her at ease. Could have said such a thing was a long way off.
“I am not the governess you think me,” she blurted. There! She’d exposed herself, at last. The truth had to be in the open before they could proceed. She tensed for his horror, his outrage.
Instead, he transferred her glass from her trembling fingers to the depths of the urn so he could grip both her hands.
“No, for I misjudged you. You are so much more yet I’ve been blind to the truth and for that I offer my humblest apologies.” He lowered his head to gaze into her eyes.
“What?” Confusion swamped her.
“I believed any daughter of Godby’s must share his disregard for the feelings of others. You have proved a true and loyal friend to my daughter. You have the courage of your convictions. You have earned my esteem and admiration—”
Oh, dear Lord, I must tell him the truth. She stepped backwards, drawing her hands from his grasp. Sick with fear, she struggled for the right approach. How could she not be tarnished, however artfully she offered her excuses? She had embarked upon her charade as a spoilt and thoughtless young woman. But I am no longer that young woman, she screamed inside. I was once as careless as you believed, but you have shown me how to view the world with a new understanding. She lay the palm of her hand upon his heart and fixed him with an intensity she had never felt before now. “Whatever happens, I hope I will always be worthy of your regard—”
“Father, Miss Morecroft, allow me to introduce to you Mr Hollingsworth.”
Dropping her hand, Sarah turned, forcing herself to smile. Clever green eyes set into a handsome, chiselled face, smiled back. He had the kind of looks that would make the heart of many a young girl beat more quickly, thought Sarah, forcing her mind into the present. Dark brown curls swept back from a high forehead and pronounced sideburns followed high cheekbones above a strong chin and stylishly high pointed collar. In the final decider, his cravat could not have been more dextrously tied.
A quick glance at Caro confirmed that she was far from immune to his charm. Mr Hollingsworth, though of similar age to many of the young men here tonight, had an air of assurance which set him apart.
After he’d brushed his lips across the back of Sarah’s hand and complimented her, Sarah excused herself. This was Caro’s moment. She needed to win her father’s approval of her new beau. And, Sarah needed time to rally her defences and embark upon a fresh approach before she was completely undone.
En route to the supper table she was waylaid by Mrs Hawthorne and Lady Charlotte. The latter peered at her through her lorgnette. “The silver lutestring I had thought so unsuitable for Caro makes splendid finery for yourself, Miss Morecroft.” Her tone was cool. With a start she added, “Is that not the grey net from your old dress, Cecily? Why, Miss Morecroft, if you should unexpectedly find yourself without employment here, perhaps I shall take you on as my dressmaker.”
Sarah inclined her head while anger bubbled up inside. “Mr Hawthorne reassures me that he and Caro have become far too attached to me to let me go” — she forced a thin smile — “and nor shall I be tempted to leave, no matter how great the inducement.” With a haughty nod she left them.
The refreshments table was not far from the dancing but was afforded some privacy by its separation through open double doors. Sarah began making her selection as she watched Mr Hollingsworth lead Caro onto the dance floor to join a set for a country dance.
“It was not an auspicious moment to be interrupted, but nor was it the ideal place for such a conversation, Miss Morecroft.”
Sarah started. She’d been unaware of Mr Hawthorne’s approach.
His smile was artless and her heart somersaulted as he said, “We shall enjoy more privacy on the dance floor.”
Retrieving the slice of ham Sarah had dropped upon the tablecloth with a fork and placing it on to her plate, he added, “Although I think perhaps one dance may not be enough to say all that needs to be said.”
She hesitated. “I think it might be unseemly to engage the governess in even one dance.” She’d been weightless with joy, earlier, but the truth of her situation could not be ignored. She was in an impossible situation and had not the least idea how to extricate herself.
He laughed and Sara
h was struck by the transformation. The warmth of his expression erased the deep lines etched from nose to mouth, and his eyes glowed with humour and affection.
“I am master of Larchfield and tonight’s host. You would do me a great honour if you reserved for me each of the three waltzes on tonight’s programme, Miss Morecroft. I think it would send rather an unequivocal message to the rest of the company as to how matters stand between us, don’t you?” he murmured.
Sarah swayed towards him.
“May I take it you’ll grant my request?”
What could she say? Her whole being screamed to be enfolded in his arms, the truth no longer a barrier as he rained kisses upon her face and lips. Well, perhaps he’d reserve that for once they’d left the dance floor.
Her longing must have been plain for briefly he cupped her cheek, his expression tender. “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous in taking that for a yes,” he murmured, before he left her.
The ‘Sir Richard de Coverly’ was in progress. A dozen couples participated, performing their steps with endless repetition.
In the meantime there were more arrivals: a group of noisy young men in regimentals, causing the half a dozen wall flowers to raise hopeful heads in their direction.
Sarah stood near a group of neighbourhood matrons, pointedly ignored by Mrs Hawthorne. She tried to calm the turbulence of her emotions, tried to whip up the sense of delicious empowerment she’d have felt not so long ago at the prospect of Mrs Hawthorne’s reaction when Mr Hawthorne led Sarah off the dance floor at the conclusion of the third waltz. But she knew she’d not be released from the grip of her overpowering dread and apprehension until her conscience was clear.
She returned Mr Hollingsworth’s smile as he passed by with Caro on his arm. There was no point making some trite enquiry as to whether Caro were enjoying herself. Sarah had never seen her look so happy, nor so poised and beautiful.
Had Caro just discovered the antidote that would banish her demons forever? Sarah had no doubt that Mr Hawthorne had invested in herself the care of his damaged, passionate heart. It was a weighty responsibility. She prayed she would not fail him.
She shivered at the chill gusting in with the arrival of some latecomers. More young men, self consciously adjusting their high pointed collars after they’d been relieved of their outerwear by Lavery. She smiled at the stir of feminine interest.
A smile soon replaced by dismay as the assembled group broke up revealing a young man whose sheer height and breadth and thick red hair set him apart. Only that was not what drew Sarah’s attention, and soon all those nearby.
Run! screamed the voice of salvation in her head. It’s all over for you. You’ve lost your chance and you can never be redeemed. But horror curdled into sick inaction, rooting her to the spot.
The ringleader, a blonde, tousle-headed young captain, rose from his bow with an engaging smile, and glanced about the room. “Mrs Hawthorne, ladies. “Forgive us for being so late. Is Aunt Charlotte here? I daresay I deserve the earful she’ll no doubt dish out, but we are here at last and-”
“Sarah!”
She hadn’t realised how tensely she’d waited for it.
“Sarah?” the red-haired man asked again, his voice now low, questioning. He advanced a few steps. Sarah retreated in the face of his stricken look. Pale-complexioned with a dusting of freckles across his nose, and hugely broad shoulders, his presence filled her with as much affection as alarm. She hadn’t realised she’d missed James so much. Her heart pounded. She wanted to throw herself into his arms then drag him from the room and tell him everything. She could not with so many eyes upon her. Her future happiness hinged on how she dealt with the next few moments.
She was aware of Lady Charlotte’s gimlet eye trained upon her. She forced herself to give a little laugh as James approached. Be calm, she exhorted herself. If you lose your composure now, it could be all over for you.
“Hello, James.” She grasped his wrist. How she kept her voice steady, she did not know. Smiling, keenly aware of the interest still trained upon her, she pulled him a few feet away. She realised she could not bask in admiration all evening without exciting the glare of publicity at such an interesting change of tone. “Goodness, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Had you not heard I’d taken a position as governess for Mr and Mrs Hawthorne? No?” Please, she prayed. Not here. Don’t let him unmask me in front of everyone. Taking advantage of James’s confusion, she went on, quickly, “It’s a long story and I can’t wait to catch up with all you’ve been doing. Only you’ll have to excuse me as I’ve promised the next dance.” In a low hiss she added, “Meet me at the supper table in two minutes.”
Shaking, she made her escape. She soon gave up trying to load up her supper plate, instead watching beadily as Mrs Hawthorne quizzed the red-headed newcomer across the room.
A few minutes later James was by her side. Gripping her arm he exhorted her, “Dear God, Sarah, you know we all thought you were dead? How could you—?”
“Please, James!” she entreated under her breath, for another couple was now helping themselves to food, nearby. “There’s a terrace just outside. I’ll be there as soon as I can get away. I promise I’ll explain everything! Just don’t tell anyone who I am.”
She pulled away, leaving her plate upon the sideboard. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts as she hurried towards the double doors. Caro smiled at her over her shoulder as she waited in line to perform her dance steps. Lady Charlotte cast her a narrow-eyed look as she slipped from the room.
Sarah steeled herself as she stepped from the passage out onto the terrace, heedless of the chill upon her bare shoulders.
In just a moment she’d be calling on all her reserves of remorse and tact to soothe the feelings of a kind and honourable man who had every reason to feel hurt and betrayed.
Poor James, she thought as she prepared to sink her pride. Her spirits sank even lower as she reflected that her ordeal with James was just the prelude to her mortification.
Chapter Ten
TREMBLING, SARAH PACED the gravel terrace just around the corner from where the doors opened wide upon the garden outside.
The final chords of the ‘Sir Richard de Coverley’ were followed by a smatter of clapping. Sarah chewed her knuckles. After a short interval the orchestra would break into the exciting, romantic strains of the waltz. She stifled a sob of disappointment. If she could tell James the truth, quickly, she might be back in time. The fear of James revealing her true identity battled with her fear that Mr Hawthorne would come looking for her.
She continued to pace, her mind in a panic, oblivious to the soft tread upon the gravel until she virtually collided with him.
“James!”
“Sarah!”
Seizing his arm, she pulled him into the seclusion of the shrubbery.
“Do you realize your father is half mad with grief?” he demanded, angrily. “Not to mention the agonies I’ve suffered on your account. I can’t believe you’ve done this!”
His words were like barbs in her already battle-scarred conscience. She couldn’t bear to see the pain and anger that roiled in his hurt, angry green eyes.
“You don’t understand, James. I had to leave.”
His chest heaved but he said nothing, though he quirked an eyebrow in invitation to go on.
“It was because of you—”
“Me?”
She reached up to put her hands on his shoulders. “Papa was pressuring me to accept your offer. I knew you didn’t really want to marry me—”
“That’s not true!” he interjected, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Oh James,” Sarah sighed, hooking her hands behind his neck and wilting against him. She wanted him to forgive her but she didn’t want to be forced into revealing the full truth. Not now.
“It is true. And as I wanted to marry you as much as you wished to marry me—” she shrugged, nestling her cheek against his chest — “I thought that disappearing would be
the best way of winning Papa round.”
James grunted as he stroked her hair, the sounds of the next waltz drifting through the open windows. “Lord Miles would hardly have forced you to the altar against your wishes. Sarah, come back!” He made a lunge for her as she disengaged herself and ran towards the house.
“I’m promised for this dance.” Frantic, she skirted the bushes which separated the terrace from the French doors leading into the house. “Say nothing. Please,” she begged over her shoulder. “My entire life’s happiness depends on this waltz.”
She was reassured more by his expression of dawning understanding than his attitude of resignation. But she’d known James her whole life. He’d often looked at her like this. And he’d never yet let her down.
Smiling, Roland watched Miss Morecroft weave her way over to the supper table. For such a slender young woman she had a hearty appetite. It was the second time this evening she had piled her plate so high. A frisson of excitement ran through him as he anticipated their forthcoming encounter on the dance floor.
“Know you’d have me whipped for the sentiment if you could, Hawthorne, but I wasn’t sorry to see those trouble-makers swing.”
Roland turned with a resigned smile. He’d known it wouldn’t be long before Colonel Doncaster espoused such sentiments. Wrinkling his claret nose, his oldest friend and neighbour went on, “They’d turn England on her head if they could.”
Now was not the time to enter into a spirited debate on politics, justice and the social system, though Roland knew this was what the colonel was angling for.
“Colonel, we are celebrating my daughter’s come-out.” He smiled a warning before greeting Mrs Doncaster with genuine pleasure. A sensible, good looking strawberry blonde in her early forties, she knew how to keep her husband in check.
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