“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.”
“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 you 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.
“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.