The Governess Club: Sara (7 page)

“Enough,” Claire finally broke in firmly, giving Jacob and Louisa hard looks. “We will discuss this after classes have been finished for the day.”

A tentative knock on the door caught all of their attention. Sara looked up to see Mr. Pomeroy standing uncertainly, his hat in his hands, his eyes glancing from person to person.

“Mr. Pomeroy,” Claire greeted as they all curtseyed, Jacob moving over to shake his hand. “We weren’t expecting you today. What brings you to Ridgestone?”

“I apologize for arriving uninvited, Mrs. Knightly,” the vicar said.

“Goodness, think nothing of it,” she assured him. “Please sit. Have you eaten lunch?”

“Ah, no, thank you, no,” he said, taking a spot at the table. “I’m afraid this isn’t quite a social call.”

Sara swallowed the rest of the ants. “Is something amiss?” she asked, concerned.

Mr. Pomeroy turned his warm chocolate brown eyes to her and Sara’s heart did a little stutter. Not as noticeable as it had been in the past, but it was still there. “Not to worry,” he said. “Nothing has happened to me or to anyone in the parish. However,” he continued, turning back to Claire and Jacob, “I have received word that the elderly vicar in Ramsey Gate has fallen ill. The bishop has requested I travel there to tend his parish while he recovers.”

Sara’s heart slowed down, dismay filling her chest. “Ramsey Gate?” she echoed quietly. “But it is so far away.” He could be gone for over a sennight, considering the distance to be covered; it was at least a full day’s ride at full gallop. Not to mention the time it might take for the elderly vicar to recuperate.

Louisa shot her a disapproving look but refrained from commenting. Mr. Pomeroy addressed her statement. “Yes, and is a sizeable parish compared to Taft. This is why the bishop feels the village can spare me; he perceives there is a greater need for stability and guidance in the larger community.”

Jacob’s brows rose and he offered a smile. “That is quite a vote of confidence. This could mean great things for your career.”

“Yes,” Mr. Pomeroy acknowledged with a grimace. “It is unfortunate that it may be at the expense of another, but that cannot be helped. I have asked Mr. Dodsworth to take over the services until I return.”

Mr. Dodsworth? The ancient curate?
Sara hoped dismay didn’t show on her face. The old man rambled and stared at the young ladies’ bosoms during his sermons. Her appetite was quickly disappearing.

“Well, I am sure he can manage in your absence,” Louisa joined in the conversation.

“Yes,” Mr. Pomeroy replied with slight hesitation. “But I do have my concerns. He is quite elderly.”

“If we can assist in any way, we will,” Claire assured him.

“I have no doubt.” Mr. Pomeroy’s gaze shifted back to Sara. “And that is why I am here. Miss Collins, I was hoping you would continue to do the flower arrangements.”

She offered a weak smile, hoping it hid her disappointment at his news. “Of course.”

“And if you don’t mind, could you continue making the parish visits?”

Louisa inhaled sharply through her nose and spoke again. “That is asking a bit much, don’t you think?” Her brow lowered and looked at him with what could only be interpreted as a glare.

Sara inwardly sighed. She did not understand why Louisa was so belligerent in regard to the vicar. Why was she so insistent in providing her unsolicited protection from the man? Sara loved Louisa dearly, but her stubbornness could be wearying.

Mr. Pomeroy blinked. “I do realize that I am placing a burden on Miss Collins. However, she has been accompanying me since my arrival some months ago and is familiar with the needs of the different families. In addition, Mr. Dodsworth is too advanced in his age to be expected to fulfill such a duty.”

“Would that not be an indication that the man should retire from the position?” Louisa argued. “Or at the very least have a young apprentice who can?”

“Louisa,” Jacob interrupted, “I do not believe Mr. Pomeroy came here to discuss Mr. Dodsworth’s suitability.”

“I don’t think Mr. Pomeroy understands what he is asking of Sara,” Louisa replied.

“I am happy to do it,” Sara said, but her soft voice was lost among the louder ones.

Louisa continued. “He is asking her to enter the homes of sick and desperate people, unescorted. That is not safe, nor is it appropriate for him to expect such a thing from her.”

“I did not expect her to do so unescorted,” Mr. Pomeroy protested, although it was a weak one. Sara blinked at him, surprised. Had it truly not crossed his mind?

He continued to speak. “I am certain Mr. Dodsworth would—”

Mr. Dodsworth!
There was no opportunity for Sara to protest as Louisa jumped in with the same sentiment.

“I will escort her,” Jacob said firmly, halting any disparaging comment Louisa might have offered. Claire looked at him surprised. “I can spare one afternoon a week to take Sara on the visits. Besides, this can help in improving the reputation of the school.”

Claire smiled and looked at the others. “This is all well and good, but hasn’t anyone noticed that Sara has yet to consent?”

All eyes turned to her and Sara felt her face warm. “Of course I am happy to do it,” she said, repeating the words that everyone had overlooked earlier.

“Then it’s all arranged,” Jacob declared, meeting Louisa’s glare with a displeased one of his own. “Is there anything else we can do, Mr. Pomeroy?”

“Ah, no, I believe that is all,” the young man said, his certainty clearly shaken. He rose and his eyes lingered on Sara for a moment longer than necessary. “If you will excuse me, I do still have preparations to make before leaving in the morning.”

All rose and Jacob gestured to the door. “I will walk you out.” The men left the room.

Sara lowered herself back to her seat. Mr. Pomeroy was leaving. For how long, she did not know. It could even shift into a permanent position and he would be gone from her life forever. An ugly feeling filled her stomach.

“Don’t do this, Sara.” Louisa’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Don’t be morose. You owe him nothing.”

“Louisa,” Claire said, exasperated. “Why must you be like this? Now come, the pupils will be returning shortly. We must return to work.”

Sara listened to the movement of their skirts as her friends left the room. Louisa would never understand.

S
ara knocked on the door of Jacob’s private study and waited for his response. When it came, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Jacob looked up from his conversation with the estate steward. “Yes, Sara?”

She recoiled slightly at the hint of frustration in his voice. It was so unexpected and unlike him that the ants tickled her throat. “I—um—it is Wednesday afternoon, my lord,” she squeaked.

His brow lowered. “Yes?”

The ants increased their agitation in her throat. Sara bobbed her mouth open and shut, but no sound came out. Seeing this, Jacob’s face registered recognition. He let out a muffled curse and stood to approach her. Mr. Clarke, the steward, discreetly turned his attention to the papers in front of him.

Jacob stood close to her. “We are supposed to do the parish visits today, correct?” His tone was gentler.

Sara nodded, her throat easing.

He lowered his voice. “I apologize for speaking to you in such a way. Clarke has not brought good news and I allowed my frustration to get the better of me. I assure you, it was not meant to be directed at you.”

Sara cleared her throat, displacing the last of the ants. “I hope I did not interrupt.”

Jacob grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. “I wish I could say you did not. I am afraid I will not be able to escort you as planned. I need to work with Clarke to resolve this situation. Could we possibly postpone until tomorrow?”

Sara shook her head. “Louisa asked that I relieve her from her afternoon classes tomorrow instead of yesterday, as per our regular schedule. On Friday I do the same for Claire, so both afternoons are spoken for.

“Saturday?”

Another shake of her head. “Saturday is when the Ladies Auxiliary for the Betterment of Widows, Orphans and Other Unfortunates has their weekly meeting. Claire and I plan to attend, as we wish to help with the coming May charity fair, and afterwards I will do the flower arrangements for the church. Also, it will be too late, as there are families depending on the baskets and other essentials we will bring today.”

Jacob grimaced again. “I apologize, Sara, but with this development, I cannot spare the time.”

Sara nodded. “I understand. I am certain George will be willing to escort me. He is always keen to help me with the flower arrangements.”

His brows lowered. “George, the groom?” Disapproval laced his tone.

Sara looked at him, censure in her eyes. “George is from a home like those we will visit, Jacob,” she said quietly. “I highly doubt he will be judged.”

A throat cleared and Jacob turned his head to look at Mr. Clarke. “Pardon me, sir, but we must not delay.”

Jacob sighed and looked back at Sara. “Very well. But I will speak to George before you leave.”

She shook her head. “Thank you for your concern, but that is not necessary. He escorts me every Saturday and is more than capable of doing this.”

Jacob gave her a long, silent look before sighing again. “Simply promise me that you will not do anything you wouldn’t do with Mr. Pomeroy there. Nothing to risk your safety.”

Sara smiled, touched by his concern. “A few souls in need of charity and loving kindness are hardly a risk. I shall be fine with George. What can happen in Taft?”

. . .
a
lthough we lost this vote, your help in campaigning against it was noted by the high and mighty bigwigs. I was astounded to hear of your sudden departure from London—without a word to me, I might add. Rumors abound at Westminster as to the reasons and I find myself at a loss to explain it away; why you would ever want to leave is beyond me. At the very least invite me out to your idyllic retreat—I can ask a few of our favorites from the theatre to accompany me and we’ll give their performances a standing ovation, pun intended.

Bloody hell, mate, where the devil are you? Sending your post through your man is bad form.

Stevenson.

Nathan stared at the words again; despite their current blurriness, he knew exactly what it said, for it was at least the tenth time he had read it. He reached for the decanter and poured the last drops of the brandy into his tumbler, wondering why he was even still bothering with the glass; the spirit no longer burned when it passed his gullet.

They had lost the vote.

It hadn’t been a hugely significant bill, just some amendment to a current law, adjusting it in favor of landowners. In truth, he had not given it much thought beyond voting the party line and would not have given it more notice beyond that if had not been for Lord Finchley.

Nathan crumpled the well-read letter and threw it toward the hearth, missing it altogether in a show of pathetic athleticism. Pulling himself out of the deep, overstuffed chair, he stumbled over to the library’s liquor cabinet and pulled out another bottle of brandy. Clasping it by the neck, he went back to his chair, walking into the sofa and side table as he did so.

He slumped into his chair, holding the bottle to his chest. He had been having a rather pleasant day before that blasted letter arrived. Sawyer had managed to not burn his eggs and toast this morning. Nathan had followed that with a walk into Taft, intending to fetch his post and lunch again at the pub; he had even taken the path through that forest maze and not gotten lost. The only thing that could have improved his morning was running into his Nymph again.

But the letter had arrived. And he skipped lunch to return to Windent Hall immediately, the folded paper burning his pocket the entire way.

They had lost the vote and Stevenson’s words brought back the very memory he was trying to forget.

Finchley’s visit had been expected; the man was known for persuading votes out of men, much as Nathan had been. The portly, middle-aged man came to Nathan’s home, which was unusual but not unheard of, a woman on his arm. His wife. They had spoken of the vote, traded the expected subtle and not-so-subtle barbs and discussed the price of Nathan’s political loyalty.

Nathan pulled the cork out of the bottle and drank from it, desperate to wash away the memory. Bribes were common enough in the halls of Westminster; he had paid them himself. Money, a horse, a house—men always had a price.

But when Nathan had refused any bribe, Finchley had indicated his young wife, pushing her forward toward him. A sennight he wouldn’t ever forget, the man promised, nights where he would experience the most exquisite ecstasy. All he had to do was deliver his vote and those of others. The wife had looked at him with dead eyes, giving him the impression that she was used to being a bargaining chip.

At Finchley’s prodding, his wife began to undress to better display her wares and the revulsion nearly overwhelmed Nathan. In a harsh voice, he removed the two from his house and threatened them with prostitution charges. His next hours were spent in half-drunken loathing at what his life had become, at the ease that he felt in such a corrupt profession, where loyalties were traded for such prices. And how for one revolting moment he had considered Finchley’s offer.

It was then he made the decision to leave London and had it all arranged within days. Windent Hall had seemed a perfect place for his newly acquired misanthropy.

More brandy flowed down his throat, the memory of Finchley and his wife shifting until a young, brown-eyed vicar stood in his place, introducing him to a luscious red-headed nymph who was willing to help out wherever needed. The similarities had shaken Nathan to the core and he had lashed out. In hindsight, he knew he had overreacted, but at the time he had only the desire to rid himself of them. Even worse, she continued to tempt him, appearing in his thoughts and dreams.

Yelling a foul curse at the discarded letter, he drank more.