The Wayward Governess. Joanna Fulford
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read widely and Claire’s naturally enquiring mind devoured the books she was given and easily assimilated what she found there. She loved learning for its own sake and enjoyed gaining new skills, whether it was drawing or playing the pianoforte, speaking in French or discussing current affairs. In her uncle’s house everything was different. Independent thought was discouraged, and only the most improving works considered suitable reading material. They were taught their lessons under the exacting eye of Miss Hardcastle, a hatchet-faced woman with strict views about what constituted a suitable education for young ladies, and an expectation of instant obedience in all things. In this she was fully supported by Aunt Maud and any infraction of discipline was punished. Claire, loathing the constraints imposed on her, had been openly rebellious at first, but she had soon learned the error of her ways. Remembering it now, she felt resentment rise in a wave. She would never return no matter what.
Some time later she joined Ellen in the parlour where she was plied with hot tea and slices of fruit cake. When she had finished she favoured her friend with an explanation of why she had fled her uncle’s house. Ellen listened without interruption, but the blue eyes were bright with anger and indignation. Claire swallowed hard.
‘I’m so sorry to impose on you like this, Miss Greystoke, but I didn’t know where else to turn.’
‘Where else should you turn but to me? And let us dispense with this formality. You must call me Ellen.’
‘You don’t know how I missed you all these years.’
‘And I you. My brightest pupil.’
‘Did you receive my letter?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I wanted to write again, but my aunt would not permit it.’
‘Then you did not get my other letters?’
Claire stared at her. ‘What other letters?’
‘I wrote several, but there was never any reply, so in the end I stopped sending them.’
‘On my honour I never received them.’
‘No, after what you have told me I imagine you did not.’
Anger and indignation welled anew and Claire bit her lip. To think that all that time her aunt had lied to her, if only by omission.
‘It was the saddest day of my life when I had to leave you. Your parents’ house was such a happy place and they were always so good to me. I felt more like a member of the family than a governess.’
‘I feel as though I have been in prison for the past seven years. And then this. I could not do what they wanted, Ellen.’
‘Of course not! No woman should ever be compelled to marry a man she does not love and esteem. What your uncle did was shameful.’
‘But what if he finds me?’
‘He shall not remove you from this house.’
‘I wish I were not so afraid of him, Ellen.’
‘I am not surprised that you are. The man is a perfect brute.’
‘If my aunt read your letters, she will have seen the address and may guess where I am.’
‘She probably burnt them without reading them. In any case it was a long time ago. It is most unlikely she kept them.’
‘I pray she did not.’ Claire’s hands clenched. ‘If only I might reach my majority and be out of their power for good.’
‘That day cannot be so far away now. How old are you?’
‘Four months short of my twenty-first birthday.’
‘No time at all. It will soon pass and then you will be a free woman.’
‘Somehow I must earn my living and I am not afraid to work, provided it is honest employment. I do not wish to be a burden.’
Ellen smiled and squeezed her hand gently. ‘You could never be a burden to me.’
‘But what will your brother say when he returns?’
‘You leave George to me.’
Doctor Greystoke returned some time later. In his early forties, he was a little over the average height and had a strong athletic build, which made him seem younger than his years. His face was pleasant and open rather than handsome and, as yet, relatively unlined save for the creases round the eyes and mouth. Like his sister he had light brown hair, in his case greying a little at the temples and lending him a distinguished air. Claire thought he had a kindly face. Even so there was no way of knowing how he would respond to having his home invaded by a stranger—and a penniless stranger to boot.
She need not have worried. Having been apprised of the situation, he seated himself on the sofa beside his unexpected guest, regarding her keenly.
‘My sister has told me everything, Miss Davenport. I confess I am deeply shocked to learn of the reason for your coming here, but can in no way blame you for leaving. To force a young woman into marriage must be in every way repugnant to civilised thinking.’ He smiled. ‘You are welcome to remain here as long as you wish.’
‘Thank you. May I also ask that my reason for being here remains a secret?’
‘You may rely on it. Neither my sister nor I will divulge it to a soul.’
Claire’s eyes filled with tears and a lump formed in her throat.
‘Indeed, sir, you are very good.’
To her horror tears spilled over and ran down her face and she dashed them away with a trembling hand. Seeing it his face registered instant concern.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘You’re safe here.’
Claire drew in a shuddering breath and fumbled for a handkerchief. Before she could find it he produced his own.
‘Here, try this. I prescribe it for the relief of tears.’
It drew a wan smile and he nodded approvingly. ‘That’s it. Now dry your eyes and let us have no more of this. I absolutely forbid you to be sad here.’
Ellen rose and rang the bell to summon the maid.
‘Shall we have some more tea?’
Her brother looked up and grinned. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Chapter Two
Gleams of moonlight shone through flying rags of cloud, its pale glow illuminating the moor and the winding road along which the wagon made its steady progress. Drawn by four great draught horses it lumbered on, its load a dark mass concealed beneath a heavy tarpaulin. Apart from the driver and his companion on the box, six others accompanied the wagon, big men chosen for their physical strength. Two walked in front with lighted torches; the others rode on either side of the vehicle. All were armed with clubs and pistols. Conversation was kept to a minimum. The only sounds were the wind and the muffled rumbling of iron-rimmed wheels over the track. For it was more track than road, an ancient drovers’ trail that crossed the hills above Helmshaw. As they walked the men kept a sharp look out, their eyes scanning the roadway ahead and the pooled shadows to either side. No other sound or movement revealed any more human presences. The little convoy might have been the last living things upon the face of the earth.
‘All quiet so far,’ muttered the driver, ‘but I’ll not be sorry to see journey’s end.’
His companion merely grunted assent.
‘If it weren’t for t’money you’d not catch me out here with this lot,’ the other continued. ‘I thought long and hard about it I can tell thee. A man should be at his fireside of an evening, not wandering t’moors to be prey to scum.’
Another grunt greeted this. Seeing his companion wasn’t in a responsive mood, Jethro Timms gave up the attempt at conversation. From time