“Why would you think I am not? Caro’s ball was perfectly delightful,” she babbled. “Your sister was a credit to you all; and I am as hale and hearty as I ever was. Perhaps you are here to pester me to give you more French verbs to conjugate?”
They ignored her attempt at levity. “Ellen was being strange this morning,” said Augusta. “And then she just left us in the nursery … alone.”
“She never does that,” said Harriet. Her dark eyes were luminous with worry. “And she said you weren’t coming to teach us this morning. That something had happened and that you weren’t our governess any more.”
“But if you’re not our governess any more,” said Augusta, her bottom lip quivering, “I swear I’ll not conjugate French verbs for any other governess, ever again.”
“Come now.” Sarah hugged the little girl who had started to sniffle. “Ellen has made all this seem like the end of the world. I’ll never leave you completely. I’ll always be there for you in spirit. And even if I have to go away for a little while, I … I’ll do my best to come back.”
It was hard to keep her voice from breaking. The thought of leaving her young charges, she now realized, was almost as heartbreaking as being wrenched from Roland.
“I knew it!” cried Caro, bursting into the room and confronting Sarah, hands on hips. “I knew you didn’t want to leave. And we won’t let you! Whatever father says … well, I don’t know what all this is about, but he’s wrong!” With a hiccupping sob, she began to pace.
It was all too much for Sarah. Unable to check the tears that rolled down her cheeks she tried to comfort the girls who were all crying loudly.
The door opened once more. This time it was Ellen, standing stony-faced in the passage.
“Lady Sarah, Mrs Hawthorne says your new bedchamber is ready for you.”
“What?” Sarah frowned.
“Bein’ a lady an’ all, miss, you can’t be expected to sleep rough like a servant,” said Ellen, bobbing a respectful curtsy, although her expression remained cold. “Mrs Hawthorne has had one of the guest rooms prepared until such time as ’is Lordship arrives to take you ’ome.”
“So, it’s true,” said Caro, slowly, drying her tears with her cuff, and frowning at her when Ellen had gone. “You really are the daughter of Lord Miles. Papa said … you had deceived us all.”
Sarah found it hard to meet her eye. Taking a deep breath for courage she said, quietly, “If you would allow me to tell you the whole story, I would greatly appreciate it.”
She left nothing out. The spoilt, pleasure-loving society darling had learned some hard lessons, and she was prepared to put herself forward as an example of what not to do when faced with an obdurate papa. At the same time, she needed the girls to know her affection for them, and her employer, was deep and sincere.
At last she rose, with a sigh. “I’d better prepare myself for my father’s arrival.”
“What will your father do?” whispered Harriet.
Sarah considered a moment. “Well, he will probably be very courteous and correct and polite because he will be a guest in your house. But later he will shout and stamp around, probably throw a good many things.”
“At you?” Caro asked, horrified.
“No, at the wall. And then he will hug me so hard I’ll hardly be able to breathe, and then he’ll cry a great deal.”
The girls blinked in surprise. “Men don’t cry,” said Augusta. “At least, Uncle Roland doesn’t.”
“He does,” said Caro. Colouring, she mumbled, “At least, he did.”
“When Aunt Venetia died, I suppose,” said Augusta. “Well, that’s allowed. Even men can cry when people die.”
“Oh, Papa never cried after mama died,” said Caro. She glared at Sarah before her face crumpled. “But I’d wager he will, now,” she said on a sob.
The door opened and Ellen reappeared.
“I shall take the girls now, m’lady,” she said, briskly.
Sarah stared with longing at the young charges she might never see again, and the funny little nursery maid whose trust and dignity she’d so injured. “Please Ellen, I-”
Ellen cut her off. “Lizzie will be here shortly to pack for you.” The girl refused to look Sarah in the eye. “Mrs Hawthorne says tea is in the drawing room whenever you wish to present yourself.”
Roland’s hand trembled as he replaced the decanter, the sharp brandy fumes burning before he had taken the first sip. He hadn’t felt like this since Venetia had left him the first time.
Or had the familiar loneliness that now consumed him been more a feature of his life with Venetia while her departure had occasioned relief?
Roland was not given to detailed analyses on the state of his heart. He had lost it when he was twenty, and the mauling it had received over the next ten years of marriage had convinced him that hearts were best left to the domain of women.
To banish the thought of Miss Morecroft – Lady Sarah - he thought of his election campaign just around the corner. He was for the abolition of rotten boroughs.
He smiled grimly. Not an idea Lord Miles favoured. And why would he when he could exploit his position and be re-elected time after time with little inducement – just the threat of increased rents for his tenants.
Taking another sip, he stared down the gravel drive that wound through the gardens, disappearing into the darkness of the park beyond.
Soon Lord Miles’s carriage would lumber up that driveway. He wondered at the nature of the inevitable exchange between them before it lumbered back down the drive again, Lord Miles’s daughter ensconced, inside, in padded comfort.
It would be the last he would see of Lady Sarah.
As it should be.
He sighed deeply, wishing the exhalation and the refilling of his lungs occasioned some relief. But there was pain in every breath.
He was replenishing his tumbler when there came a knock upon his door.
Caro? He hoped not. He hadn’t the stomach for more of her tears and passionate entreaties. She’d left him half an hour before, weeping and vengeful. He was still shaken by the encounter.
“Your harsh judgment of me is ill deserved, Mr Hawthorne, for all I admit I am guilty of deceit,” came a cool, formal voice.
Unannounced and uninvited, she entered the room, moving with her peculiar grace until she stood squarely before him.
Lord, she was beautiful. The light seemed to have laid a rosy cast upon her perfect skin, set off by her gleaming hair which seemed tinged more with russet in this light. She had always been confident but standing here before him, as Lady Sarah, she seemed like an unobtainable goddess.
Unobtainable, like Venetia had once seemed. And little joy he had got from attaining what he had once believed was his heart’s desire.
Silently, he digested the young woman’s impertinence while he drank in the perfection of her form: full breasted and wasp-waisted with the most kissable lips he’d ever encountered.
He glanced away, pretending to note the hands of the clock, so as to hide his aching desire. Longing tore at him, devastatingly familiar. He clenched his fists at his sides. Succumbing to his heart would be his undoing.
“I believe Mrs Hawthorne is expecting you in the drawing room.” He ignored her words, his expression impassive as he turned back to face her.
“Why are you doing this?” She took a quick step forward, her voice barely above a whisper.
He noted the effort it took her to keep it under control. Well, it was hardly surprising she was upset. She had been unmasked; her whole story was a fabrication. She had taken them all for fools, to suit her own ends. Whether it was for a lark, or because she was acting the spoiled child who wanted to teach her father a lesson, or even if she was a spy, which he naturally no longer believed. Of course she would feel the need to justify herself. Her pride required that he forgive her and farewell her as his friend when she left on the arm of her father, rather than ejected in ignominy.
“I’m sorry?” He raise
d an eyebrow, his tone as disparaging as he could manage when sorrow and disappointment were equally in the ascendant. “Why do I do what, Lady Sarah?”
He could see her barely contained anger in the rise and fall of her bosom as she stared at him through those exquisite, heavily lashed hazel eyes.
He answered his own question. “Why do I expel an imposter from my household? A woman whose motives can only be under suspicion for failing to reveal herself?” He had not meant to insult her so directly. But his instincts for self preservation were honed to the highest degree.
“I have explained that my reasons were entirely prompted by a spontaneous act of … desperation,” she said, tightly.
He turned his head away from the sight of her eyes bright with unshed tears. Silently he willed her to give up the fight and just leave. He did not have the fortitude to cope with another emotional female right now. Hadn’t he spent the last few years ensuring that emotion — certainly that of a romantic nature — did not become the architect of his destruction? Ten years of Venetia was more than a lifetime of tears and tantrums. And one glance at Lady Sarah’s damp, glistening lashes was a frightening prospect. What if she should cry … throw herself at him?
Good God! He would be undone. Under such heavy fire he didn’t trust himself not to reveal what was in his heart and do something unutterably stupid. Like tell her he loved her. Then she’d never give up her fight.
She took a steadying breath. “If you choose to put a more sinister slant upon it …” Her voice was controlled, cold, even.
He didn’t like to admit he was disappointed that she refrained from continuing in a more emotional vein. The heat had gone from the exchange. Reason had returned.
“Clearly, Lady Sarah, you cannot remain as governess to my girls,” he said. He tilted his head, awaiting her corroboration.
She bowed her own, her rich reddish gold locks gleaming in the slanting sunlight. It took the greatest self control not to brush his hand over her silken tresses and tangle his fingers in the soft curls that fell from her top knot. A tantalizing expanse of white, flawless skin extended from the nape of her neck to the back of her gown where a row of tiny pearl buttons began, and ended somewhere – he swallowed – below her waist.
Roland closed his eyes as he fought to retain his distance. When she raised her head to fix him with her hurt, angry eyes, he had put the sofa between them.
She whispered, “I shall miss them.”
Was the regret just part of the act? he wondered. They did seem fond of her, but an accomplished imposter surely did not form dangerous personal attachments?
“Then I’m sorry you set yourself up for such disappointment.” Though his tone was dismissive he longed to continue the exchange. He realized with a wave of overpowering disappointment it may well be their last. “Please don’t paint me the villain for acting differently from any other responsible employer, or gentleman.”
At her look of entreaty, he added, “What else would you have me do? Keep you on indefinitely as a most attractive houseguest?”
He wished he had not said that, just as he would have regretted anything else said to cause the rise and fall, the delectable swell of lily white flesh above the low, lace-lined cut of her bodice. It was a direct assault upon his senses, upon his ability to utter words of reason. For indeed, his words were reasonable. What else could he do but send for her father to fetch her?
“Is that all?” She swallowed and bit her lip. There was a dangerous gleam in her eye. “Do you mean to tell me that … before … you were simply taking advantage of an attractive… governess? If there was nothing else …?”
She could not finish and he immediately felt put in the wrong. “I am not that kind of man,” he muttered. “I told you before.”
“Then if there were some … feeling behind your past words and actions, how can you dismiss me so coldly? Why are you unable to acknowledge-”
No, this was too dangerous. He cut her off, running the back of his hand across his eyes to ease the pressure pounding in his head. “We are getting nowhere, madam.” He took several decisive steps to his desk. Pulling out his chair, he turned with a look of cool enquiry, as if daring her to detain him further. “Thank you for your services. If you have any further requests, I suggest you direct them to Mrs Hawthorne. Good day.”
* * *
From the casement Sarah watched the crested carriage roll up the driveway and halt before the front steps. She felt a surge of guilt, fear and, yes, above all, joy at seeing her father’s mane of grizzled white hair as he removed his top hat for a moment to give his scalp a good scratch, frowning up at the house as he did so.
Then she saw the hunted look in his tawny eyes replaced by echoing joy as he recognized her through the glass window.
Within moments he was indoors, thrusting his outerwear at Lavery, while Sarah was running down the curved staircase, throwing herself into his arms at the bottom.
Unashamedly, they both wept. Then Lord Miles raised his head and caught sight of Roland over Sarah’s shoulder.
For an instant he froze. Sarah, still gripped in a fierce bear hug, felt the strange cocktail of emotions replaced by one dominant feeling: fear. What would her father do now?
He appeared to falter. For one ghastly moment she thought he was about to break down and would have to be led to a chair and revived.
That, she decided a moment later, would have been preferable to his finding solace in anger, his habitual refuge. It would be over in an instant, but she cringed as he directed his obviously confused emotions upon Roland.
“How dare you contain my daughter, a vulnerable unmarried female, under your roof for nearly two months while I am left with the unspeakable devastation of believing her dead?” he thundered.
Shaking his fist, Lord Miles took a threatening step towards Roland. Sarah wondered if Roland, too, would defend himself using his most comfortable defence: irony. She was surprised when he advanced towards Lord Miles, hand outstretched, a tight half smile upon his face. Surprised, and touched, that when her father refused to grasp it, Roland placed it instead, in a most conciliatory manner, upon the old man’s shoulder.
“Lord Miles, may I offer you some refreshment — brandy — perhaps, after your tiring journey?” he suggested. Already he was motioning to Lavery to expedite this request.
“Do you think I would accept refreshment from my enemy?” thundered Lord Miles.
Sarah held her breath and watched as Roland gently propelled Lord Miles through the hallway. Her father moved slowly, like an old man. Remorse cut through her like a knife.
“Our opposing political views and previous history,” said Roland, carefully, “do not necessarily make us enemies.”
“An enemy milks his advantage. For the past two months you have detained the one treasure I hold dearer to my heart than any other.”
He stumbled as he turned to look at Sarah, who was bringing up the rear. How feeble he appeared, she thought with horror. Surely he had not lost his mind? Dear Lord, she prayed, do not let her be the cause of that.
“My lord,” said Roland, taking a seat opposite Lord Miles once they’d gained the library, “make what charges you will once you have spoken to your daughter. She’s been recovering after a terrible ordeal at sea and, I fear, has not known, herself, who she really is. Had the truth been apparent, your Lordship would have been informed upon the instant.”
Sarah wished Roland had given her the benefit of such a plausible pretext.
The brandy revived Lord Miles. He sat up straighter and fixed a pair of small but intense eyes on Sarah. How well she remembered that look, terrifying beneath his beetling white brows. He’d often used it to great effect, quelling her when her opinion ran counter to his.
But now there was no firm conviction to defend. Only his grief and pain to assuage.
Seated opposite her father, Sarah clasped her hands in her lap and hung her head. “Forgive me, father,” she murmured. “I accept all blame. I’ve
taken advantage of Mr Hawthorne and his family who have looked after me so kindly, ignorant of the truth. And I have given you more pain than any father ought to bear.”
“Why, Sarah?” Lord Miles’s confusion was pitiful.
Mr Hawthorne rose. “I shall leave you for a few minutes.”
Sarah nearly wept at the regret on his face as he looked at her en route to the door. She wanted to leap up and throw her arms around his neck, delivering a different and far more passionate apology for her behaviour than the one she was making her father.
So this was it. She would not be granted a reprieve.
He was nearly at the door when Mrs Hawthorne’s raised voice issued from down the corridor.
“Roland!” she cried, sweeping into the room and wringing her hands. Without acknowledging her guest, she added, breathlessly, “Caro’s gone! It’s true, I found this upon your bed!” She waved a piece of parchment, its seal broken.
He took it, scanning it quickly. “This letter is for me.”
“The door to your chamber was open, Roland, and when I saw it I thought …” Her voice trailed off as she looked with unmistakable loathing at Sarah.
So, thought Sarah, she would have had no compunction in intercepting and keeping secret from Roland any communication Sarah might have attempted.
“You must act quickly, Roland! Oh, my dear Lord, what will we do?” Crumpling onto the nearest chair in a heap of lavender stripes she began to wail.
Dry-throated, Sarah asked, “Does she say where?”
Not looking at her, Mr Hawthorne carefully refolded the paper. “She has gone to London,” he said in clipped tones, “with Mr Hollingsworth.”
Sarah gasped. “Does she say why?”
Mr Hawthorne ran a hand across his brow, while Mrs Hawthorne shrieked as she rose to her feet, “She has learnt the truth, Roland. I don’t know how she could have discovered-”
“There is no proof to be discovered!” snapped Roland. “There has always been servant’s gossip. It’s not a plausible reason.”
Sarah caught her breath and wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her before that Caro’s parentage would inevitably be called into question given Venetia’s faithlessness.
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