Lady Sarah's Redemption

by Beverley Eikli

“You’ve picked up a pistol for less, Roland,” the colonel reminded him.

  It struck a nerve. “I was a callow youth.”

  Mrs Doncaster put a gentle hand on her red-faced husband’s sleeve. “Roland has more sense now. It’s time you married again, Roland,” she told him. “The days of Venetia and duelling and risking your life for your beliefs is over.” There was a glint in her eye. “I know several young ladies who would suit you very well if you’d let me introduce them.”

  “Frances prides herself on being the canny one in matters of the heart,” her husband said, putting an arm about her waist, “but I’d wager something’s already in the wind if Roland won’t talk politics with me.”

  Roland gave a good-natured laugh. He’d lost sight of Sarah though he’d scanned the room several times for her. The ‘Sir Richard de Coverly’ was winding down and he was aching for the promised waltz.

  Unconsciously he shifted position to ease his growing anticipation, and was whisked into the present by Frances remarking slyly, “I believe you’re right, Seb! Tell us, Roland, is Cecily’s position as mistress of Larchfield about to be usurped?”

  Roland blinked. Was he that transparent?

  Laughing, she observed, “You always were one to wear your heart on your sleeve, which is why I know there’s been no one since Venetia.”

  “Frances, you’re embarrassing the poor man.” The colonel’s tone was full of disgust. “Men of sound mind do not wear their hearts on their sleeves like namby pamby boys or swooning maidens.”

  “But my dear, I well remember Roland doing just that when you brought me here as a new bride,” she objected, undaunted. “He was captivated by Venetia, just as you were captivated by your new bride.” She patted the colonel’s arm as his complexion took on the deep ruby hue of her gown.

  “Excuse me.” Roland left them with a bow and a smile. “I am under an obligation to claim the next dance.” Full of expectation he left their good-natured circle in search of Miss Morecroft.

  “Caro, you haven’t seen Miss Morecroft?” he asked his daughter, who was being escorted onto the dance floor yet again by Mr Hollingsworth.

  “No, Papa. Aunt Cecily, have you seen Miss Morecroft?”

  “Miss Morecroft?” Her aunt sniffed while Lady Charlotte indicated the doorway. “Left a couple of minutes ago. Seemed quite discomposed by some fellow who’d just arrived.”

  With a final, worried glance around the room Roland turned into the passage as the orchestra tuned their instruments. Waltzing with Godby’s daughter would cause far more of a stir than dancing with a mere governess. Had Miss Morecroft taken it upon herself to spare him?

  Impatiently, he waited outside the mending room set up for minor repairs to the ladies’ gowns. He could think of nowhere else she’d be. She wasn’t downstairs, Augusta and Harriet were in Ellen’s care, and Miss Morecroft would hardly be out in the chill night air.

  He willed her to issue through the doorway; to look him up and down in that assessing way of hers which always reassured him she didn’t find him wanting.

  Pacing impatiently, he pictured her in his mind’s eye. Like Venetia, she was beautiful and proud. But Venetia had been venal and calculating. Venetia had taught him how to reap the rewards of desire: how to pleasure a woman and what unexpected pleasures a man might likewise enjoy at the hands of a woman. He’d been a willing pupil, hurling himself headlong into a surfeit of lust. And when he had totally surrendered to her all he had to give – his heart, his body, his every waking thought, almost his own sense of self – he had realized her pleasure had been largely in his surrender, in her ability to conquer.

  Then she had moved on, like a predatory shark, to fish other waters.

  But Miss Morecroft was not like that. Miss Morecroft had kindness and sincerity to compensate for the traits she shared with Venetia.

  “Mary, have you seen Miss Morecroft?” he asked the maid who opened the door of the mending room. Hearing the urgency in his voice, he added, “Caro is looking for her.”

  Instantly he was ashamed of himself. Was it necessary to conceal from one of his employees that it was he, himself, who wished to find the governess?

  No, he didn’t care what Mary, or Cecily, or anyone thought. Miss Morecroft was the most divine, spirited, engaging woman he’d ever met. He’d thought keeping her at Larchfield as the girls’ governess would be enough. Now he knew he had to marry her.

  Instead of being dismayed, he exulted. For the first time in his life he was about to yield to his desires with supreme confidence in the outcome. They would make each other happy. He was certain of it.

  His frustration increased as the orchestra launched into the waltz he had looked forward to with such anticipation.

  “I saw her running outside just a few minutes ago, sir.” The maid looked disapproving as she rose from her curtsy. “Not even a cloak or shawl to keep her poor bare shoulders warm this freezing night.”

  Thanking Mary, he stepped through the French doors. He was worried now. The sharp air stung his face and he stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together to warm them. Why on earth would Miss Morecroft rush outside into the freezing night when she was supposed to be enjoying the warmth of his embrace? He thought of a dozen reasons to reassure himself as he crunched his way along the terrace. Perhaps she’d fallen ill, or felt faint, then re-entered the house by another door.

  He scanned the immediate area as far as the light from the windows penetrated, then continued along the side of the house to where the terrace disappeared around the corner, half shrouded by shrubbery.

  Hearing voices, he moved closer.

  “Oh, James …” There was anguish in the young lady’s voice. He could not see her, obscured as she was by the shrubbery, but it was clear by the sigh and tone of her voice as she continued, that she was in company with someone familiar to her.

  Caught between making his presence known, and the natural impulse to eavesdrop, Roland was on the point of retracing his footsteps to the house when the urgency in what only now he realised was Morecroft’s voice arrested him.

  “I wanted to marry you as much as you wished to marry me.”

  Disgust infected Roland’s veins with cold, sluggish blood as he heard her next words. “I thought that disappearing would be the best way of winning Papa round.”

  Then the young man answered. “Lord Miles would hardly have forced you to the altar against your wishes. Sarah, come back!”

  Roland stepped back against the bushes as she ran past him. He heard the doors slam shut behind her. The low groan of the now deserted young man was followed by the sound of his footsteps disappearing in the opposite direction.

  Roland’s breath rasped on the icy air as he stumbled towards the house.

  Sarah scanned the room from her secluded corner vantage point while she regulated her uneven breathing. There he was, talking to Colonel Doncaster on the far side of the room.

  Surely, she thought, Mr Hawthorne could not be thinking her a flirt or a jilt for missing their appointed waltz? A sudden call upon her time by one of the girls, a torn skirt, or twisted ankle was far more likely.

  He appeared not to be aware of her as she brushed past him and the colonel. Glancing over her shoulder, she tried to catch his eye as she wove her way through the crowd. Her ploy was not successful.

  For a few moments she stood alone by the double doors which separated the card room from the dance floor. Her glass replenished, but not her spirits, she frowned at him as he disengaged himself from the colonel. If she didn’t know better she’d think he was ignoring her.

  Out of pique?

  She felt sick. Mr Hawthorne couldn’t imagine she was playing games with him — could he?

  James had engaged Caro for the next set. Caro smiled, acknowledging her governess with a wave as they passed nearby. To Sarah’s relief, James pretended ignorance of who she was.

  Growing fear twisted her gut. Miserably, she watched as Mr Hawthorne stood, grim and woodenly, conver
sing with Lords Digby and Denning, ancient acquaintances of her father. It felt as if the evening were closing in on her.

  Sarah positioned herself a little away from Philly and Georgiana so as not to bring attention to her solitary state while she waited for an opportunity to waylay him. He must know she was here. All evening she’d been thrillingly aware of his eyes following her around the room.

  Watching him discuss a matter that was apparently of weighty concern, she was gripped with longing as he raked his hand through his hair in that familiar gesture of his.

  Was he talking of universal access to education and male suffrage? Such notions would send her father into paroxysms. He’d certainly have paroxysms if she informed him she intended marrying Roland Hawthorne.

  With a determined tilt to her chin she pushed her shoulders back. Marrying Mr Hawthorne was exactly what she intended doing.

  Lord Denning shook his head with sudden vehemence and Lord Digby scowled. She wondered what Mr Hawthorne could have said. Both men were her father’s age, with a propensity towards apoplexy – on little provocation. Just like her father. She felt a pang, then rallied. Soon, this whole charade would be at an end.

  As he extricated himself from the group Sarah seized her moment and glided into his path.

  “Forgive me, Mr Hawthorne, for missing the waltz I promised you. I was called away, suddenly.” When her apology was not greeted with the immediate pardon she’d expected, she stammered, “Calls on my time come from all quarters and the little girls required me for a moment. I am merely the governess, after all.”

  He frowned down at her. “Ah, yes, merely the governess.”

  Discomposed, she suggested, “Perhaps the next waltz?”

  “There will be no more waltzes for me tonight,” he said. “Forgive me.” He bowed and was about to pass on but she stopped him, alarmed.

  “Mr Hawthorne, I have angered you? Surely you understand-”

  “Indeed I do, Miss Morecroft. If you will excuse me, there has been distressing news this evening. I am poor company in my current mood.”

  With another cursory bow, he was gone.

  Sarah stared after him, fear and disappointment wrestling one another.

  Think! It was perfectly reasonable, she told herself, that a man with such a powerful social conscience would need to mull over events in private. She’d do herself no favours badgering him for the cause of his distress.

  Ignoring Mrs Hawthorne’s beady-eyed stare, she rested against the large urn where he’d caressed her arm. Longing tore through her. And uncertainty. Perhaps he’d call her into the library to apologise, later.

  “I’ve been trying to put my finger on it all evening, Miss Morecroft, and at last it’s come to me.”

  Sarah met Mrs Hawthorne’s gloating smile across the top of the plinth. She didn’t intend straightening out of deference.

  “Those dancing slippers belonged to Lady Venetia. I recognise them.”

  “You don’t think I—”

  “I’m not accusing you of theft, Miss Morecroft, merely recalling the last time they graced her ladyship’s dainty feet.”

  Sarah said nothing. Mrs Hawthorne clearly would enjoy telling her.

  “When the men brought her into the house from the river I asked my brother-in-law if he should like her buried in them.” Mrs Hawthorne touched her necklace with bony fingers, feigned wistfulness twisting her features as she gazed at the couples on the dance floor. “Poor Venetia looked so lovely in death, her white gown clinging to her, her dark hair loose around her face.” She fixed Sarah with a hard look. “In that moment I felt closer to her than I ever had.” With a nod at the offending dancing slippers, she added, “I even felt sorry for her when Roland said he hoped they’d carry their deceiving baggage to hell.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “MASTER WISHES TO see you, Miss Morecroft.” Ellen put her head around the bedroom door and eyed Sarah, speculatively.

  “When? Now?”

  “At your convenience, miss.”

  It was, after all, still early. The household had retired late to bed.

  But the few intervening hours had yielded little sleep. Sarah had not yet finished dressing, and as she bent over the small chest of drawers to peer into the mirror she was dismayed at the haggard face that stared, hollow-eyed, back at her.

  “Have you done summat you oughtn’t?” Ellen was nothing, if not blunt.

  Sarah’s heart lurched with the fear that had kept her awake half the night. He couldn’t have seen her with James, surely. They were well hidden in the shrubbery. Perhaps Mrs Hawthorne, or someone else, had said something which reflected badly upon her? She tried to bolster her courage at the prospect that Mr Hawthorne might end the interview championing her, rather than chastising her.

  Sounding as jaunty as she could, she replied, “Mr Hawthorne received distressing news last night but he wants to talk to me about Caro.”

  Ellen nodded, apparently satisfied. “I’ll send a message you’ll be down directly,” she said, disappearing.

  Sarah set to work, remedying the damage of a sleepless night and low spirits with all the artifice at her fingertips. Fear and trepidation soon turned to anticipation. Perhaps his disappointment at matters beyond his control would lead him to seek solace in the arms of a woman he desired.

  No longer sallow and hollow-eyed, Sarah appeared before him, roses blooming in her cheeks.

  “You wished to see me, sir.” She smiled as she bobbed a curtsy. She had exorcised her fear. She was filled with vigour and expectation.

  He pushed back his chair and rose from his writing desk. There was no answering smile as he waved her to a chair. Yet his eyes appeared to drink in every detail, from the curls she’d arranged with such care to tumble from her Greek knot, before travelling the length of her best sprigged muslin.

  Finally they returned to her face as she settled herself in a chair. Her heart beat wildly, in confusion. He looked as if what he saw pleased him not at all.

  “That is correct, Lady Sarah.” His tone was cold and formal.

  She felt a moment’s sense of disembodiment; as if she were looking at him through a waterfall. She blinked. He appeared to grow indistinct while the thundering torrent filled her head with noise.

  She closed her eyes, gripped the sides of her chair and whispered through her dry throat, “How did you find out?”

  “From your own lips.”

  When she opened her eyes it was to see his trained on her as if she were a spy who had infiltrated his household. “I overheard you and your … lover … out on the terrace last night.” His disgust was evident.

  “My lover?” She swallowed. “James is my friend. My childhood friend. You misunderstood—”

  “Have I misunderstood that you are here on false pretences, impersonating a dead woman? Have I misunderstood that you are not, in fact, the daughter of my late foster-brother but the daughter of the man against whom I have fought tirelessly in the parliament for so many years?”

  Shame burned her cheeks. How underhand and wicked he made her actions seem.

  “I did not set out, intentionally, to deceive anyone,” she murmured, plucking at her sleeve. “I was misidentified after the ship went down. And … I had my reasons for not wishing to return to my father immediately.”

  “Well, your father’s on his way here to collect you, madam. So you had better prepare yourself.”

  Sarah gasped. “No! Please, Mr Hawthorne. You don’t understand—”

  “There is no deficiency in my cognitive powers.” His voice was chilling. He began to pace before the fireplace. “I understand perfectly that you have been acting out a charade, in my household, taking us all for fools. Having been deceived once before, Miss Morecroft — I beg your pardon, Lady Sarah — I am in no hurry to be taken advantage of again.”

  “But … but I don’t want to go. Please Mr Hawthorne—”

  “Having crossed swords with your father, myself, so to speak, I am not surprised yo
u don’t want to go.” He finished on a snarl. “But go you will.”

  There was no hesitation or wavering that could give Sarah encouragement.

  “His anger’s not the reason—”

  “I do not care for your reasons, Lady Sarah. Your deception is enough.” Already he was turning back to his desk, dismissing her. He waved his hand towards the door. “Please, go.”

  She rose. Clenching her hands into fists at her sides for strength, she made one more appeal.

  “It was because of you, sir, I continued the charade. No other reason.” She took a step towards him, widening her eyes in entreaty, although his back remained towards her. “Don’t send me away, I beg of you. I cannot bear to leave you!”

  Slowly he turned. Hope reignited in Sarah’s breast. She had never spoken the truth more sincerely. If he would just forgive her and let her stay she would gladly spend the rest of her life doing penance.

  “I have heard enough impassioned promises of reform to last me a lifetime, Lady Sarah.” His voice was impassive. “Good day to you.”

  Blindly, Sarah rushed towards her room. Someone addressed her in the corridor. She ignored them, hurrying on until she had gained the privacy of her tiny chamber where she threw herself, face down upon the bed.

  Oh, dear Lord, she exhorted silently. Make Mr Hawthorne accept her charade for what it was. He was drawing parallels between her behaviour and Venetia’s. As bad, he suspected she was a spy. Clearly, he’d not considered her real reasons to be the truth.

  After some time Sarah became conscious of a tapping on her door. A small dark head appeared, followed by a taller, red-haired one. Two pairs of eyes regarded her anxiously.

  “Are you all right, Miss Morecroft?” Harriet asked, pushing open the door and padding into the room.

  “Of course,” said Sarah, as brightly as she could. She sat up, forcing herself to smile, then caressed Augusta’s dark curls as the little girl rested her head against her arm. Harriet snuggled up close on her other side.

  Sarah’s contrived cheerfulness seemed not to assuage their concerns. They continued to eye her fearfully.