“If you can’t even tell it to an egg, small wonder the man himself
reduces you to a quivering jelly. You’re hardly going to get your own way if
you lose your nerve every time he looks at you. So go on, face your egg sternly
and tell it what you really think. Come now, Caro. Say: “I despise the way
you…”
Caro hesitated. Then taking a deep breath she hissed, “I hate
knowing you’re ashamed of me, that you’re so concerned at the impression I make
upon people who in your opinion matter but who I don’t ever want to see again.
I hate the way you ignore me, think I’m ugly and stupid-”
“Right! Well, I’d be surprised if your egg hadn’t got the message-” Sarah
cut in. Caro’s voice had risen alarmingly. “Perhaps now is a good time to cut
off its head.”
“So I cut off your head! Like this! So I don’t ever suffer the
agonies of your ill opinion again!”
Seizing the bread knife, Caro sliced it through the air, wielding it
with as much enthusiasm as any London executioner.
In shocked silence they all watched as the egg shot out of its
cradle and hurtled through the air towards the door, levelling off at chest
height … at the precise moment the door opened.
And as nursery dinner made contact with the immaculately clad torso
of the handsome gentleman Sarah had made eyes at earlier that day, Caro cried
out in anguish, “Father!”
SILENTLY,
THE OBJECT of Sarah’s earlier admiration - no longer so immaculately attired -
stared at the mess of yolk that now adorned his striped waistcoat.
“Such dreadful timing, sir!” muttered Sarah, seizing a napkin and
dabbing at the sticky yellow patch. Conscious of the hard muscle beneath the
two thin layers of clothing, and the fact that her enthusiasm in righting the
damage was compounding the awkwardness, she stopped.
He removed the napkin from her grasp. “Miss Morecroft, I presume?”
Studying her through cool grey eyes, the gentleman tossed the linen upon the
table.
Sarah was stunned into silence. No man had ever spoken to her like
this. Like some erring minion. She could feel her cheeks burning. “My apologies
for the egg upon your waistcoat, sir, but it is decidedly me who has it upon
her face, since I put Caro up to it.”
To her dismay the joke fell flat. Obviously the gentleman had no
sense of humour. None of the sensual merriment she was accustomed to in her
usual dealings with the opposite sex shone from his handsome, ascetic face. And
indeed, it was a particularly fine face.
“Surely playing cricket with eggs falls within the domain of
high-spirited young scamps, not gently nurtured young ladies?” He continued to
frown at her, almost as if he couldn’t make her out. “I hope your curriculum,
Miss Morecroft, takes account of the station in life to which these young
ladies aspire.”
Sarah hung her head. “Yes… Mr Hawthorne.”
“I came to welcome you into the household that was once your
father’s home.” Again, no smile to soften the effect of his earlier rebuke. “I
was sorry to hear of your misfortunes, Miss Morecroft.”
“Thank you.” She could not raise her voice above a whisper. Guilt
stabbed at her once again. She was wicked. She would get her come-uppance,
though at least she need not fear exposure from this quarter. The real Sarah
Morecroft had been a child when her father had taken the family to India.
“And, while I appreciate your honesty in acknowledging your
influence behind my daughter’s uncharacteristically hoydenish behaviour, I
suppose I should be glad your recent traumatic experiences have not sapped you
of all spirit.”
Sarah’s gratification at what she’d interpreted as reluctant
admiration was short-lived. There was not a jot of appreciation in his look as
he scrutinized her. How dare he sweep his eyes over her with such scant regard,
as if she were simply the - well, the mousy governess?
Glancing at a clearly mortified Caro, she felt a surge of anger
replace her guilt. Yes, her own father might shout and try to cow her, but he
peppered his fiery words with reluctant praise for her beauty, wit and
intellect, damning her at the same time for not having been born a son.
Mr Hawthorne’s tone still carried a warning as he put his hand on
the door knob to leave. “Caro will have her come-out next year. Your father
presented a very persuasive case for my employing you, Miss Morecroft. I trust
you’ll not disappoint his memory.”
“Sir— ” Desperate to detain him so as not to be abandoned to
the girls in such a humiliating manner, Sarah strove for a disarming
combination of entreaty and contrition. “I realize what a great debt I owe you
for the opportunity to prove myself as tutor to your children, especially Caro
whom I consider has great potential—”
“—For improvement, yes,” Mr Hawthorne cut in. “Now, if you’ll
excuse me, my dinner guests are waiting. I merely put my head in to welcome you
to Larchfield. I, too, have every confidence Caro will make a shining debut in
another six months-” he levelled a meaningful look at Sarah – “provided
her new governess can impart the many accomplishments with which I was assured
she was endowed.”
The door closed. Three seconds of shocked silence was broken by
Caro’s plaintive wail, “He despises me!” as she plunged out of the room.
Harriet and Augusta exchanged looks, the latter remarking, dryly,
“Uncle Roland wasn’t very nice, was he?”
Nice? Sarah was furious. What callous brute would dismiss his
daughter in such a manner? But diplomacy was her ally in desperate
circumstances and she managed a dismissive, “Your uncle is probably not feeling
quite himself,” before she went in search of the distressed Caro.
Sarah’s indignation had assumed monumental proportions by the time
she finally retired to her poky little bedchamber, after trying to soothe Caro.
She’d made some headway, but of course, what gains could she make when they’d
barely met?
Mr Hawthorne was a monster. A cold, emotionless brute, completely
derelict in the discharge of his paternal responsibilities. The way he’d
treated the new governess was little better.
She tore out the pins securing her unflattering topknot with a
serious of vicious tugs in line with her righteous anger, then shook out her
hair. Mr Hawthorne would change his tune when she was done. In three weeks, as
he acknowledged Caro and the miracles his new governess had wrought, he’d be
begging her to stay.
Then her anger drained away. Covering her face with her hands, she
slumped over the dressing table. It was a terrible thing to impersonate a young
woman who’d died. And she was being justly punished.
The candle guttered, sending lonely shadows dancing upon the walls.
Everything was hideous, alien. No elegant Argand lamp by which to read the
classics or a thrilling romantic novel. No witty conversation, Madeira or
tempting delicacy to round off the evening.
Yet this was the way governesses lived and it was her choice to have
joined their ranks. Though, frowning, she thought that surely her own series of
governesses had been pampered and spoiled. Then she recalled that they had had
rooms just like this one and she’d not given a thought as to whether they might
wish for surroundings less austere.
No point thinking about what could not be changed, she decided, as
she returned to the trunk. There was no maid to tidy up after her and she
needed to find a home for the last of the garments littering the floor. Perhaps
that impertinent nursery maid had a brood of brothers and sisters and would be
glad of them, she thought. She’d rather go naked in a blizzard than suffer the
feel of such coarse, ugly material against her skin.
As Sarah pushed the threadbare garments to the bottom of the trunk
her hand came into contact with a hard object. A book, by the feel of it.
Intrigue quickly turned to scepticism. No point in pulling it out if Sarah
Morecroft’s taste in reading matter was as deplorable as her style.
But of course curiosity got the better of her and, taking a seat on
the bed once more she flipped to the flyleaf and studied the neat, heavily
looped writing. Miss Morecroft’s diary.
“So how do you find everything?” Once again, there was Ellen’s inquisitive
little nose poking around the door after the most cursory of knocks. Without
waiting for a reply she bustled across the room and settled herself upon the
spindly chair beneath the window. Clearly she expected all sorts of confidences
Sarah had no intention of sharing, though Sarah conceded in the next moment she
might at least learn something of this strange household and her odd employers.
Straightening up to sit on the bed and tucking the diary she now couldn’t wait
to read under her pillow she asked, “When I met Mrs Hawthorne I assumed she was
married to the master.”
Ellen giggled. “Lord, no! He thinks her the silliest thing under the
sun, not but what he’s always ever so civil.” She grinned, clearly delighted to
find herself custodian of knowledge Sarah would want, and need, to know.
Tucking a strand of lank brown hair back into her starched white cap, she went
on, “Mrs Hawthorne married Mr Hawthorne’s older brother, Mr Hector, only he
died seven years ago just afore Augusta was born.”
“What happened to Mr Hawthorne’s wife?”
A cunning look crossed the nursery maid’s face. “Died in the same
accident as Mr Hector. Mrs Hawthorne’s kept house for the master ever since.”
Sarah, still discomforted by her meeting with her employer, was
intrigued. “So Caro is Mr Hawthorne’s only daughter. He seems very hard on
her.”
“That’s because Caro’s mother was a trollop!” Clearly, Ellen enjoyed
a bit of gossip. “She were running off with dashing Mr Hector when the carriage
went off the bridge and they both was drowned. Not that it were the first
gentleman she ran off with what wasn’t her husband. Anyway, the poor master’s
terrified Caro might have inherited her mother’s loose morals. She didn’t
inherit her beauty, that’s for sure.”
Good Lord, poor Mr Hawthorne. Sarah frowned, calculating as she
surmised, “He must have married very young.”
“Just come into his majority.” Hugging herself, Ellen leaned
forward. “You ready to hear a tale of dastardly doings?”
Sarah decided not to dignify this with an answer, although she
managed an expression that was mildly interested. Fortunately, it did not take
much encouragement to set loose the nursery maid’s tongue.
“When Caro’s mother — Lady Venetia as she was called then
— met Mr Hector he were affianced to Mrs Hawthorne. As you can imagine,
the mistress were as much a beauty then as she is now.” She sniggered. “But she
came with a great fortune whereas Lady Venetia was penniless. But so beautiful!
You can see her portrait in the gallery.”
She sighed, then added matter-of-factly, “Only good thing to say
about ’er, really. Anyway, she begged Mr Hector to choose her, instead. Oh, he
was tempted, but the money talked louder and he and Mrs Hawthorne were
married.” Ellen made a moue, parodying the late Lady Venetia’s apparent
disappointment before continuing, “So poor, spurned Lady Venetia turned her
attentions to Mr. Hawthorne, the master, as is, now.” Her eyes darted to the
door and she lowered her voice. “Word was that Lady Venetia’s reputation was
ruined with all her carryings-on. And that young Mr Hawthorne’s honour —
which was a great deal stronger than his brother’s — was prevailed upon.
Anyway, the poor man was smitten so it didn’t matter what she’d done, and
besides, he had money enough. A rich inheritance from a doting aunt. So he
married her … to his eternal regret for there never was a less loving or
grateful wife.”
Sarah hoped she did not appear as intrigued as she was. What a
delicious scandal. It was hard to imagine the austere man who’d presented
himself just now in the nursery smouldering with passion for a heartless
beauty.
“What was she like?”
“She were the vainest creature what ever lived. She ate men for
breakfast - leastaways, she did until she met ’er match in the villainous Sir
Richard Byrd, only that’s another whole story.” She sighed, as if hankering
after this bygone era. “I could tell you a thing or two about Lady Venetia and
this household that would make yer hair stand on end. It were a lot livelier
then!”
The magnificent oil painting of the late Lady Venetia, commissioned
by Mr Hawthorne as a wedding present, hung near the mullioned windows at the
end of the parquet-floored gallery.
Poor Caro, thought Sarah, as she stared up at the proud, fiery eyes
that gazed out beneath disdainfully arched brows. Although her eldest charge
possessed her mother’s fine dark eyes and coal black hair all similarities
ended there. The slight upturn of the late mistress’s full and sensuous mouth
hinted at some private satisfaction while her sumptuous gown and rich jewels
indicated a love of finery.
She wondered if Caro’s refusal to make any attempt at improving her
appearance was simply rebelliousness. Well, she’d soon set the girl straight.
She also wondered if the swell of Lady Venetia’s creamy white
breasts above her daringly cut evening gown still had the power to move the
master when he stopped to admire the likeness of his late wife.
Sarah glanced down at her own awful gown. Last night she had
borrowed needle and thread in order to launch a serious attack upon her
wardrobe. Instead of dropping hemlines she’d worked hard to increase the
deleterious effects of shrinkage and staining. Surely Mrs Hawthorne would
remember her offer of cast-off clothes.