The Wayward Governess

‘George,’ he murmured. ‘George Greystoke.’

‘Marcus?’ The doctor looked closer, taking in every detail of the pale face and resting on the scarred cheek. ‘Marcus Edenbridge. By the Lord Harry, it is you. But what in the name of—?’

He broke off as a hand closed over his in silent warning.

‘No, it’s Mark Eden at present.’

For a moment the blue eyes narrowed and then the doctor nodded. Then he took Eden’s hand in a warm grip.

‘Tell me later. Right now I must get that ball out of your shoulder or the wound will fester.’

Before either of them could say more the girl returned. With her was an older woman who seemed to resemble George. They set down the bowl of water and the cloths and then came to stand by the table. George glanced round.

‘Help me get his coat and shirt off, Ellen.’

They were gentle, but nevertheless Eden bit his lip against the pain. Once the task was accomplished George laid out his instruments and, selecting a probe, held it in the flame of a spirit lamp before dousing it in alcohol. He did the same with the forceps. Then he put a thick strip of leather between the patient’s jaws.

‘Bite down on this.’

Eden obeyed. A moment or two later the probe slid into the wound. Sweat started on his skin. Greystoke frowned in concentration and the silence stretched out. The probe went deeper. Eden’s jaw clenched. Then he heard the other speak.

‘Ah, here we are. Hand me the forceps, Ellen.’

Eden’s fists tightened as the pain intensified until it dominated every part of his being. Then the light in the room narrowed to a single point and winked out.

Claire watched Greystoke extract a wad of bloody cloth from the wound and drop it into a metal bowl. Then he returned for the ball. It dropped into the receptacle with a metallic clink. After that he swabbed the area liberally with alcohol before covering it with a thick pad of gauze and bandaging it securely in place.

‘Will he be all right?’

‘Time will tell,’ replied Greystoke. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood and is much weakened by it. There is also the chance of fever.’ Then, seeing Claire’s white face he gave her a gentle smile. ‘But he’s young and strong and with God’s grace and good nursing he may recover.’

Eden was riding down a dusty road. It was hot, very hot. He could feel the burning sun on his skin and the rhythm of the horse beneath him, could hear the hoof beats and the jingling harness of the mounted column behind. The air smelled of dry earth and dung, spice and horse sweat. Above him the sky was a hard metallic blue. Then he heard shouting and the clash of swords, he saw the mêlée in the road ahead and the litter, its curtains a vivid splash of colour in the midst of all. Women screamed. Then his sword was in his hand and the column swept like a tide onto the dacoit raiders and washed them away or drowned them quite. And then there was silence and the curtains of the litter parted and he saw her: Lakshmi. For a moment he was struck dumb, unable to tear his eyes away. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, a living dream and lovelier than a fairy-tale princess, though a princess in all truth. Unable to help himself he smiled and she smiled too, though shyly. And he spoke to her in her language and she to him in his and he offered her his protection for the remainder of her journey home. Four days and four nights. Nights of velvet starlit skies and air fragrant with jasmine and frangipani, warm nights of firelight and shadow, cushioned with silk, scented with sandalwood and patchouli; nights made for love. Four nights. That was all. He had prayed that the fourth one might last for ever, but the daylight came anyway and brought with it the end of their road. He could see her face and the sadness written there and then the yawning palace gateway that swallowed her up. He thought his heart would break.

‘Lakshmi!’

Later he lay on his hard bed in the sweltering heat of the barracks, too hot even for a sheet, hearing the whine of mosquitoes in the sultry air while the sweat trickled down his skin. When he shut his eyes he saw her face, the wonderful eyes filled with love and longing. Sometimes he dreamed she was there, bending over him, speaking softly and bathing his forehead with cool cloths. But he knew it was a dream because she was lost to him, given in marriage to the rajah of a neighbouring state, a man old enough to be her grandfather.

‘Lakshmi.’

And then his brother was there, shaking his head.

‘Why the devil didn’t you take her away while you had the chance, you fool?’

And he was right. Greville was always right. But the chance was gone now. Why had he not acted? He had broken his promise.

‘I’ll find a way, my love.’

He had believed it too, then. They could have found a place somewhere; they could have carved out a future together. What matter if others looked askance; what matter if there was a scandal? He was no stranger to it. But the thought of what it might mean for her had stayed him for the news would have swept like fire through the length and breadth of the Indian continent. News travelled fast there. And while he hesitated, she was lost.

‘Lakshmi!’

Claire wrung out the cloth in cool water and laid it on Eden’s forehead. His flesh so pale before was now flushed and hot to touch. Though his eyes were open they did not register her presence and when she spoke to him he did not hear her, but tossed in feverish dreams, speaking the names of people and places she had never heard of. Sometimes he spoke in a strange foreign language whose origin she could only guess at. Her own helplessness tormented her. What if he were to die? She owed him so much and yet knew so little about him. How had he come to be involved in that dreadful business on the moors? She had gleaned a little from the men who brought him to the house, but many questions remained unanswered.

From the beginning she had insisted on doing her share of the nursing care, taking turns with Ellen when the doctor was from home dealing with his other patients. It was the least she could do and precious little at that. It was shocking to see so strong a man laid low. Yet half a dozen others had been hurt in this affair and seven killed. Five were Harlston’s men, the rest were wreckers. Yet death made no such distinctions. It mattered little whose hand fired the shot. She shivered. She knew it was illogical, but the uneasy feeling persisted that she was somehow to blame.

Lifting the cloth from his brow again, she replaced it with a cooler one and rinsed out the first, using it to wipe the sweat from his face and neck and the hollow above the collarbone. For a brief moment her hand brushed the skin of his breast. Claire drew in a sharp breath. His flesh was fiery to the touch. Hastily she poured more cold water into the basin and rinsed the cloth again. Then she bathed his chest as far as the line of the bandage would permit, her gaze taking in each visible detail of the powerful torso. She had not thought a man’s body could be beautiful until now. Beautiful and disturbing, too, for it engendered other thoughts.

She had fled her uncle’s house to avoid being married to a lecherous old man, but what of being married to a younger one, a man like this? If her suitor had looked and behaved like Eden, would she have fled? Would the thought of sharing his bed repel her? Her own flesh grew warmer then for it took but a second to know the answer. Yet what mattered most was the freedom to choose. She had always thought that somewhere there existed the man for her, though she had no idea of the circumstances in which she might meet him. What had not occurred to her was the idea that someone else might wish to do the choosing for her. How could one find love through another’s eyes? Only the very deepest love would ever tempt her into matrimony, the kind of love her parents had shared. It was that or nothing and on this she knew there could be no compromise.

Shocked by the tenor of her thoughts she tried to dismiss them, but it proved impossible while that powerful physique was before her demanding consideration. Her eyes returned to his breast, her hand travelling thence to his good shoulder, moving with smooth and gentle strokes down his arm. Beneath the fineveined skin she could see every detail of the curved musculature beneath, the strong bone at elbow and wrist, the dark hair along his forearms, the sinews in his hands. She took his hand in hers and drew the damp cloth down his palm to the fingertips, then turned it over and repeated the process. His hands were big yet finely shaped with long tapering fingers; hands capable of knocking a man down, or supporting a woman in need. The recollection sent a frisson along her spine. Disturbed by the memory for all sorts of reasons she forced it to the back of her mind. Mark Eden was a stranger who had once come to her aid. She knew nothing more about him. Perhaps she never would.

The thought was abruptly broken off by a hand closing round hers. Claire’s gaze returned at once to her patient’s face. His eyes were open now and apparently directed at her, though they shone with a strange inner fire.

‘Mr Eden?’

He made no reply save to carry her hand to his lips. Feeling their hot imprint on her skin, she tried to extricate herself from his hold. It tightened instead and pulled her down towards the bed. She fell across him and suddenly his lips were on her neck and cheek, seeking her mouth. Claire turned her head aside, feeling the rasp of stubble and hot breath on her skin.

‘Mr Eden, please!’

The words had no effect. His lips sought her ear instead and found it, his tongue exploring its curves. The touch sent a shiver through her whole body, awakening new and unexpected sensations.

‘Lakshmi,’ he murmured. ‘Lakshmi, my love.’

Claire stiffened and pulled away, heart thumping, but Eden was no longer looking at her, his head tossing on the pillow, the grey eyes feverish and unfocussed. She realised then that he had not seen her at all, in all likelihood had no idea of her presence. In his disordered mind he was with a very different woman.

The knowledge hit her with force. It was a timely reminder of how little she knew of this man or the events that had shaped him. Detaching herself from his slackened hold, she walked a little way from the bed and took several deep breaths to try and recover her composure, her thoughts awhirl with what she had heard. It raised so many questions. Questions she knew she would never dare to ask nor had any right to. Looking at her patient now, she thought he was an enigma in every way. She would swear he was not from the labouring class whatever his dress proclaimed. His speech, his whole manner, precluded it. And yet the men in Gartside obviously knew him and he them. However, he was as unlike them as fine wine was from vinegar. On the other hand many ex-soldiers, even of the educated officer class, were forced to look for alternative employment now that hostilities with France had ceased. No doubt Eden too had had to adapt to the circumstances in which he had found himself. Those circumstances would remove him from her sphere soon enough. It was a disagreeable thought, for she could not forget how his touch had made her feel, if only for a moment. Yet it was no use to dwell on it; another woman had his heart. She could only pray that when he was recovered he would recall nothing of what had just passed.

Marcus had no idea how long he was unconscious, but the next time he came round it was still light and he was lying in a large comfortable bed between clean white sheets. For a moment his mind was blank. Then memory began to return. Turning his head, he saw a familiar figure at the bedside.

‘George?’

‘Welcome back.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Almost two weeks.’

‘Two weeks!’ He started up, only to feel a painful twinge in his shoulder.

‘Have a care. It’s mending, thanks to the efforts of my sister and Miss Davenport, but you’re not there yet.’

Marcus lowered himself onto the pillows again. His friend was right; the savage pain was gone to be replaced with a dull ache. Clean bandages covered his injured shoulder and breast.

‘Could you manage a little broth?’ George inquired.

‘Yes, I think I could.’

In fact, with his friend’s help he managed half a bowlful.

‘Excellent. Your appetite is returning. You’ll soon be up and about.’ The doctor replaced the dish on the side table and smiled.

For a moment neither man spoke. Then Marcus met his friend’s eye.

‘Thank you for all you’ve done, George. That’s two I owe you now.’

‘You owe me nothing.’

‘Not so. I only hope I can repay you one day.’

‘My hope is that the men responsible for the outrage are found and brought to justice.’

‘You’re not alone in that.’

‘You were lucky, Marcus. It was a bad business. Seven men dead and six others injured. Those are the ones I know about. The wreckers took their wounded with them.’

‘They had no choice. Arrest would mean a death sentence.’

‘Aye, desperate men will do anything it seems.’

‘Including murder.’ Marcus’s jaw tightened. ‘They knew we were coming, George, and they knew our route. They chose a perfect spot for the ambush.’

‘So it would seem.’ Seeing the other man’s quizzical gaze, Marcus smiled faintly. ‘You want to know how the devil I got mixed up in it, but are too polite to ask.’

His friend laughed. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You were never good at hiding your thoughts. But I do owe you an explanation.’

‘I admit to curiosity.’

‘When I returned from India two months ago I was summoned to Whitehall.’

‘Whitehall?’

‘Yes. The government is keen to break the Luddite rebellion. That’s why the rewards for information are so generous. Intelligence gathering is dangerous, though, so they knew whoever they chose would have to be experienced.’ He paused. ‘They sent one of their finest operatives up to Yorkshire, a man born and bred in the county who, suitably disguised, would blend in.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was betrayed and murdered. Shot in the back.’

‘Good Lord!’ George shook his head in disgust. ‘But betrayed by whom?’

‘That’s what I mean to find out. I amhis replacement.’

‘You?’

‘Who better? I’ve done this kind of work before, for the Company in India. It seems word of that got back to London.’

‘But you could have refused.’

‘They knew I wouldn’t, though.’

‘How so?’

‘Because the murdered man was my brother.’

Chapter Three

For a moment George stared at him dumbfounded before the implications of the words struck home.

‘Greville?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dear Lord, Marcus, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I read about his death in The Times, but the piece said he’d had a riding accident.’

‘The matter was hushed up and the story fabricated. The authorities didn’t want the truth made public. Greville was a government agent working under the alias of David Gifford.’

‘Ye gods.’ George sat down while he tried to marshal his scattered wits. ‘The news of his death made quite an impact in these parts, what with Netherclough Hall being virtually on the doorstep.’

‘I can imagine. It rocked London, too. Greville was well known in diplomatic circles. Besides which he left no male heir, only a young daughter.’

‘Then the title and the estate pass to you.’

‘Yes. Behold the new Viscount Destermere.’ Marcus accompanied the words with a humourless smile. ‘It is a role I never thought to have.’

‘But one you will perform well nevertheless.’

‘Thank you for that vote of confidence. I’ll do my best, though I never wanted to step into my brother’s shoes. He was always welcome to them, for it seemed to me that my destiny lay elsewhere.’

‘Circumstances have a habit of changing our plans, do they not?’ said George.

‘As you say.’

‘So what now?’

‘Officially I’m not back from India yet, but I shall have to put in an appearance soon.’

‘And what of your niece?’

‘Lucy is now my ward. At present she is being cared for by an elderly aunt in Essex. Hardly a suitable state of affairs. I shall bring the child to live here in Yorkshire. After all, Netherclough is her ancestral home.’

‘I see.’

‘After that I shall pursue my investigations.’ He paused. ‘The house is ideally situated for the purpose, being right in the heart of things.’

‘You can’t be serious. These men are dangerous, Marcus. They’ve murdered Greville and tried to kill you. I know they had no idea of your true identity but, even so, if they got wind of your real purpose here…’

‘Let’s hope they don’t. But come what may I shall find out who killed my brother. It is a matter of family honour that the culprit be brought to justice. That is the very least I can do for his daughter.’ He paused. ‘Besides, I owe it to his memory.’

George nodded reluctantly. ‘I can’t blame you for wanting to discover the truth, but have a care, I beg you.’

‘I’ll be careful. As soon as I’m able I shall leave for London and Mark Eden can disappear for a while. Give it out that he went back to his family to convalesce.’

‘Very well.’

‘How much have you told your sister and Miss Davenport?’

‘They don’t know your real identity. Apart from that I stuck as close to the truth as possible.’

‘Good. I regret the necessity for deception.’

‘So do I. Ellen and I are very close and I should not like to impose on Miss Davenport.’

‘When the time is right they will be informed. I owe them that much at least. In the meantime I take it I can rely on your discretion.’

‘Need you ask?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Marcus sighed. ‘That was unpardonably rude after all you’ve done.’

‘Just promise me you won’t leave until you’re strong enough.’

‘You have my word. Besides, at this moment the thought of a journey to London fills me with dread.’ He ran a hand over his chin. ‘In the meantime I need to bathe and shave. I’m beginning to feel like a pirate.’

Having spent over two weeks abed, Marcus was determined to get up and, as George provided no opposition to the idea, he did so the very next day. Though still weaker than he would have wished, the pain of the wound had almost gone and provided he made no sudden movement it felt almost normal. Somewhat reluctantly he submitted to wearing a sling for a few days, but felt it a small price to pay, all things considered. A message had been sent to his lodgings and his things were duly sent round. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Marcus smiled wryly. The best that could be said was that the clothes were clean and serviceable and they fitted. They were hardly in the first stare of fashion. Just for a moment he saw his brother’s face in the glass and it wore a pained expression. Almost he could hear his voice:

‘Good Lord! What ragbag did you get those out of, Bro?’

Marcus grinned. A ragbag indeed, by Greville’s standards anyway. His brother had always been both extravagant and elegant in his dress. They hadn’t met since Marcus had been packed off to India ten years before. Now they would never meet again, or not in this life anyway. His jaw tightened. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find the men responsible for that.

He finished dressing and made his way downstairs to the parlour. When he entered he discovered he was not the first there. A girl was sitting by the window, bent over the open sketchbook in her lap. For a moment he checked in surprise, sweeping her with a comprehensive gaze from the dusky curls to the toe of a small slipper peeping from beneath the hem of a primrose yellow morning gown. She looked familiar somehow. Then he remembered.

‘Ah, Miss Davenport. Good morning.’

The pencil hovered in mid-air as she looked up. Claire had been so absorbed in her task that she had not heard him come in. For a moment she was rooted to the spot and could only stare. She had forgotten just how imposing a presence he was. In addition to that she was only too aware of the scene that had taken place in the sickroom earlier. Did he remember any of it?

If he was discomposed by her scrutiny it was not evident. Indeed, the cool grey eyes met and held her gaze. His expression gave nothing away. Recollecting herself quickly, she returned the greeting.

‘Mr Eden, I am glad to see you so far recovered.’

‘If I am, it is in no small part due to you.’

‘I did very little, sir.’

‘George tells me you have been a most excellent nurse. An unusual role for a young lady.’

‘I…it was the least I could do.’

‘It is my profound regret that I have no recollection of it.’

Claire’s spirits rose in an instant. ‘I’m so glad.’ Then, seeing his eyebrow lift, ‘I mean, so glad that I was able to help—in some small way.’ Knowing herself to be on dangerous ground, and growing warm besides, she changed the subject. ‘Please, won’t you sit? You should avoid tiring yourself unduly.’

His lips curved in a satirical smile. Ordinarily he would have treated such advice as presumption and responded with a pithy set down, but on this occasion he said nothing. Having taken the suggestion, he watched her resume her seat. As she did so he let his gaze rest on her, quietly appraising. The sprigged muslin gown was a simple and elegant garment, but it revealed her figure to perfection. A most becoming figure, he noted. Moreover the primrose yellow colour suited her, enhancing her warm colouring and dark curls.

‘What are you drawing?’

‘It’s just a sketch that I wanted to finish.’

‘May I see it?’

‘If you like, but I wouldn’t want to excite your anticipation.’

She rose and handed him the book, watching as he leafed through it, wishing she were not so aware of his nearness, wishing she could divine the thoughts behind that impassive expression.

‘You are too modest, Miss Davenport. These landscapes are very fine. You have a real eye for line and form.’

‘You are kind, sir.’

‘I speak as I find.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Who taught you to draw?’

‘My mother, mostly. She was a talented artist. And Miss Greystoke taught me a great deal.’

‘Miss Greystoke?’

Claire was silent for a moment, conscious of having given away more than she had intended. Then she upbraided herself silently. It was a trivial detail and could make no possible difference.

‘Yes. She was once my governess.’

‘I see.’

Marcus was intrigued, for suddenly another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. However, he had not missed her earlier hesitation either. Why should she wish to hide the fact? Unwilling to antagonise her, but not wishing for the conversation to finish just yet, he continued to leaf casually through the book.

‘These are all local views, are they not?’

‘That’s right. The countryside hereabouts is an artist’s dream. It’s so wild and beautiful.’

‘And dangerous,’ he replied.

Claire’s cheeks grew hot as the recollections of their first encounter returned with force. It angered her that he should allude to it again for he must know it was painful in every way. However, it seemed she was wide of the mark for Eden gestured to the newspaper lying on the occasional table beside him.

‘Another mill has been attacked by a mob and another loom destroyed, and all in the space of a fortnight.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Recovering her composure, she followed his gaze to the paper. ‘Men fear for their livelihoods. So many have been laid off and those who are still in work have seen their wages cut.’

‘Does that excuse murder?’

‘No, of course not, but it does explain why people are so angry. It is well nigh impossible to feed a family on eight shillings a week.’