Lady Sarah's Redemption (2 page)

She’d have to,
wouldn’t she? she told herself as she sank to her knees and struggled with the
corroded buckles. She might not have actively chosen this course, but she had
endorsed it with her silence, thinking at the time it solved all her troubles.
Just a couple of weeks was all she needed and then her darling papa would
welcome her home like the prodigal daughter. Never again would he ride
roughshod over her happiness.

Though her hands
were still tender from their long immersion in icy sea water, making the chore
more painful than difficult, she forced herself to count her blessings. Her
maid was dead and poor Sarah Morecroft, the governess whose place she’d taken,
was at the bottom of the North Sea.

The clattering
of hooves on the cobblestones outside was a welcome diversion. Throwing open
the casement Sarah looked down into the stable yard, wondering what other
diversions Larchfield offered.

The horseman
who’d just arrived raised his head at the sound and doffed his hat with a cursory
glance at Sarah, before dismounting.

Sarah retreated
a little.

From this
distance, he appeared to be in his late thirties. Mrs Hawthorne’s husband? At a
pinch their ages might make it possible, but surely not even a vast fortune
could entice a man as elegant as this one to throw in his lot with Sarah’s
demanding employer.

His expression
was serious, distracted, as he threw the reins to a stable boy and strode
towards the kitchen steps.

Thick dark hair
swept back from a high forehead and framed a pair of well-chiselled cheek
bones. His manner was decisive. She noticed the way the servants bowed and
scraped. The head groom tugged his forelock and the kitchen maid, scurrying
across the cobbles with an apron overflowing with vegetables, curtsied and dimpled
at his brief greeting.

Sarah strained
forward to observe him better before he disappeared. This was no country
bumpkin. Highly polished top boots reached the knees of a pair of buckskins
that covered shapely, muscled legs. The immaculately cut coat of navy superfine
that stretched across his broad shoulders was surely Savile Row.

Unlike Master
Cosmo, there was nothing of the fop about him, although his attention to detail
was apparent in his attire. A nonpareil, decided Sarah with satisfaction. And a
particularly dashing one.

Dashing, just
like James – Captain James Fleming.

She sighed. No
point reflecting on the past. And she mustn’t hold dear James entirely
accountable for her predicament despite his volte-face regarding a marriage
between them.

Sarah listened to the
ring
of his boots upon the stairs, two floors below as she crossed to the tarnished
looking glass. A critical perusal of her reflection hardly bolstered her
spirits. However, she reassured herself, with her chestnut tresses shining and
her normally flawless complexion glowing, the lowly governess Sarah Morecroft
would soon receive the same admiration to which she, the feted beauty, Lady
Sarah Miles, was accustomed.

Feeling almost
reconciled to her new life at the thought she returned to her unpacking, only
to gasp with horror as she pulled out the first garment that came to hand.

Dropping the
drab, high-necked grey merino gown, she put her hands to her flaming cheeks.
How could she possibly hold up her head in public wearing such a repulsive
object? It would be more mortifying than anything she’d ever done in her entire
life.

Swallowing
convulsively, she reassured herself this must be the worst of the garments Miss
Morecroft had packed. She’d probably tossed it into her trunk at the last minute.

But as Sarah
began laying out the gowns, petticoats, chemises and other items in an orderly
pile, her dismay grew. By the time she’d pulled loose a beige fustian gown
adorned with two rows of badly sewn flounces that might just pass muster for
eating nursery tea she was close to tears. What was she to wear for family
dinner in the formal dining room? Regardless of what Mrs Hawthorne said there
was no way Sarah was going to subsist on a diet of endless bread and butter,
disgusting lumpy suet puddings and — she swallowed — no Madeira for
more than a week.

What, then,
could she deck herself out in? She had no money. Her reticule had gone down
with the boat. She fingered the gold cross at her throat. She’d have to pawn
that, she supposed.

A cursory rap on
the door heralded the entrance of a young personage who bustled into the centre
of the room as if she owned it. Judging by her starched cap and apron, Sarah
assumed she must be the nursery maid.

“Miss, you’re
not even dressed!” The stout, ruddy-faced creature, who looked as if she was in
the habit of gobbling up all the nursery leftovers, scowled, hands on hips.
“And there’s the little girls waiting for their tea!”

“They’re hardly
going to starve if I’m five minutes late.” Enraged at the maid’s impertinence,
Sarah pretended to examine the beige dress. Tossing it over the iron bedstead,
she sank back onto the threadbare grey blanket and covered her face with her
hands. “I declare, the sea water’s ruined my entire wardrobe. Isn’t that a
greater calamity than keeping a couple of children waiting for nursery tea?”

“Yes, Miss.”
Sarah’s lofty tone appeared to have put the girl in her place. She shifted
position, scuffing the oilskin floor covering with her toe as Sarah dragged
herself into a sitting position. “Right sorry we all were to hear of the
accident, miss. First losing your family to fever in India and then nearly
going yerself, afore yer time. Beg pardon, too, for me lack of manners only the
mistress gets on her high ropes when it comes to punctuality. I’m Ellen, by the
way. And Mrs Hawthorne’ll be bound to forgive you considerin’ yer terrible
ordeal, Miss.”

“That’s
encouraging,” replied Sarah, getting wearily to her feet, her irony clearly
lost on Ellen. “I shall be down shortly.”

Struggling into the
beige dress was an effort and the response she received from Mrs Hawthorne, who
was waiting for her in the nursery, made no secret of the other’s
disparagement. But when Sarah cunningly and plaintively said, “Oh, ma’am, two
days floating in the ocean has done my wardrobe no favours,” a look of guilt
immediately crossed her mistress’s face.

“Of course not,
my dear. I daresay there are a few of my things I no longer wear that can be
altered. They may not be in the first stare, but that hardly signifies in your
situation.”

No doubt they’d
be simply hideous, thought Sarah, but at least they’d be of finer quality than
Miss Morecroft’s coarse cottons and serviceable woollens.

The nursery was
as Spartan as she had feared, the expressions of her charges hardly compensation.
Not one to be daunted by a trio of little girls, Sarah swept past them to the
window.

“First lesson, girls! There’s a difference between staring, and
paying attention,” she said, softening her stern tone with a smile as she
turned. Despite the appalling deprivations she’d have to endure, there were
compensations, she decided, her optimistic nature rising above the gloom. It
could even be fun: the erudition of three sponge-like little girls. It gave her
a sense of power she was unused to at home, despite her privileges.

“Yes, miss.” Their blank looks were replaced with curiosity. Even
Caro did not look quite so hostile.

“And while we’re waiting for the sumptuous fare about to be laid
before us, you can tell me what you’d like me to teach you. I’ve no doubt I’ll
be the best governess you’ve ever had.” She warmed to her task. She loved to
learn. Now she’d find out if she were as gifted in imparting her knowledge.
“I’m an authority on all the graces, with a special passion for the classics
and, believe it or not, Caro, the sciences.”

 
Harriet looked down at
her exercise book where she’d drawn a stern-faced insect wearing a monocle and
lisped, “I want to learn about worms, and Mama says Caro’s going to need a lot
of help if she’s to catch a husband.”

“Worms? We’ll make a worm farm, then.” Sarah spoke above Caro’s
protests. “As for Caro-” Her tone was thoughtful. Caro glowered and mumbled
something incoherent as she stared down at her empty place setting.

“Enunciate, Caro.” Sarah spoke crisply. “All I caught was the word
ridiculous, and I do concur, it’s a ridiculous notion you’ll never catch a
husband. Certainly you’re no beauty but that’s sure to change. I was at my most
unprepossessing at sixteen, and I remember girls far worse off who turned into
veritable swans and waltzed off with nabobs and dukes.”

“You didn’t hear, Miss Morecroft,” Harriet piped up as nursery tea
— predictably, egg and toast — was served. “Caro doesn’t want a
husband, but nobody ever listens.”

“Not want a husband?” Sarah frowned as she took her seat at the
table.

“Finding a husband is not life’s most noble pursuit,” mumbled Caro.

“Noble? There’s nothing noble about securing a husband but unless
one intends to be a nun it’s a young woman’s most important enterprise. A girl
must use all her wits and wiles to ensure she is as well-placed as possible.”

“Caro wants to be a blue-stocking,” said Augusta.

“Will you be of independent means some day?”

“What?” Caro was clearly affronted.

“Unless you are,” said Sarah patiently, “an indulgent husband who
will grant you the latitude to pursue your intellectual leanings is a far more
desirable proposition to playing unpaid servant to those in the household who
feel they have a legitimate claim upon your time.”

“You’re not married,” Harriet pointed out, “and you’re much older
than Caro.”

Caro sounded triumphant. “So if there aren’t
enough of the good ones to go around—”

“There are,” Sarah interrupted. “In fact, during my first Season out
I found the perfect husband after turning down half a dozen manageable
suitors.”

“But you didn’t marry him, did you?” Despite herself Caro looked
interested.

“He died on the Peninsula two weeks before our wedding day.” Sarah
toyed with her food. She was dismayed to have experienced only the slightest
pang recounting this distant chapter in her life. Not so long ago she’d
believed she’d never get over it. Could she really have lost her heart?
Certainly, she’d lost it to Captain Danvers, seven years ago. But was she now
so old she was immune to the heady sensations that accompanied being in love?

When the girls pressed her she was tight-lipped. For one thing, she
was not sure what the Hawthornes knew of Miss Morecroft’s history. For another,
she hadn’t the heart to pursue the topic. Her first love had ended in tragedy,
her second in disappointment. James, her distant cousin whom she loved like a
brother, had betrayed her by supporting her father’s cork-brained quest to
marry the two of them off to each other, simply because James was next to
inherit Lord Miles’s title and estate.

“Not another word on the subject!” Sarah rapped upon the table for
silence. “Life contains many disappointments.”

“You must be very brave, Miss Morecroft.” Admiration shone from
Augusta’s serious dark eyes. “You’re not scared of spiders, are you? You
wouldn’t even be scared of Master.”

“Your dog?” asked Sarah, and Caro giggled.

“My father,” she said. “Everyone’s scared of him.”

“Goodness.” Sarah frowned. “Nobody should be scared of their father.
Why, mine’s the world’s most terrible ogre but I’m not scared of him. Or
rather, I wasn’t,” she amended, hastily.

“You defied him?” whispered Caro, round-eyed as she fidgeted with
her lilac sash, her food untouched before her.

Lilac
! Shuddered Sarah. Only the most unfeeling guardian would dress a
girl of Caro’s colouring in such a shade. Transferring her attention to the
girl’s intense expression, Sarah said, “Not outright. That would have been to
no purpose.”

“Then how did you manage such a thing?” Caro strained forward as if
the question were of the greatest importance.

Sarah chose her words, carefully. Caro might not be such a lost
cause, after all. “You have to work out how a person thinks.” She smiled.
“Learn cunning, while all the time appearing ever so meek and obedient. They
think they’re getting their way when, really, you’re getting yours. Or, at
least, you’re not completely giving into them. Take these eggs, for example,”
she added, gaining inspiration from the soft-boiled eggs that were growing cold
in front of them. “Pass the charcoal, please, Harriet.”

Perplexed, the girls watched as Sarah drew a face on her egg. She
pushed it towards Caro, together with the charcoal.

“Now draw the face of whoever frightens you most in the world.”

With great deliberation Caro pencilled in sideburns, a head of wavy
hair, adding a smart cravat before touching up Sarah’s attempts at a face.

“You’re quite an artist.” Sarah’s tone was admiring. “Obviously this
is a man of consequence. Now, face him squarely and tell him what you feel.
Then chop off his head!”

The girls looked at Sarah, horrified.

“I couldn’t possibly,” gasped Caro.