Chapter Five
It was some days before Serena, the new Marchioness of Tamar, noticed the absence of her sisters’ governess. For one thing, she was absorbed in the wonder of her marriage and the joy of being with her new husband. For another, no one troubled to mention it to her. She only discovered it when Tamar set up his easel in their bedchamber one morning, and she used the opportunity offered by his preoccupation to go in search of her sisters.
Her sisters had visited her new apartments several times since the wedding, and she and Tamar had dined with the family after her mother and brother’s failed departure for London. But Miss Grey’s absence had, stupidly, not occurred to her until she walked into the schoolroom and found it empty. When calling for her sisters elicited no response, she wandered down to the drawing room. In the long gallery, she encountered her brother, striding off to his study, no doubt, since the steward was at his heels.
“Gervaise, where are the girls?” Serena asked. “Are they out somewhere in the rain with Miss Grey?”
Braithwaite paused. “Ah. Go on to the study,” he instructed his steward. “I’ll join you directly. Serena…” Drawing her further away from the drawing room, where, no doubt, their mother lurked, he said low, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Miss Grey. She had a letter from home that upset her.”
“She’s gone home?” Serena said in surprise. “I wish she would have said goodbye!”
“Well, no, not home,” Braithwaite said uncomfortably. “I found her alone in the schoolroom—upset, as I said—when I was looking for the girls. I stayed to offer a word of comfort, and of course, Mother walked in and immediately read the worst into an entirely innocent situation. The devil was in it that the door had blown over and she chose to believe Miss Grey had closed it deliberately and was somehow trying to trap or inveigle me into marriage.”
Serena’s jaw dropped. “Miss Grey?”
“Well, exactly. I won’t say I haven’t noticed her because I have. But I would no more act upon it than…than…well, I just wouldn’t! Besides, she is so proper and efficient that I have no idea where mother got the stupid notion. She could easily have passed it off, but she chose to dismiss Miss Grey on the spot.”
“She what?” Serena said furiously. “And for such a reason? Has she any idea how that will affect Miss Grey’s future?”
“None, until she stops and thinks about it. Which she will, eventually, as you know. And she will be sorry in the end, so I sent Miss Grey up to Haven Hall for a week or two while Mother cools off.”
“Haven Hall?” Serena repeated in accents of horror. “How could you, Gervaise? What on earth is there for her in that place?”
“A pupil,” Braithwaite said impatiently. “Benedict has a daughter. Benedict being the tenant himself, whom I ran into when I was riding last week.”
“What is he like?” Serena asked, distracted in spite of herself. “Miss Grey encountered him while walking one day and found him strange and grumpy.”
Her brother shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t say he was friendly, but he was not boorish.”
“How did you find out he had a daughter?”
“She was with him,” Braithwaite said in surprise. “Didn’t I tell you that? Pretty child but shy. A year or so younger than Helen, perhaps.”
“And was he kind to the child?” Serena asked anxiously.
Braithwaite blinked. “Well, he did not beat her in front of me! But she looked perfectly content to be with him, if that’s what you mean. Listen, though, since you brought the subject up, Mother and I are making another attempt to go to London tomorrow, now that the wretched coach is finally repaired. I shall have to write when Mother relents about Miss Grey.”
“You’ll forget to ask her,” Serena said indignantly. “Why don’t I just bring Miss Grey back once you’ve gone? Then you may write here whenever you remember to get Mama to relent and I’ll write back as though I’ve only just brought her.”
Braithwaite scowled. “You are untruthful and Machiavellian,” he said severely and strode away. It was noticeable, however, that he had not forbidden her. Not that Braithwaite’s prohibition would have made the slightest difference to Serena.
*
Considering the oddity of the household, Caroline grew used to it much more quickly than she’d expected. Although the morning after the intruder’s visit, several items including umbrellas, hats, and plates had indeed been moved randomly around the ground floor, it didn’t reoccur over the next week. She knew either Williams or Mr. Benedict spent time in the library each evening in the hope of catching the intruder, but without any luck. Nor did they find a way to open the passage they were convinced was there. Caroline knew, because she made a point of asking Mr. Benedict.
Neither, fortunately, was there a repeat of the heartrending cries of that first night, though Caroline confirmed a little more about their origin. One day, when she went looking for Rosa after luncheon, she found her in one of the bedchambers on the other side of the house from the schoolroom—the same chamber, she was sure, where she’d seen Mr. Benedict waiting that first night.
This time the door was open, as were the bed curtains inside. The lady who’d thrown the cake the day Caroline had arrived lay on the bed. Miss Marjorie Benedict. Rosa stretched out beside her, gently stroking her hair.
It was a private scene, and Caroline chose not to interrupt it. She withdrew silently and went to the schoolroom to wait for Rosa.
That evening, when she and Rosa entered the dining room, Miss Benedict was already there, flitting around the table as though checking the simple place settings were in order. Rosa ran to her immediately and hugged her, receiving a hug in return, after which she took her aunt’s hand and all but dragged her toward Caroline.
Caroline curtsied.
“Ah, you are Miss Grey,” the lady said with a surprisingly sweet smile. Close to her, Caroline could see family likeness, not only to Rosa but to Mr. Benedict. There was something around her eyes and the shape of her face. In Miss Benedict, the features were softened, but she was quite clearly related.
So much for the cook’s conviction that she was his wife.
Miss Benedict offered her hand. “I have heard so much about you. Welcome to Haven Hall. I have been ill, you understand, or I would have welcomed you before and helped you find your feet here. Is everything comfortable for you?”
“Most comfortable, thank you.”
At that moment, Mr. Benedict limped in. “Well met, Marjorie,” he said without any surprise. “I see you’ve introduced yourself to Miss Grey. Shall we sit? The soup is on its way.”
There was certainly more chatter at dinner than Caroline had grown used to. Miss Benedict initiated conversation on many topics, from the latest novels to possible peace with France, interspersing it all with questions about Caroline’s teaching experience. It was kindly done, as though the lady were satisfying herself as to the new governess’s suitability without appearing to be interviewing her. Caroline knew she was right when she intercepted Mr. Benedict’s sardonic glance.
He said little on any subject, merely smiled sourly when Bonaparte and the French were mentioned. Clearly, he had opinions he chose not to share. Intrigued, Caroline opened her mouth to ask him, but his sister had changed topics suddenly.
“And do you find our Rosa a good pupil?”
Caroline turned to her civilly. “Indeed I do.”
“Is her learning advanced for her age?” Miss Benedict inquired.
“In some areas, yes,” Caroline replied.
“Just in some?” Miss Benedict seemed inclined to take umbrage at this.
“For her years, she is excellent at reading and writing, arithmetic, geography, and the sciences,” Caroline replied. “It is only in the ladylike accomplishments that she has little training so far. But she is quick, and the matter is easily remedied.” Caroline caught her pupil’s gaze with mock severity. “If she works hard.”
Rosa gave her a mischievous smile.
“Ladylike accomplishments,” Miss Benedict repeated in triumph. “Well, there you are. Javan does not have many of those.”
Caroline’s gaze flew to Benedict’s. “You have been teaching, Rosa?”
His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Is it so hard to believe I have been educated, too?”
“Of course not,” Caroline said hurriedly. “Then it’s from you she developed her interest in botany?”
“It’s a hobby of mine,” Mr. Benedict allowed.
“Hobby,” his sister disparaged. “He is most learned, is even writing a book on the subject.”
“But even I know music and watercolors are more important to a young lady’s education than botany,” Mr. Benedict said. “Hence, the necessity of a governess.”
An idea arrived in Caroline’s head. “If you wish her to be a cut above the ordinary in painting, I believe I could arrange a few lessons with Lord Tamar, who is Lord Braithwaite’s brother-in-law and a most accomplished artist—”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Mr. Benedict interrupted. “You are tasked with teaching my daughter.”
Caroline flushed. “Of course,” she said stiffly. “I beg your pardon.”
She was spared further embarrassment by the entry of the servants to clear the plates and serve the pudding.
Abruptly, Mr. Benedict said, “How do you find the piano?”
It might have been an olive branch, or a way of showing her he was not angered by her presumption. Or he might just have thought of it.
“A little out of tune,” she replied. “But not enough to hurt the ears. Otherwise, it works perfectly. We have had only a couple of lessons so far, but I believe Rosa is enjoying it.”
Rosa nodded enthusiastically, and Miss Benedict began to plan her niece’s first recital.
*
When Rosa was in bed, Caroline read to her for a little, before handing the book over. They agreed Rosa should read by herself until her father came to say goodnight. Caroline was just crossing to the door which connected to her own chamber, when the passage door opened and Mr. Benedict came in. He paused at sight of her, as though surprised.
“Good night, sir,” she said civilly.
Unexpectedly, he changed direction, and opened her bedchamber door. “Good night, Miss Grey.”
There was something unspeakably intimate about walking past him into her bedchamber. It wasn’t just that he controlled the door, or that crossing the threshold brought her so close to him that she could smell the warm spice of his skin and the wine and coffee on his breath. She made the mistake of glancing up at him to prove she was not intimidated. His hard, grey eyes glowed in the candle light, flaming with a heat that seemed to scorch her. Her stomach plunged as she recognized the look for what it was. Lust.
Go in before I forget I was once a gentleman.
By the time he closed the door softly behind her, his heat seemed to have spread to her own trembling body. She released her breath in a rush, trying to laugh at herself or him, wondering which of them she truly feared.
*
With the knowledge of his presence on the other side of the door, Caroline’s foolish heart beat too quickly to allow her to settle to anything. Which was ridiculous, since this happened every evening. This time, was just more.
But she would not think of that. In desperation, she lit another candle and took out her sewing box. She’d retrieved two pairs of Rosa’s stockings which needed mending, and now, suddenly, seemed the best time to do it.
While she worked, the occasional murmur from the other chamber died away. She heard a faint rustle, his uneven footfall as he crossed the room. She held her breath, waiting for what, she couldn’t imagine, although she’d lowered her work into her lap and all her concentration focused on the connecting door. She even imagined a hesitation in his step…before it continued and Rosa’s door to the passage opened and softly closed, and his footsteps faded on into the distance.
She released her breath in a rush of relief. At least, she called it relief, though the feeling was made up of so many more conflicting emotions, including a bizarre disappointment, and a wish that things were different. That she was different.
Taking herself to task, she forced her brain and body to calm by concentrating once more on her mending. It wasn’t easy in the dim light, especially as the rising wind now rattled the window panes and made the candles flicker, but she didn’t make a bad job of it. After that, she began to patch together some old material she’d horded over the years to make a lining for her old boots. It might provide some protection from the rain until she could get to the cobbler in Blackhaven.
She had to stop in the end because her eyes were too tired to see properly. The rain battered against her window in a sudden squall. Caroline put another shawl around her shoulders to protect against the fierce draughts and huddled a little closer to the fire while she finished her letter home.
She had been waiting to hear from her mother that she had received the money she’d sent via Lord Braithwaite, hoping to hear good news of Peter’s health before she sent her own letter. She could only suppose the silence meant the emergency was over, but anxiety nagged at her. She finished her letter with an urgent appeal for her mother—or Eliza—to write back at once, even if only a few words to tell her Peter was recovering.
Finally, she thought she might be tired enough to sleep. It was late. Even the servants had retired and the house would have been quiet save for the storm raging outside. On impulse, she walked to the window and drew back the curtain and the shutter. The night sky was filthy, thick, scudding clouds obscuring the moon and stars. The rain had let up, in a temporary kind of way but the wind, lashing and bending the trees, was, if anything, even fiercer.
Caroline began to close the shutter again, when something below caught her eye. A dark, male figure moving from the house through the untamed garden toward the encroaching woods. Their intruder? Had he been into the house again? So far as she knew, neither Mr. Benedict nor Williams had found the entrance to the suspected secret passage, despite a thorough “examination for woodworm”. But there was nothing furtive about the man outside. He simply ploughed his way through the wind and rain. Why? Where on earth could he be going? Certainly, it was a wild night for a tryst.
“True love,” Caroline murmured disparagingly, but still her hand lingered on the shutter, holding it open, for though she could barely make out the shape, let alone the features of the brave figure, he moved in a slow, uneven manner. With a limp.
Her breath caught, just as a flash of lightning lit the sky and the lame man below. He wore no coat or hat but walked determinedly through the storm in his shirt sleeves.
Something was wrong. It had to be. No one in their right mind would go out in this weather, even for a secret tryst, dressed like that. There had to be an emergency, and it was her instinct to help.
Thunder rumbled and cracked. Without hesitation, she snatched up a candle and ran out of the room, along the corridor and downstairs, veering along the passage that led to the side door. It stood open, the wind holding it right back against the wall. Shocked by the cold and the force of it, Caroline only just managed to spin around to protect her candle flame. Hastily, she used it to light the lantern by the coat stand. She paused only long enough to haul her cloak about her and seize up the lantern and Mr. Benedict’s old great coat that hung on the stand. Then, dragging her hood up, she ran outside and pulled the door closed behind her.
Helped by the wind, which blew her along rather faster than she would normally have run, she hurtled toward the wood, in the direction she’d last seen Mr. Benedict. Several things bothered her. Why hadn’t he taken the lantern? Why had he not even donned the greatcoat or closed the door? How could he even see where he was going?
Another flash of lightning showed the white of his shirt vanishing into the wood. Holding the lantern in front of her, she hurried after him as the thunder crashed overhead. The force of the rain was almost painful now, blasting against the side of her face when she swerved into the wood.
“Sir!” she called. “Mr. Benedict, wait!” Holding the lantern high, she paused, searching between the trees. There. Only a few yards ahead. The wind must have whipped her voice away, for he didn’t appear to have heard her. At least he was following the track. She ran after him, calling again.
Still he didn’t turn. Exhausted, she caught up with him and in desperation, grasped his drenched arm. “Sir, please, what is—” She got no further, for he whirled around, throwing off her detaining hand, and shoved her roughly away.
Shocked, she stumbled back against a tree, too winded to speak. But surely, he had heard her voice? Surely, he could see who she was by the light of the lantern which she’d somehow managed to hold on to?
He flew after her so ferociously that she threw up her arms in defense. He merely knocked them aside with one hand and the lantern finally fell to the ground, casting the light upward over his scarred, agonized face. He thrust one arm over her throat and drew back his other fist to strike.
Lightning burst across the sky at almost the same moment as the thunder crashed.
“Don’t you dare,” she said furiously, even while something inside her seemed to die at the very idea that he would hurt her.
Abruptly, his face changed. The weird light and shadow cast by the fallen lantern remained the same, but the strange, blank agony vanished, leaving him bewildered. His fist opened and fell to his side. He released her neck and instead, dragged her into his arms.
“Dear God,” he whispered. “What am I doing here? What are you…?” He swallowed convulsively. Water streamed off him. His clothing was utterly soaked, leaving little barrier between them. His breath heaved. “Jesus, not this… I dream, I sleepwalk…” His lips dragged across her ear, her cheek, interspersing his words with short, desperate kisses of remorse. “Know I would never hurt you, not knowingly…”
She threw back her head, trying to tell him she wasn’t hurt. “Sir, you did not—” The rest of her words were lost as his kiss landed on her upturned lips. Stunned, she didn’t move.
“I wouldn’t,” he said unsteadily against her mouth and then his lips sank deeper as though trying to convince her, or himself. In spite of the cold and the rain and the thunder bellowing across the night, heat flamed through her body. She was aware of every hard inch of him, not just his urgent, pleading mouth.
“I’m not,” she whispered against his lips. “Sir, you did not hurt me.” Certainly not in the way he meant.
His lips left her trembling mouth. For an instant his forehead touched hers. “Thank God,” he muttered. And then, without stepping back, he gazed around, as if really seeing where they were for the first time.
“Oh, Christ,” he uttered, and choked on something very like a laugh. He bent and swept up the lantern, still miraculously alight, and as he straightened, she thrust his overcoat between them like a shield.
“I brought you this,” she said, as though offering a gift on a social occasion.
Again, his breath caught, but he made no move to take it from her. She shook it out and flung it up over his shoulders, standing on tiptoe to do it. Impatiently, he thrust his arms through the sleeves. “Thank you,” he muttered. “Come, let’s get back to the house.”
She jumped when he threw his arm around her waist, but there seemed to be nothing either loverlike or threatening about the gesture, merely a desire to hurry her. In fact, she understood there was nothing loverlike about any of his actions, even his kisses. He was merely acting from shock at waking from his dream here, in such weather, and from fear and remorse at what he’d done or might have done.
“Does this happen to you often?” she managed over the noise of the wind.
“Not now. Only occasionally. But what are you doing out here?”
“I saw you from my window. I thought you were running to some emergency and I wanted to help.”
“Well, you did. God knows where I’d have ended up if you hadn’t wakened me. I’m grateful, though I shouldn’t be.”
The storm seemed to be grumbling its way past, but the rain still lashed into them and the wind fought them most of the way back to the house.
“Which way did you come out?” he asked.
“By the side door. You’d left it open.”
He swore beneath his breath, releasing her at last as they reached the door. Stupidly, she missed the strength of his arm, even soaked and dripping as it was. Ushering her inside, he locked the door behind them, then blew out the lantern and picked up the candle she’d left burning in its holder on the table. There wasn’t much of it left.
“Come,” he commanded, and she followed along the passage to the closed door that Rosa had once pointed out to her as her father’s study. He threw the door wide. “Go in and wait for me there. It will be warmest.”
She obeyed, drawn in spite of herself to the fire still burning merrily in the grate. Kneeling on the rug before it, she shook out her cloak and bonnet and gazed around her.
Well-lit by several lamps, the room was dominated by a large mahogany desk, covered with papers and books. Glass cabinets scattered about the room displayed live plants and dried specimens of leaves and flowers. There was also a large couch, on which she suspected he’d been sleeping before he’d walked out of the house, for a blanket seemed to have half-fallen off it.
Caroline sat right down on the rug and drew off her wet boots, then thrust her soaked stockinged feet out toward the fire. The warmth was delicious, almost sensual.
She wondered why she was waiting here, what he wanted to say. To explain, perhaps, about his sleepwalking. Perhaps it would solve a few of the mysteries surrounding him.