The Wayward Governess. Joanna Fulford
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course.’
‘Her mother died when Lucy was born.’
‘Poor little girl. She has lost a great deal in her short life. Six is too young to be orphaned.’
For a moment he regarded her shrewdly. ‘Yes, you are right.’
‘There is never a right time to lose one’s parents, but children are so vulnerable.’
‘Indeed they are.’
‘I am sure she will welcome some stability after all the disruption she has endured.’
‘In any event, I shall give her a home for as long as she needs it.’ He smiled and for a moment the grey eyes warmed. ‘When I return to Netherclough Hall I hope to have the honour of receiving you there, Miss Davenport, along with Dr and Miss Greystoke.’
At those words, Claire felt her heart miss a beat. She would see him again after all. Almost immediately she told herself not to be so foolish as to refine upon it. He was merely being polite. He owed the Greystokes such an invitation. If she was included, it was because good manners demanded that he did not slight their friend. Once honour was satisfied they would have nothing more to do with each other. The man she had known as Mark Eden was gone, replaced by Viscount Destermere, one who was so far her social superior as to make even the thought of such a connection truly laughable. That was reality. He belonged to another world, a world of wealth, position and power. One day in the not-too-distant future he would marry—a young woman of his own class who would provide the heirs to continue his line. That too was reality and she acknowledged it. All that had happened here would one day be relegated to the back of his memory and she with it. It was an oddly dispiriting thought.
Chapter Four
Lying in bed later that night, Claire found herself unable to sleep for her mind was racing, turning over all she had learnt. It turned too on her situation. This interlude with the Greystokes had been a welcome respite from trouble but, having been here nearly a month, she did not deceive herself that it could continue. They had been more than kind, but she could not impose on them much longer. Besides which, the uneasy thought persisted that her aunt might have kept Ellen’s letters and might remember them now. Her uncle had been made to look a fool, a situation that would not long endure if he so much as suspected there was a remedy. She must find a secure position and soon, a place her uncle would never think of looking.
And then the germ of an idea occurred to her. An idea that was both wild and wonderful together. Could it work? Would she dare suggest it? And if she did, what would be the response? Almost she could see the Viscount’s expression, the cold reserve returning to those grey eyes. He could be an intimidating figure when he chose. Would he consider it the greatest piece of presumption? Would he even listen? Claire bit her lip. There was only one way to find out: she must seek an opportunity to speak with him alone and then ask him.
The first part of her plan proved quite easy; the following morning Dr Greystoke went out on his rounds at ten and Ellen left to call on someone in the town. Their noble guest was ensconced in the parlour, perusing the newspaper. Hearing the door open, he glanced up and, perceiving Claire, rose from his chair and made her an elegant bow.
‘Miss Davenport.’ His gaze swept her from head to toe. ‘No need to ask if you are well.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Not knowing what else to say, she sat down on the edge of the couch and watched him resume his seat. She swallowed hard. It had all seemed so easy when she was lying in bed last night, but now that the moment had come it was a different matter. There was a knot in her stomach and her mouth felt dry. For all his polished manners he seemed so commanding a presence, so remote from her in every way. How could she have presumed to think he would agree to her request? And yet…She closed her eyes a moment and saw her uncle’s face. Could she risk his finding her because she had lacked the resolution even to try to put her plan into action? Claire lifted her chin.
‘May I speak to you, sir?’
He laid aside the paper. ‘Of course.’
She had his attention. It was now or never. She took a deep breath.
‘I would like a position in your household…as governess to your ward.’ Before he could say a word she hurried on. ‘My education is good. I can speak French and Italian and write a fine hand. I know about arithmetic and the use of the globes. I can play the pianoforte and sing and sew and draw. Miss Greystoke can attest to my family background and character. And I like children. I used to teach my younger cousins.’
It was out. She had said it. With thumping heart Claire waited. For a moment he did not move or speak though the grey gaze never left her face, and under their cool, appraising stare she felt her cheeks grow warm.
‘I confess I am surprised, Miss Davenport,’ he said then. ‘Not by the quality of your education, but by your desire to become a governess.’
‘As I told you, my parents are dead and I must earn my living, sir.’
‘And what of your other relations? The ones with whom you live.’
‘They cannot provide for me indefinitely. I always knew that I should have to find a suitable position one day.’
‘And why do you think this suitable?’
‘Your ward is of excellent family, she is motherless and she needs someone who will look after her.’
‘Do you think that I will not look after her?’
‘No, of course not. I never meant to imply any such thing.’ She paused. ‘But a young girl also needs a woman’s presence.’
‘True. How old are you, Miss Davenport?’
Her colour deepened but she met his eye. ‘I am almost one and twenty.’
‘Are you not a little young for the role?’
‘By no means. I know how it feels to lose one’s parents and how important it is for a child to feel secure, to know that there will always be a sympathetic female presence she can turn to for guidance, someone who will always have her best interests at heart, someone who will really care.’
It came out with quiet passion. In fact, it was not just the tone but the words that took him aback for he could not doubt the sincerity of either. He knew she was speaking from experience. Had her own life been unhappy after the death of her parents? Had that anything to do with the relatives she spoke of? His curiosity mounted and with it the feeling that there was something he wasn’t being told.
‘My estate at Netherclough is remote. Apart from the local village there is no society for miles around. How would you bear the solitariness of the place?’
‘I should bear it very well, sir. I was born in the country and spent the first thirteen years of my life there. Thirteen happy years.’
He heard the wistful note and was unexpectedly touched by it. Even so he felt the need to probe a bit further.
‘And when your parents died you went to live with your father’s relations.’
‘Yes.’ Her heart began to beat a little faster.
‘And your uncle resides in…?’
‘Northamptonshire.’
‘You are a long way from home, aren’t you?’
Not far enough, she thought. Aloud she replied, ‘Oh, not so far. Stage coach travel is improving all the time, is it not?’
‘Is it?’
Claire could have kicked herself. Of course, a man like this would never use stage coaches. Why would he, with a stable of fine horses and numerous carriages at his beck and call?
‘Surely your uncle would be most alarmed by your failure to return home,’ he continued.
‘Not