Lady Sarah's Redemption (12 page)

“PAPA, YOU
SHOULD see the ballroom.” Caro was barely able to contain her excitement. Sarah
knew she could claim some of the credit for the girl’s recent transformation, but
not all. Love was in the air.

Caro’s eyes shone. “Bows and flowers everywhere. People will talk
about my birthday for months to come.”

She smiled at her father in happy expectation. The house had been a
hive of activity and the air was thick with the anticipation of tomorrow
night’s ball.

Sarah watched Mr Hawthorne finish the carp on his plate.
 
If this couldn’t wipe the scowl from her
employer’s face, she thought, nothing could. He’d not addressed a single word
to his daughter or sister-in-law the entire meal. That he’d said nothing to
Sarah hardly signified. Two afternoons ago, though, before he’d rushed off to
London … She tried not to think about it. If Mrs Hawthorne hadn’t trumpeted her
orders to the housemaid right outside the study door, who knew what might have
happened.

With careful precision Mr Hawthorne put together his knife and fork
and directed a reproving look at his daughter. “Just remember you are of the
privileged minority, Caro. Few people in this country, much less the world, are
as fortunate.” His voice was chilly.

Indignation on Caro’s behalf replaced Sarah’s romantic ruminations
on what might have been. She bit her tongue to prevent herself from voicing a
tart reminder that Caro was the last young lady who put her own pleasure above the
needs and suffering of others.

Only the click of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece broke the
tense silence.
 

“Tonight we dine in luxury while a large majority of Englishmen and
their families will barely fill their stomachs. Tonight a dozen wives are
weeping for husbands condemned to death for challenging a society which denies
them a fair wage for an honest day’s work.” Mr Hawthorne glared at Caro,
impervious to her quivering lip.

Sarah couldn’t help herself. “I do not think Caro’s enthusiasm is a
reflection of her indifference towards those less fortunate than herself.”

Mrs Hawthorne snapped her head around and looked at Sarah as if she
had suggested they open their doors to the starving masses, and serve them,
personally. “I do not believe, Miss Morecroft,” she said in clipped tones,
“that your opinion was solicited.”

This had the opposite effect of dampening Sarah’s defence. “I
deplore injustice as strongly as you,” she bit back. “Caro said nothing to
warrant her father’s criticism. It was unjust to accuse her of selfishness when
she is naturally excited about her ball tomorrow night.”

“Injustice!” Mrs. Hawthorne cried. “You accuse my brother-in-law of
injustice when I can think of no other man who has expended more time and
energy fighting for the rights of the working man. With an agitated hand she
repositioned her vermilion toque which was favouring one ear, and nearly
dislodged the squirrel’s tail hair piece. For once, Sarah was in no danger of
succumbing to unwise giggles. Caro had started to cry. Though no tears came
Sarah could see the trembling of her thin, white muslin-clad shoulders. She
turned to Mr Hawthorne. Surely he knew he was in the wrong?

He was staring at the silver epergne centre piece, clearly resolved
to have no part of the argument. Anger seared through her.

“How dare you answer back to your betters!” cried Mrs Hawthorne.
“Leave the table at once, Miss Morecroft.”

With a cold, hard stare at her employers, Sarah rose. “I am sorry if
the truth offends you,” she said with quiet dignity. Passing close to the back
of Mr Hawthorne’s chair as she made her regal exit she hoped he could feel her
anger.

He had been vastly unjust. Surely he must realize it.

Then she heard his voice, music to her ears, despite its arctic
tone. “Wait for me in my study, Miss Morecroft. I will see you there when I’ve
finished my dinner.”

Five minutes waiting for him had fanned the flames of Sarah’s fury
to a blaze. Swinging round from the fireplace, she seized the initiative.

“I’ve not had time to pack my bags, sir. No doubt Mrs Hawthorne has
instructed I be dismissed on the spot.”

Wearily he waved her to a chair. “Be seated, Miss Morecroft.” He
took her place in front of the fireplace. Standing a little to one side so he
didn’t block the heat, he removed a gold enamelled snuff box from his coat
pocket and toyed with the lid. Finally his eyes travelled from the apparently
fascinating object to meet hers.

The hunted look in their intense depths shocked her. He ran a
distracted hand through his dark hair and said, “Contrary to what happened at
dinner, Mrs Hawthorne does not override my authority. The irony is that my
reaction to the terrible injustice meted out to the men charged in relation to
the Peterloo uprising blinded me to the injustices perpetrated at my own dinner
table. I apologise.”

She was caught off-guard by the plea for forgiveness in his smile.
Then she realised his apology was meant as a dismissal.

She would not be that easy to be rid of. She smiled back. “You fight
your battle on many fronts, Mr Hawthorne.” They were not the words of a
governess, but then, theirs was not a conventional relationship. She eased
herself from the depths of the armchair and moved towards him.

He stood his ground. The wary look in his eyes amused and angered
her. He had every right not to trust her.

She stopped inches from him, forcing him to lower his head to look
at her. “I admire a man who holds to principle with such passion.” Her voice
was low. “My father was more interested in passion than principle, it would seem.
I’ve heard whispers that connect him with your late wife and I can only say how
sorry I am for the damage caused.”

She had to stop herself from reaching up to caress the vein that
throbbed at his temple. Anticipation crackled between them but he made no move
to touch her.

 
Unsteadily, she went on,
“I apologise if my frankness offends, but as my days are numbered I want the
satisfaction of giving voice to my feelings.”

He said, tightly, “I have already assured you, Miss Morecroft, your
position is safe.” He deposited the snuff box on the mantelpiece and clasped
his hands behind him. “At Larchfield the principles of fairness I hold dear are
enshrined. Last night, Lord Miles’s calls for bloodletting drowned out my
entreaties for reason but at least I am master of my own home. I repeat, your
position is safe.”

He would have gone on. Perhaps he did. Sarah had no recollection of
what happened next. She could only register deep, stultifying shock.

“Miles? Lord Miles?” The words forced their way through her constricted
throat. She covered her face with her hands.

Lord Miles, her own father. She couldn’t bear it. Blinking, she
dropped her hands to stare at her employer. Then, unable to bear her agitation,
she took a few steps towards the window, gripping the heavy gold curtain as she
turned. Anguish for her darling father swamped her, replaced by the realisation
her position was hopeless. Her feelings for Mr Hawthorne had just been
consigned to a dusty grave. She really was the daughter of his nemesis, only
this time, it was no lie.

“Yes, Lord Miles.” Mr Hawthorne ground out, staring into the flames.
“Crusader for the status quo. God knows how he can harden his heart to such
suffering.” He became silent, his frown deepening. “But grief changes a man.”
He turned slightly, but did not meet her eye. There was hesitancy in his voice
as he went on, “It can open his heart to compassion, or harden his heart
through fear.”

Helplessly, Sarah watched him. She was losing him. With every word,
their distance increased.

“The fear of being hurt, twice, Miss Morecroft, will drain the
courage of most men. Slice away at our legs and our arms, but don’t tamper with
our susceptible hearts.”

She searched vainly for an appropriate response. But what could she
say? ‘I am not the daughter of the foster brother who betrayed you? I’m the
daughter of your sworn political enemy.’ The silence lengthened and she lost
her opportunity. He turned and when he addressed her directly the passionate
undertone had left his voice. “Lord Miles, pity the man, is deranged with grief
at the loss of his daughter but he hardens his heart when it comes to the loss
of others.”

Sarah closed her eyes as she continued to grip the curtain with both
hands. She was in orbit, her world was spinning. Mr Hawthorne’s words taunted
her. Shame, remorse and fear at her deception swamped her. The curtain, worn
with age, tore and she stumbled forwards. Unable to focus through her tears,
she started blindly towards a chair. Had he realized? Was disgust about to
replace his earlier grudging admiration?

“Miss Morecroft!”

Before the ground met her, strong arms swept her into the air and
against his chest. She squeezed shut her eyes, drinking in the heat from his
strong, hard body, breathing in his comforting, familiar smell. Exhaling on a
sigh of disappointment as he lay her on the leather sofa, her senses snapped
back to life as he knelt, his face inches from hers.

“You are ill. Shall I send for a doctor?”

She reached for his hand, unable to open her eyes. Or unwilling? His
anxiety would only be further reproach.

With a small shake of her head she whispered, “It’s nothing. I shall
be myself in a moment.”

Unconvinced, he raised her head with gentle hands to push a cushion
beneath.

“So weak and foolish of me.” She turned away and covered her face
with her hands. Tears threatened and her voice wavered. “I’ve never succumbed
to the vapours, yet your talk of injustice fuelled my fears for my precarious
situation.”

It was true enough. No artifice required here. Without a shadow of a
doubt she’d be punished for a situation entirely of her making. She had no one
to blame but herself. Once the truth were known her father would hate her … and
Mr Hawthorne would hate her even more. It was enough to reduce the strongest of
women to heart-wrenching sobs.

Sarah could not hold them at bay. Here was Mr Hawthorne at her side,
on his knees in fact, yet her life lay in tatters. Her selfishness had resulted
in this terrible situation of her own making. He’d never forgive her.

“Please, don’t cry.”

The depth of feeling in his whispered entreaty sounded a breath of
hope. This was her moment. She must tell him now. But as his arms encircled her
and she was pulled against his chest and set across his lap, and she knew he
was about to kiss her, her resolve melted. This was the clearest and most
passionate declaration she’d had yet of his feelings. She had not the courage
to test them to such an extent.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. He cupped her cheek and with his thumb,
gently traced her lower lip. “I’ve unfairly attributed to you Godby’s disregard
for the feelings for others.”

Sarah closed her eyes against the heartbreaking concern in his eyes.
In a moment the tables would be turned. She’d be the one uttering the apology
and she felt sick with apprehension. She chose her moment before he could kiss
her again, knowing she’d never have the strength to utter her confession
afterwards. “I’m not Godby’s daughter.” She took a quavering breath, tensing
for his response, but he misunderstood. Brushing an escaped tendril of hair
from her brow he said, hoarsely, “No, Godby has no part in all this. You are a
woman, whom I must judge in your own right.”

His breath tickled her ear and sent shivers down her spine. She
cried even louder, and fearing he was holding her for the last time, sobbed
into his neck, “I don’t ever want to leave you.” He’d certainly set her away
after that admission.

He did not. In the heartbeat and a half it took him to digest the
enormity of her confession, she felt him stiffen. She opened her eyes and stared
into the depths of his tortured soul before their hearts collided. With one
hand supporting her head, the other cupping her cheek, his mouth claimed hers.

It was a kiss that demanded surrender.

And she surrendered everything, except the truth, for she knew now
that would be the death knell of all the hopes and dreams that were at last
being satisfied here, on the Chesterfield in his library.

She met him at every level. The initial urgency of his hunger became
the rapture of discovery as he trailed kisses along her jawline, her throat,
her collar bone and she responded, leaving him in no doubt as to the intensity
of her feelings.

“Father!”

They heard Caro’s cry in the passage before she threw open the door
and burst into the room leaving them just enough time to rise to their feet.

“Father, you can’t let Miss Morecroft go!” Breathless, Caro gripped
his coat sleeve. “Aunt Cecily says she won’t tolerate any more impertinence,
but Miss Morecroft was only defending me. She is the most wonderful governess
I’ve ever had - and I love her!”

Mr Hawthorne cleared his throat. Above his daughter’s dark head he
gazed into Sarah’s face, as if he were seeing it for the first time. She saw
the softening in the depths of his intense dark grey eyes.