Silence.
Clearly, they were lost for words. She had obviously excelled at her
self-appointed task of transforming Caro into a vision of loveliness.
Only as the silence lengthened did she feel the first stirrings of doubt.
She raised her head to glance, first to her left, where Caro was cringing with
unconcealed embarrassment, not daring to look at anyone, then to the head of
the table where Mr Hawthorne sat.
Her heart missed a beat, then uncertainty turned to
anger.
What
father would look at his daughter with such undisguised recrimination? As if it
were a crime for a woman to try and improve herself.
But it was Mrs Hawthorne, clutching her scrawny throat, who
shrieked, “Have you been using complexion enhancers, Caro?”
The direct accusation stirred Caro to retaliation. Her cheeks took
on a feverish hue. “Do you mean like Mother?” she ground out. “Yes, I found
them once in her dressing table drawer and decided to use them tonight.” She
took an unsteady breath. “I did not realize Mother was considered
such
a harlot!”
Shocked silence greeted her outburst.
Caro gave a choking sob as she added, “Forgive me, Father, for
daring
to remind you of her.”
Sarah bit her lip, watching Caro confront her aunt and father. Both
looked increasingly concerned as Caro, now in full swing, went on, “Poor
Mother, it’s a good thing she’s not alive to see what a hideous creature she
brought into the world. But then, how much easier it will be to eschew the
vices and wickedness which brought her down. I recall you saying something
along these lines, once, Aunt Cecily.”
Mrs Hawthorne turned puce. “Really, Caro, I don’t recall
ever—”
But it was Sarah who finally took charge, saying brightly —
despite having to quell her own trembling — “I read in the news sheet
that the Prince Regent’s banquet for more than a hundred guests at Carlton
House is the talk of the town.”
Hopefully that would deflect attention from Caro who appeared on the
verge of a breakdown. Caro’s fears and insecurities must have been feeding on
gossip for years. Sympathy washed over Sarah. Outrage, too.
She took a spoonful of lobster soup. “Delicious,” she pronounced.
When there was no response she glanced up again. Why was everyone
staring at her as if she had somehow scandalized them as much as Caro had? Caro
was glancing at her nervously. Mrs Hawthorne, even more puce now, was looking
as if she’d like to turn Sarah into a lobster and then into soup. And Mr
Hawthorne was regarding her as if she had already turned into, if not a lobster,
then certainly something very much resembling a spiky, hideous crustacean. At
least Cosmo was gazing at her with undisguised admiration. That was some
solace.
Sarah raised her chin. “Sir, do you not believe Caro’s appearance
tonight vastly improved? It will increase her confidence and, in turn, her
chances.”
A succession of emotions seemed to flit across her employer’s face.
His slate grey eyes, seemingly darker, settled disapprovingly on her bare arms
before he fixed her with a cold level stare. “Clearly, Miss Morecroft, you had
eyes only for the description of the Gothic Chapel in which the Royal Entourage
dined; of the fifty-six haunches of venison, ninety-three brace of pheasant and
two dozen turtles that were devoured. You were unmoved, it would appear, by the
news sheet’s report on what I suspect you’d consider a fairly minor occurrence
at St Peter’s Fields in Manchester.”
Sarah stared at him.
“An orderly meeting of fifty thousand people wished for an audience
to hear their grievances. Like the high cost of bread. The average labourer
breaks his back so his landlord can dine on
Le
jambon à la Broche
and truffles, yet his wage cannot support his family.”
His expression became thunderous. “Then the cavalry moved in. Eleven people
were killed, and more than four hundred injured. Should we countenance such
things in civilized society? Are you teaching my daughter respect for worthy
values, or filling her head with frivolous nonsense?”
Sarah was lost for words. She had heard her father rant and rave on
such topics. Only he came from the opposing side.
Carefully, Mr Hawthorne pushed together his knife and fork. “Miss
Morecroft—” his glittering eyes lanced her with scorn - “I would like to
see you in my study after dinner.”
Sarah’s prepared speech, she believed, incorporated a fine balance
of contrition with just a dusting of flirtation. Yes, she took her role as
governess seriously but while she sympathized with the families of the dead
there was a place for frivolity. She was quite happy to agree that if she knew
what the cost of bread was, it was undoubtedly too high.
By the time she had finished Mr Hawthorne would be begging her
pardon for having maligned and misjudged her.
But reflecting on the scorn and anger in his turbulent grey eyes
unsettled her in a way that was entirely alien.
What was he to do about the girl?
Roland paced before the fire which warmed his study. His sanctuary.
The only room in the house where he was safe from Cecily and the silly,
chattering acquaintances she liked to entertain.
Yet he did not feel at peace.
He drew back the curtains and stared out into the starlit night. As
cold and black as his soul.
The girl was not at all what he had been led to believe.
But what was worse than her apparent preoccupation with life’s
worldly pleasures was her resemblance to her father. To his old schoolboy
companion and foster brother, Godby Morecroft. Oh, not in features but
certainly in character.
The way her eyes glittered with challenge in that beautiful face of
hers when she was gainsaid. The mutinous set of her rosebud mouth when she was
waiting to put across her opposing point of view. Why, it was Godby all over
again.
He did not turn immediately as he heard her enter. He knew only too
well the look she would level at him. He could almost hear Godby’s voice:
smooth, cajoling with a hint of humour intended to ameliorate his anger.
He would not allow her the chance to speak first in order to defend
herself. Somehow Godby had always managed to make him feel a killjoy Puritan
when he had as much desire to enjoy life as anyone. Just not as thoughtlessly
as Godby.
“My daughter is not to have her head turned by foolish fancies.” He
came directly to the point, waving Miss Morecroft to a chair while he returned
to stand in front of the fire.
If she would just bow her head and show a little contrition it would
be a good start, Roland thought.
Don’t be
like Godby who could never admit he was wrong.
“Foolish fancies?” Her smile was guileless. She was confident, no
doubt, that she was incapable of doing wrong. Just like her father.
His heart hardened.
How different from when she had landed on his doorstep, penniless,
orphaned. Nearly a victim of the high seas. At the time it had seemed she’d not
even good looks to recommend her.
But then some extraordinary metamorphosis had occurred. Within the
space of a few days Miss Morecroft had been transformed; like a water rat she
had emerged, sleek and jaunty and ripe for anything.
“Sir, your daughter is in little danger of having her head turned.
All she thinks about is improving her mind.”
Her gaze was steady, her bearing composed — very different
from the way he felt. He tried to retain his dignity as she stared at him from
the depths of her leather armchair.
“Caro,” he managed to say, evenly, “is not a beauty and you will
only make her look a fool by trying to turn her into one.”
“With respect, sir, the sad truth is that a woman’s face is, more
often than not, her fortune.”
Until now — well, recently — Roland had not appreciated
what a fine face Miss Morecroft possessed. Her eyes were amazing, glowing
bright with life and humour; her cheek bones were well defined, her chin
slightly pointed so that her face appeared heart-shaped when combined with the
effect of her coiffure: a fashionable ‘V’ parting with cascades of shining
ringlets tumbling from the band which secured them at the top of her head. And
her dress. He frowned. Cecily’s gown, he remembered it, now. A drab, russet
confection once adorned with too many frills and furbelows. What a
transformation. This girl had obviously worked wonders with her needle and
thread. She would have got on famously with Venetia.
Venetia … and Godby.
His heart turned to stone. However persuasive Miss Morecroft’s
argument, his armour was back in place.
Oh dear
, thought Sarah, this man really was a Puritan. The moment she even
mentioned ‘worldly pleasures’ he seemed to tense. And the way he spoke of his
daughter made her blood boil! But she went on blithely, “I have always believed
confidence and wit among one’s greatest assets. If Caro is to be presented next
year she’ll be competing with a great many beautiful and accomplished young
ladies.”
Now why was he looking at her like that? Sarah wondered indignantly.
Had she dropped sauce upon her dress?
Instantly she saw him colour and his eyes return to her face where
they were now fixed, grimly. She stifled the impulse to smile. Oh ho, so the
master did appreciate a pretty face and figure. Only right now he was doing his
best to fight it.
The observation gave her confidence.
Yes, Sarah had learned a thing or two about men since storming her
way out of the schoolroom as a precocious fifteen-year-old to play hostess at
her father’s parliamentary dinners after her mother had died.
Mr Hawthorne, however, was unlike any of the men her father
entertained. Dangerous radicals like Roland Hawthorne did not receive
invitations from Lord Miles.
Yet he hardly looked the threat to law and order, as her father
would have maintained. Larchfield, with its exquisite grounds and works or art
was a testament to refinement.
Mr Hawthorne, himself, was a fine specimen of civilized manhood, far
more to her taste than the pleasure-seeking rakes and popinjays her father
entertained and who regularly made up to her. Well, as much as she would allow
them. She quickly tired of their vanity and pomposity, although she’d pretended
to encourage it. It was, after all, what was expected.
She flashed him another smile and was surprised and gratified by his
brief awkwardness.
Clearly, there was more to her employer than met the eye. How
intriguing. If this was a man who could smoulder with passion for a heartless
beauty seven years ago, thought Sarah, she would be more than interested to
find out what excited his passions now that he had apparently adopted a more
sober outlook on life.
She bowed her head. “I accept your censure, sir. I will not turn
Caro’s head with foolish nonsense. And I shall read the news sheets, for I must
admit, I had in fact been reading some gossip column whose talk of the Carlton
House Set I had thought might divert the girls—” she stopped, adding
ingeniously as she interpreted his glowering look — “with examples of
deplorable behaviour to be condemned.”
Mr Hawthorne seemed to struggle for words.
“Miss Morecroft,” he said finally, “you are here to instruct the
girls in simple arithmetic, spelling, French and drawing. Not to provide moral
guidance. That,” he added, crisply, “is something you can leave to me.”
He nodded in dismissal.
Sarah hesitated, about to cast one of those seductive lures which
came naturally and which had successfully hooked many an admirer in the past.
No. Coquetry was not going to win over Mr. Hawthorne despite
experience showing her men liked their women beautiful and vacuous. She paused,
turning, her hand on the door knob. He nodded stiffly, his eyes nevertheless
lingering upon her.
Her heart gave an unexpected little skip. She couldn’t remember when
she had last felt such anticipation.
“SHE’S A
MEAN old cat and I’m not going down.”
“Yes you are.” Sarah bared her teeth in what she’d intended to be a
saccharine smile. “Now, shoulders back and get rid of that scowl.” She took
Caro’s arm and propelled her to the nursery door. “Whoever conjugates the ‘to
be’ verb first can have my portion of suet pudding,” Sarah said to the younger
girls. “Just think, Caro,” she added, as they descended the stairs in answer to
Lady Charlotte’s summons, “in six months you’ll be dining on caviar and
champagne instead of suet and roly poly pudding.”
The notion failed to rally Caro. Glumly, she said, “It’s Papa’s idea
I be presented.”
“Surely you want to reflect well upon him?” With a sigh that wasn’t
devoid of affection, Sarah tucked an errant curl behind Caro’s ear as they
reached the drawing room door.
Lady Charlotte was a fascinating creature whose like Sarah had not
met. With an acerbic wit and political leanings in sympathy with Mr
Hawthorne’s, her view of the world was a revelation. No sooner had Sarah and
Caro seated themselves than they were regaled with a scathing oratory on the
heavy-handed tactics used to quell the Peterloo Massacre, as Lady Charlotte
referred to it. Sarah suspected her father would have advocated that the
cavalry move in to break up the ‘rabble-rousing crowd’, muskets blazing.