“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 the 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.