Lady Sarah's Redemption (6 page)

Now well into middle age, Lady Charlotte had bone structure and a
porcelain complexion that would see her a beauty at eighty. Once she had
finished her diatribe she relaxed into her blue chintz seat and, with a sharp
look at Sarah, observed, “You favour your father, Miss Morecroft. Do you not
think so, Cecily?”

“In manner, there is a strong resemblance,” replied Mrs Hawthorne
with a disapproving twist to her thin mouth.

“Then we must hope you don’t follow the same dangerous path—”
Lady Charlotte looked grim as she added - “and that you appreciate gratitude
better than your father.” She sighed. “How thoughtless of Godby to foist a
brood of brats upon your poor mother on nothing more than soldier’s pay. Still,
he had no one else to blame for losing out on the fine inheritance he’d been
expecting.” She shook her head at Sarah. “I daresay your father could do no
wrong in your eyes.”

So that was the story, thought Sarah. Or, at least, part of it. “He
was my inspiration,” she murmured, determined not to be cowed by Lady
Charlotte’s bully tactics. Not a page of the first half of Sarah Morecroft’s
diary was without some glowing reference to the apparently incomparable Godby
Morecroft. The diary also did not seem to contain much else of interest, which
was why Sarah had left most of it unread.

“Not, I trust, the kind of inspiration that leads to similar
disgrace and penury.” Mrs Hawthorne’s tone was sharp.

Sarah realised her error. Clearly, she needed to learn more about
the relationship between the late Godby Morecroft and her employer if she were
not to land herself in worse trouble.

When Mrs Hawthorne excused herself to attend to some domestic matter
Sarah tried a more subservient approach. She glanced at Caro. The girl seemed
immersed in her own thoughts. “Pray, Lady Charlotte, my mother made it clear
what a great debt we owe Mr. Hawthorne and yet—” she bit her lip —
“how am I to avoid my father’s mistakes if I don’t know precisely what they
are?”

 
“Good Lord! Your father
said
nothing
of his disgrace?”

Sarah shook her head.

Lady Charlotte adjusted her lorgnette. She looked undecided. After a
quick glance at Caro, still daydreaming, she said, “You know that your father’s
advancement was on account of the especial fondness old Mr Hawthorne —
Roland’s father — had for him. Of course you do. Well, better get it over
with before Cecily gets back. If there are two things that require us all
dashing for the burnt feathers it’s mention of—” she lowered her voice
— “Caro’s mother.” Resuming a more normal tone, she went on, “Your father
was the son of old Mr Hawthorne’s estate manager and even from the age of
eight, which was when old Mr Hawthorne first took an interest in him, he was a
charmer. He and Mr Hector were the same age and great friends. Cut from the
same cloth, too,” she added, disapprovingly, “unlike the present Mr Hawthorne
who was born three years later. Your father’s destiny was the local dame school
and perhaps an apprenticeship had not old Mr Hawthorne decided such a gifted
lad ought to be tutored with his own sons and then bought a commission in the
10
^th
Hussars. If you don’t know what a pretty price a pair of
colours that would have set him back it’s not my place to tell you! It was
commanded by the Prince himself, for nothing but the best would do for your
father, but it was his eye for the ladies that was his undoing.”

Sarah was
fascinated. What a marvellous story. What could the rakish Godby Morecroft have
done to have landed up in apparent ignominy, in India?

“Your mother was
a comely lass of seventeen, and your father barely a year older when she … er…
caught his fancy. A publican’s daughter! Of course, he could have done a great
deal better for himself but honour prevailed, or rather, old Mr Hawthorne’s
honour did, and your parents were married … in fairly timely fashion for
shortly afterwards you were born.”

Sarah blushed.
“So that’s why my father was disgraced.”

“Indeed not!” exclaimed
Lady Charlotte. “I can’t image to what purpose you’ve been shielded from all
these … tawdry details, though I suppose Godby left it too late to tell you, as
usual,” she added, with what Sarah considered great lack of feeling. “Well, old
Mr Hawthorne was far more generous to the newlyweds than your father
deserved— Ah, Roland.” Lady Charlotte’s cornflower blue eyes widened
almost coquettishly.

Not so long ago
just such a smile would have come naturally to Sarah, but now she was
tongue-tied, and her heart was skipping a little too fast for her liking.

“Ladies.” Mr
Hawthorne acknowledged them with a small incline of his head, standing aside as
Cecily re-entered the room.

“Sit down,
Roland,” commanded Lady Charlotte, “and tell me what else you know about these
barbarians. I’m all for one knowing one’s place but I do believe in an honest
wage for honest toil.”

A shadow crossed
Mr Hawthorne’s face. Glancing at Sarah he hesitated, almost as if he was of a
mind to plead his excuses and retire. When he took the only vacant seat just a
foot from her she was conscious of his nearness in a way she hadn’t been since
as a debutante she’d fallen in love with Captain Danvers at first sight.

Unaccountably
awkward, Sarah glanced away as Lady Charlotte launched into an animated
monologue on the likely outcome facing the ringleaders of the uprising. She
hoped her high colour, if noticed, would be attributed to the heat of the fire.

Mr Hawthorne,
dark and brooding, was the antithesis of her lost love whose Roman nose and blonde
curling hair had fired her adolescent senses.

Within weeks of
gushing to James all those years ago that Captain Danvers was the only man
she’d consider marrying, she was mourning his death and declaring her intention
never to wed. She recalled, with painful affection, James’s endless patience
during her grief. Poor James. He’d be beside himself, thinking her dead right
now. What was worse, he’d be so terribly wounded if the truth came out that
she’d actually pretended to have drowned to avoid marrying him. Her plan was
simply to turn up on her father’s doorstep in a couple of weeks claiming to
have been washed up on a beach and cared for by local villagers. Her
grief-stricken father would grant her anything, then.

 
“Isn’t that so, Miss Morecroft?”

She jerked her
head round at the sound of Mr Hawthorne’s mellifluous tones and stammered her
apologies.

He regarded her
a moment, smiled, then repeated, “I was telling Lady Charlotte of your
admirable approach to teaching Caro values and restraint.”

Lady Charlotte,
looking dubious, responded, “I’m not sure the gossip sheets are something Caro
should even know about, but if you condone it, Roland, I daresay there are
moral lessons to be learnt if approached in the right manner.” The way she was
looking at Sarah suggested a healthy scepticism about Godby’s daughter having
any handle on morality.

Sarah looked
past her and caught the glint of amusement in Mr Hawthorne’s eye. Her heart did
a little somersault. She smiled back. The air felt suddenly charged between
them, despite Lady Charlotte’s and Mrs Hawthorne’s presence. The darkening of
Mr Hawthorne’s pupils revealed he felt the same. Sarah had not spent the last
six years encouraging or warding off the approaches of potential suitors
without learning to recognize the signs of a male’s interest.

Then it struck
her anew that it was just as likely that, even if Mr Hawthorne was flirting, he
believed he was doing so with the mere governess; that likely he was simply
making atonement for his harsh words of earlier. It was a dampening thought.
Squaring her shoulders Sarah rose to the challenge. When the time was right
she’d face Mr Hawthorne on equal ground.

“So there you
have it, Caro,” she said, as they passed through the nursery on their way to
Caro’s bedchamber. Ellen was putting the younger girls to bed. “I am the
product of vice and sin, the granddaughter of a lowly publican. No wonder I was
only reluctantly elevated to the dining room.”

“Don’t say such
things,” Caro muttered. “My father believes people are distinguished by their
actions, not by their rank. Lady Charlotte should never have said such things!”

“Your father
faces a tough battle if he thinks the baker’s apprentice and the fishmonger
worthy of a seat in the House of Commons.” She lit the candle on the bedside
table. A very different code of morality existed in the circles in which she
had grown up. Rank was everything. As for morality, Sarah knew many of the
aristocratic matrons who visited her home at Thistlewaite were guiltlessly
indulging in extramarital affairs having dutifully produced the required male
heir.

“My father is
not a radical,” Caro said angrily, pulling on her night rail. “Nor does he
believe in turning rank on its head. He is a good, honourable man who hates the
inequities of society. At least he has the courage of his convictions. He
fought a duel for them once.”

Sarah raised her
eyebrows. “Over your mother?” she ventured, ingenuously, helping Caro into bed.
She’d like to hear more about the fascinating Venetia.

“My father would
never
fight a duel over a woman.”
Caro’s voice was full of scorn. “He is far too principled to commit murder over
something so … unimportant.”

“Yet not too
principled to fight a duel over something else.” This time it was Sarah’s turn
to sound scornful.

“Obviously you
care nothing for the people to whom Papa has devoted his parliamentary career
championing,” said Caro through gritted teeth as she reached for her book.
“You’re lucky you’re not a man, Miss Morecroft. It was an argument just like
this that Papa had once in the House of Commons. Lord Miles challenged Papa to
the duel right there and then.”

One minute Sarah
was directing an indulgent, slightly mocking smile at Caro, the next she was
wincing at the sudden roar in her ears. For a moment she truly thought she was
going to faint. She sat heavily upon the bed.

Caro didn’t
notice. She was too busy thumbing the pages of her book with unusual energy, a
snarl upon her face. “Narrow-minded bigot! That’s what Papa called him, and
said it demeaned him to have to answer his challenge.”

Blinking rapidly
to clear her head, Sarah murmured, “I never heard about it.” She gazed at the
brushes and combs lined up on the dressing table.

Her own father!
Fighting a duel with Mr Hawthorne. She tried to imagine it. Her red-faced,
apoplectic father, trembling with the passion of his convictions, seeing
nothing but a dangerous radical as he stared down his opponent.

No doubt Mr
Hawthorne coolly stood his ground. Compared with her father he was a
very
controlled man.

“It was lucky they
both didn’t have to resign from Parliament,” said Caro, “because of course he
thought it was ridiculous that honour decreed he must fight.”

“What happened?”

“Papa shot wide
and Lord Miles missed. Well, he grazed Papa’s shoulder but it was only a flesh
wound.” Caro shuddered. “Why drive a man to murder for pride?” She hugged her
book to her chest, rolled over and presented Sarah with her back.

Sarah did not
leave, as Caro had clearly indicated was her desire. Instead, she rose and went
to the window.

“It’s called
passion,” she murmured, drawing aside the curtain to look into the darkness.
“Sixteen-year-old girls are not supposed to know about such dangerous
emotions.”

Her voice
trailed away as she contemplated if she had ever felt passion.

“I’ll never fall
victim to my passions,” mumbled Caro.

Sarah quirked an
eyebrow at the huddled bedclothes then returned her gaze to the darkness beyond
the gardens. Not even a sliver of moon touched the landscape with light.
“Really?” Her tone was droll. She sighed. Such talk made her restless. She
wanted to feel desire but it was as if in this household love, desire, passion
… had destroyed the trust of a generation. Passion at Larchfield was the
handmaiden of sin and vice. If Caro were lucky enough to experience the same
spark of feeling which Sarah found so necessary to sustain her enthusiasm for
life, she’d be forced to extinguish it long before it took root and blossomed.

 
“Do you not wish to fall in love, Caro?”
she asked. “Is it not the desire of your aunt and father that you marry a good
man? That you marry for love?”

Caro said
nothing.

Sarah sighed
again, the girl’s pubescent virtue suddenly irritating her. Caro would be dried
up by nineteen.

She turned back
to the window. “Do you not long for the embrace of the man whom you admire
beyond all others? The caress of his hand upon your cheek…?” Her voice dropped
to a whisper as she added, “The sweet, gentle touch of his lips upon yours.”

Turning at the
loud thud of the book thrown forcefully upon the floor Sarah realised she’d
gone too far.

It was time to
apologise and take herself off to bed before she reversed all the gains she’d
made with her difficult, but increasingly endearing charge.

As Roland
turned into the gallery, he was arrested by the odd sight of his sister-in-law
on her toes upon the window seat, peering through the mullioned windows.