“My mother was the most beautiful woman in Dorset,” came a cool
voice beside her, and Sarah turned to see Caro at her left shoulder staring
dispassionately at the portrait. “Hard to believe when you look at me.”
Sarah hesitated, sensitive to her adolescent charge’s vulnerability.
Though she’d always been confident of her own beauty, she still remembered the
uncertainties of her adolescent friends and cousins. “There’s little
resemblance but your eyes are finer.”
Caro arched her brows. “False flattery, Miss Morecroft.”
“What would you say if I told you I was considered a great beauty
where I come from?” countered Sarah. Laughing, she added, “Your silence wounds
me. But what if I told you that clothes, the artful application of my favourite
Liquid Bloom of Roses and my hair styled
à
la Greque
, instead of this unflattering topknot, would make me the toast of
the town?”
At Caro’s sceptical look Sarah’s amusement grew. “Just wait, Miss
Hawthorne. When I’m done you’ll see that you can be both a beauty and a
bluestocking.”
Sure enough, Sarah’s ploy with a needle and thread worked upon Mrs
Hawthorne’s conscience, for several days later Sarah returned to her room to
find three day dresses and an evening gown upon her bed. Their flounces and
furbelows screamed their decrepitude (three seasons ago!) but Sarah was as
gifted with a needle in creating wonders as she was in wreaking havoc.
She was gratified by the admiration in young master Cosmo’s eyes as
he greeted her on the stair the following day.
“Oh, miss, you look lovely,” breathed Harriet when Sarah entered the
schoolroom; and although Caro said nothing, Sarah, who was watching her
closely, registered the surprised widening of her eyes.
“All it needs is the right bonnet,” Sarah announced, stooping for
the copy of
The Iliad
which lay upon
the table. “I thought you girls might like to go into town and help me choose
one.”
Harriet and Augusta regarded her as if she were mad while Caro
actually choked.
“Did your previous governess never take you on shopping
expeditions?” Sarah looked up from her task of selecting a passage from the
text. She had surprised herself at her desire to devise a curriculum for the
girls that was both instructive and entertaining.
“Oh miss, do we have to read that?” groaned Harriet.
Sarah snapped the book shut. “If society decrees that your social
success depends upon your being a beauty, my job is to ensure you are at least
a well-read one.”
“Governesses have not
the means to go shopping,” Caro pointed out virtuously, raising her head from
The Revd Huckerby’s Treatise Against Sin,
ignoring Sarah’s last remark. “And Papa would never countenance such
frivolity.”
“But he
has
countenanced a
visit to the circulating library. The carriage is being brought round as we
speak. Naturally we’ll need refreshment, also. And it would be foolish to walk
right by a milliner’s if one happened to get in our way - don’t you think?”
The younger girls were vociferous in their agreement. And although
Caro said nothing, at least she didn’t object when Sarah ushered her out of the
schoolroom and down the stairs.
For the first time since she’d survived the shipwreck, Sarah was
enjoying herself. The fresh spring air, the warmth of the sun on her face as
they sauntered through the prosperous little town, was balm to her soul. The
visit to the circulating library, however, was cursory as she chivvied Caro to
make her selection so they’d have time to do the important chores – such
as visit the milliners where Sarah had noticed a very pretty chip bonnet in the
window.
“You can’t possibly mean to buy that?” Caro gasped when she saw the
price.
“Indeed I do,” Sarah assured her. “Only I have one more errand.
Caro, here’s money for currant buns your aunt was generous enough to donate to
the occasion. Now I want you to look after your cousins and I’ll meet you here
in ten minutes. No, you can’t come with me.”
Shameless she might be, but little girls had a habit of innocently
revealing all, and Sarah’s visit to the pawnbroker’s was not something she
wanted Augusta happily divulging to her mother or uncle.
With no regret she handed over her necklace in return for a sum that
would keep herself in the luxuries necessary to make the following couple of
weeks tolerable.
The next visit was to the apothecary’s. Caro might disapprove of her
purchases: Royal Tincture of Peach Kernels, Olympian Dew and, of course, the
essential Liquid Bloom of Roses. Mr and Mrs Hawthorne
certainly
would.
With these items carefully concealed in brown paper, Sarah gave a
sigh of satisfaction and stepped out onto the pavement.
Right into the path of Mr Hawthorne.
“Good morning, sir,” she said, endeavouring to maintain her
composure and wishing heartily the three girls were in tow. She was upon the
point of calling them, pretending they’d disappeared round a corner, and then
excusing herself and supposedly dashing after them, when he remarked dryly,
“While I am glad you had delicacy enough to shield your charges from a
pawnbroker’s, might I ask what supervision they currently enjoy?”
“Caro is buying the girls currant buns—” Sarah tried to sound
as nonchalant as she could. “I considered ten minutes’ absence in the care of
their cousin, who, after all, might be married within the twelvemonth, safe
enough. And of course, as you yourself remarked, I couldn’t take them to a
pawnbroker’s.”
“Not a pawnbroker’s … no.” He waited, expectantly, the sun at his
back throwing his lean, athletic body into relief.
Sarah sighed. “Sir, my clothes have been ruined by salt water. As I
had a necklace I was able to pawn I did so in order to make those additions to
my wardrobe necessary to do honour to the family which employs me.”
Mr Hawthorne looked unimpressed. “Mrs Hawthorne, I believe,
generously donated four fine gowns and shawls of her own.”
“From three seasons ago,” objected Sarah before she could stop
herself.
His disapproval was palpable.
Quickly, Sarah continued, “Of course, she
was
very generous but—” she put out her hands, as if
exhorting him to concur- “there were the other necessary additions … like a new
bonnet, and slippers. And of course, gloves.”
Her defence was not having the desired effect. Mr Hawthorne was
positively glowering.
“Miss Morecroft, such frivolity is not countenanced in my household.
Your father assured me of your sober temperament. I paid your passage and
offered you a home upon the death of your late mother—”
“Oh, Sir!” Sarah caught her breath in what she considered a
heartrending manner. Running the back of her hand across her eyes, she darted a
surreptitious look from between her fingers. Yes, this was proving a most
effective way of quelling his diatribe. She could see his immediate self
recrimination was genuine. “You have been kindness itself!” She hiccupped,
unable to continue, for her tears were suddenly no longer feigned. She thought
of her darling Papa who must be mad with grief. Guilt bubbled up inside her.
Nor had she any right to deceive the decent, if somewhat grim, gentleman before
her.
But how to extricate herself?
Mr Hawthorne’s frown was now one of deep concern. Taking her by the
elbow he led her into a narrow alley, away from the curious looks of
passers-by.
Sarah stared at her feet, encased in their ugly, serviceable
second-hand boots, bit her lip and gave another hiccupping sob.
“Miss Morecroft, I apologize.”
Raising her head she was struck anew by his fine grey eyes regarding
her with … compassion? She was even more surprised when he put his hand on her
shoulder and said with genuine feeling, “My behaviour was unsympathetic and
ungentlemanly.”
Her heart gave an unexpected lurch. To cover her awkwardness she managed
a brave smile as she said briskly, “You had every right. Please, sir, if I
promise never to set foot in another pawnbroker’s, may I be forgiven and fetch
the girls? I must get them ready for nursery tea.”
His normally severe expression softened. The extraordinary
transformation only increased Sarah’s loss of composure.
“I hope you did not pawn something that was precious to you, Miss
Morecroft. I will gladly redeem it. That is, if you do in fact promise to approach
me before you consider setting foot in such a place again.”
“It was nothing precious, sir.” Though her heart was beating quickly
Sarah ventured a wicked grin. “Merely a trinket I happened upon during my brief
visit to the ocean floor.”
“The girl is quite unlike Godby’s description of her.” Roland
scowled at Mrs Hawthorne who was stitching an elaborate pastoral scene that
consumed most of her daily hours.
With speed and deftness she worked the needle and coloured threads.
Roland often wondered how she could spend so many hours by the fire — in
all weathers — when the garden beckoned, beyond.
She picked up a skein of gold and glanced at him. “I believe
excessive sea water in the system can unhinge the mind. Her manners are lax. I
did warn you, Roland, but hopefully time will reveal a more sober nature.”
Roland raked his fingers through his hair as he kicked a burning log
further into the fire. “I’m not about to turn her out.” He sighed. “I owe her
father too much. But when all’s said and done I must act in Caro’s best
interests. I cannot risk her being corrupted by a frivolous and hoydenish young
woman.”
His scowl deepened as he reflected on their encounter the previous
afternoon. Yes, the girl was quite unlike Godby’s description of her and Roland
was dangerously discomposed. Both by Miss Morecroft, and his response to her.
Mrs Hawthorne clicked her tongue before adding, “Indeed, Caro is in
the greatest moral danger … through no fault of her own.” She bent once more
over her work and shook her head to emphasize her point.
Not for the first time Roland looked dispassionately at the bobbing
ginger corkscrew curls which his brother had so cruelly derided before he’d
married Cecily for her money, and wished his sister-in-law could bring herself
to feel a little more kindness for his daughter.
“Caro is old enough to eat with us at table,” he said abruptly,
ignoring Cecily’s dire prediction. He didn’t want to risk her dredging up the
past, yet again. “With her governess. That way we might better observe Miss
Morecroft’s manners.” Picking up a small plaster bust of a cupid wearing a
seraphic smile, his frown became even more pained. “If she proves unsuitable we
will have to find her another post.”
“Sit at table with my aunt and father!” With a shriek, Caro leapt up
from the nursery table and threw herself against the window sill, her hands to
her face. “Oh, that’s worse than anything!”
Sarah’s smile faded. “But you’ll do them such credit.” She stepped
forward and put a reassuring hand on the girl’s unresponsive shoulder. “I’ll
teach you how to deport yourself with confidence. We’ll turn you into the toast
of the town.”
“I don’t want to be the toast of the town!” Caro sobbed. “I want to
be left alone to read my books.”
It took two days before Sarah finally persuaded Caro to submit to
her cache of beauty aids. Afterwards she cajoled Ellen into helping them both
with their hair using tongs, a jug of water laid before the fire, and sugar to
set the curls.
Sarah had again been busy with her needle and thread. The little
girls had been her willing assistants, happily parroting French conjugations as
they handed her the various coloured threads and other tools she needed.
Now it was the day of reckoning and she was ready. As the dinner
gong reverberated through the house Sarah allowed herself a moment of
self-congratulation. Then she hastened Caro to her own room to look in the
tarnished mirror which rested on the chest of drawers.
“A credit to your father, don’t you think?” Her eyes raked her young
protégé with pride.
Caro’s dull cheeks had been enlivened with a discreet touch of
Liquid Bloom of Roses. Her best dress, once a utilitarian and modest gown of
Pomona Green velvet, had been remodelled to resemble something in the first
stare.
Sarah’s heart leapt with anticipation. She could not wait to present
her handiwork and earn her employers’ admiration.
“Are you ready, Caro?” she asked, and was gratified by the spark of
wonder in the young girl’s eyes as she continued to stare at her reflection.
“I don’t look anything like myself,” she whispered, her tone
indicating this was a good thing.
“You look beautiful,” Sarah said, and meant it. “Just don’t spoil it
with poor posture. You need to make your entrance with pride and dignity.” She
gave the girl’s arm a quick squeeze. “Just you wait, your father will be
overcome!”
As Sarah had anticipated, amazed silence greeted their entrance. She
smiled demurely at her employers as she sank into her seat. Lowering her eyes
to her plate she waited for the praise.