The Wayward Governess. Joanna Fulford
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in Richmond.’
‘Miss Greystoke told me that he removed here after their father died.’
‘I remember George left India to take care of the family’s affairs at that time.’
‘He was subsequently offered a position in Helmshaw,’ she explained. ‘When the previous doctor retired.’
‘And you, Miss Davenport?’ he asked. ‘How came you to be in Yorkshire?’
‘I told you, I came to visit Miss Greystoke.’
‘Your parents permitted you to travel alone?’
The pink colour deepened in her face, but she forced herself to meet his gaze.
‘My parents had no say in the matter since they are both dead.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, so am I.’
He heard the note of bitterness beneath the words and was surprised since it was at variance with her normally cheerful demeanour.
‘Then whom do you live with now?’
‘With my father’s relations.’
‘And when do you return to them?’
‘I…I have no set plans.’
For a moment there was a heart-thumping silence. She had told as much of the truth as possible and hoped now that he would let the subject drop. Much to her relief he seemed to accept it and merely nodded. Then he handed her the sketchbook.
‘I look forward to seeing the finished picture, Miss Davenport.’
She took it thankfully and retired to her seat by the window to continue the task. For a moment or two he watched and Claire, conscious of that penetrating gaze, had to force herself to ignore it. It was with relief that she heard the rustle of paper as he picked up the news sheets and began to read.
In fact, Marcus barely scanned the page in front of him. His mind was otherwise engaged. Far from accepting her words at face value he found his curiosity roused to a degree she would have found alarming. For all that she tried to pretend that there was nothing unusual in journeying alone to so remote a place as Helmshaw, he was quite undeceived. Ordinarily no respectable young woman would do so. And yet there was nothing in her that he found disreputable. Everything in her manners and appearance spoke of a gentle upbringing. She was no minx; naïve perhaps, but not of doubtful virtue. God knew, he’d had enough experience to judge. And she had spirit, enough anyway to stand up to Jed Stone. Recalling the incident and the perpetrators, Marcus felt only contempt. It was fortunate that he’d been there to intervene. She would have had no chance against such scum as those and he could no more stand by and see a woman assaulted than he could fly. Her self-control had been impressive. Most young women would have been reduced to hysterics by what had happened. Though much shaken, she had not treated him to a fit of the vapours nor even cried, though he could see she had wanted to. It was unexpected and oddly touching, serving to underline her vulnerability. At least he hadn’t come too late that time.
Disturbed by his own train of thought, Marcus laid aside the paper and glanced once more at Claire who, apparently, was engrossed in her drawing. Then he rose and, having excused himself politely, left the room. Claire watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. With a conscious effort she forced her attention back to what she was doing.
Marcus stood by the garden wall, looking out at the view. The scenery was beautiful and it was pleasant to feel the sun on his face once more. The enjoyment of the moment was enhanced by the knowledge that but for good fortune and expert doctoring he might never have done so again. His health was improving daily and he would soon be able to dispense with the sling. The inaction of the past few days was beginning to chafe now. Besides, there were several matters requiring his attention. Foremost of these was the need to return to Netherclough and take up the reins of government there.
When he had left it all those years ago he had little thought to see the place again. Who could have foreseen the circumstances that would demand his return? His father would be turning in his grave if he knew that his scapegrace son was now Viscount Destermere. Not without reason either. Thinking of the wild days of his youth and the reckless pranks he had embarked upon, he knew his father had had much to bear. Perhaps if they had been closer…Marcus grimaced inwardly. After their mother’s death, he and Greville were left to a succession of tutors before being packed off to school. They had seen little of their parent. It was Greville that he looked to for advice and guidance, not his father. Their last words together had been spoken in anger and yet, paradoxically, the old man might have been pleased with his son’s performance since. India suited Marcus down to the ground; it provided a disciplined environment but also enough scope for an adventurous spirit. He had loved its diversity, its colour, its vibrant life. Once he had thought to see out his days there. Now fate had decreed otherwise. He had responsibilities and he must fulfil them. It was time to face down the ghosts of the past and go home.
Having come to that decision, he imparted it to his friend when they met a little later. Greystoke heard him in silence and then nodded.
‘If that is what you wish to do then I will support you in any way I can.’
‘Thank you. There is one more thing, George. Before I go, your sister and Miss Davenport must be told of my real identity.’
‘If that is what you want.’
‘I owe them that much.’
‘Ellen will never breathe a word, and I believe that Miss Davenport is both sensible and discreet.’
Marcus nodded. ‘It has sat ill with me to dissemble to those who have done so much towards my recovery. It’s time they knew the truth.’
‘Do you wish me to speak to Ellen?’
‘Yes, as soon as may be. I will see Miss Davenport myself.’
He was waiting by the garden gate when Claire returned from her afternoon walk. At first she did not notice him, her attention on the steep track that led down off the hill, and her heart leapt to see the tall figure standing there. Suddenly she was conscious of her rumpled gown and windblown hair and of the fact that she was carrying her bonnet, not wearing it.
However, if he found anything amiss it was not apparent in his expression. He opened the gate to let her pass and then, offering her his arm, led her across the garden.
‘Will you spare me five minutes of your time?’ he asked. ‘I should like to speak to you.’
‘Of course.’
He found a convenient bench for them to sit on and, having seen her comfortably ensconced, favoured her with an explanation of recent events and of his identity. Claire heard him without interruption. More than anything else she was conscious of things falling into place: so many questions about this man had just been answered. Listening now, she wondered how she could have mistaken Marcus Edenbridge for anything other than the aristocrat he was. Everything about that tall commanding presence proclaimed it, from his physical appearance to his gentlemanly behaviour in championing her cause against Jed Stone and his cronies. It came as no surprise that he should seek out the men who killed his brother, even at the risk of his own life.
‘I apologise for the deception,’ he went on, ‘and I ask for your discretion now. The true identity of Mark Eden must not become generally known.’
‘You may be assured of my silence, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
She paused, dreading to ask the next question, but needing to know the answer. ‘May I ask when you intend to leave for London?’
‘In three days’ time.’
‘I see.’ Her spirits sank. It was hard to visualise this place without him somehow and she knew that his absence would leave a yawning gap.
‘It is a necessary stage in my plans.’
‘So