The Governess Club: Sara (4 page)

“Of course the church will accept any generosity offered,” the vicar replied. “There are always needs to be met in the community.”

“Poor orphans and all that, hmm?”

“Um.” Sara could see Mr. Pomeroy shift in the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat. “There is no orphanage in the area, but I could make inquiries into the closest one, if you wish to patronize one. Or one of a specific nature, if you have a particular cause in mind.”

“And what incentive am I to be offered?”

“Excuse me?” Sara couldn’t see the vicar’s face, but judging from his voice, the question surprised him.

“What will you offer to induce me to part with my money?” Mr. Grant asked, his voice remaining even and impersonal. Sara saw his fingers flex around his wolf’s-head cane. They gripped the head so tightly his fingers were turning white.

“The Bible teaches that good works are their own reward,” Mr. Pomeroy replied.

“So no private pew? No dedication in my honor?”

“Well, there may be—”

“Or perhaps some intimate time with a certain parishioner who is always willing to help out wherever she is needed?”

Sara’s head snapped up at that comment and she felt all the blood drain from her face. Heavens, she did not just hear that.

Silence reigned, Grant’s words echoing in the quiet, confirming that he had indeed said it. Mr. Pomeroy’s eyes darted to her, his eyes widening.

“Um,” he cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. Taking a deep breath, he drew himself up. “I did not say that. I would never suggest something so immoral.”

One side of Mr. Grant’s mouth tilted in a sardonic smile. “I have heard far more immoral suggestions from men of God.”

Mr. Pomeroy did not back down. “Yet
I
would never suggest something so immoral, sir, and it is inappropriate for you to make such a comment. I believe you owe Miss Collins an apology.”

Mr. Grant took a step toward him, the tap of his cane ringing in the room. “You enter my home uninvited with an unmarried woman, make vague innuendo with poorly chosen words, and you have the audacity to speak to me of impropriety? The apology is yours to make.”

Cold violence was seeped into his words, lowering the temperature even more. The innuendo he claimed Mr. Pomeroy had made clearly struck a nerve with the man.

Mr. Pomeroy was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was with a quiet, calm voice, a vicar’s voice. “I do not know what occurred in your past to make you so cynical sir, but even in my short time in Taft, I have appreciated the innocence and sincerity of the area. People here do not have ulterior motives. When we offer something as simple as a neighborly welcome, then that is all being offered. I regret that you cannot accept this at face value and pray that you may find in this community the healing your soul needs.”

Mr. Grant returned his gaze to Sara, his mouth twisting into that sardonic smile again. “I daresay this is exciting for you, is it not? To have two men defending your honor?”

Sara did not answer; she could not. She had no words for such a situation.

He looked at Mr. Pomeroy. “You found your way in here; you can find your way out.” He spun on his heel and left the room, leaning heavily on his cane. The tapping receded down the corridor.

After several beats of silence, Mr. Pomeroy looked at Sara. “I deeply regret you were exposed to that, Miss Collins. Once again I find myself setting a new precedent for horrible visits.”

Sara dropped her head again, grasping her hands in front of her. She heard the vicar move and felt him draw near to her. His voice was gentle when he spoke to her again, his near presence a welcome warmth after the chill of the experience. “Come, I will take you home.”

She nodded and accepted his escort out of Windent Hall.

I
t took a moment for Sara’s eyes to adjust to the darker lighting in the general mercantile. There weren’t many customers, for which she was grateful. She nodded greetings to those she knew as she made her way to the service counter. Mrs. Yardley, the church pianist, ran the store with her husband. Rather intimidated by the woman’s large husband, Sara waited patiently for Mrs. Yardley to finish with her current customer.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Yardley,” Sara greeted with a smile. “Has anything arrived in the post for us this week?”

Mrs. Yardley confirmed with a nod. “I will fetch it for you.” When she returned from the back with several letters in her hand, she said, “We received some nice white and yellow ribbons this week that would complement your hair nicely.”

Sara raised a self-conscious hand to her red curls and offered a weak smile. “Thank you, perhaps I will browse through them.”
Don’t draw attention to yourself, girl; vanity is the Devil’s vice.

Mrs. Yardley smiled back and handed her the letters after noting the cost on the Ridgestone page in the account ledger. “It has been some time since you bought something for yourself. We all deserve a little spoiling now and then, Miss Collins.”

“Thank you,” she replied. She made her way over to the ribbons as suggested and fingered the new arrivals. The colors would indeed go well with her hair, but she had not allowed for any extra expenses this afternoon. Louisa had spent much of the evening yesterday discussing their finances, and Sara did not feel that new ribbons for herself would be looked upon favorably.

With a glance back at Mrs. Yardley to see if she was paying mind to Sara, she made her way to the door and slipped out, slipping the letters into her basket. The bright sun caused her to squint momentarily, but Sara did not hesitate to head back the way she had come, toward Ridgestone.

Waving at the greetings of students and parents, Sara left Taft behind her and slowed her pace, enjoying the unusually warm spring day. She took joy in the weekly task of walking to the village to fetch the post and other little necessities required. It was her one time of the week, time to be kept company by her own thoughts and to not concern herself with the trials and tribulations of the Governess Club.

It was precious time to herself and she guarded it as best as she was able.

Today was particularly pleasant and Sara decided to take a longer route across the fields. Climbing over a stile, she swung the basket in her hand and tilted her face up to the sun. The long dry grass teased her ankles, bringing a smile to her face. Coming to a hill, she had to lean into it to keep her balance and she lifted her skirts so she wouldn’t trip on them. She didn’t pause in her walk until she crested the hill when she stopped to catch her breath.

Looking out over the spring scenery, she inhaled deeply, as though she could bring the sunshine into her body and have it warm her from the inside out. She turned her gaze to Ridgestone, still two miles distant in the valley. The boxy building was surrounded by a sea of green, grass and trees carpeting the land. Sara could see the back gardens, Claire’s passion, the vibrant flowers creating sparks of color in the greenery.

Ridgestone had been her home for nearly a year now, a safe place, and one of growth. Her governess position had been relatively simple; two young, biddable girls who primarily wanted to be her friends. Coming here, creating the Governess Club, had been an enlightening experience for her. Instructing a large group of children was vastly different than two, something Sara found outside of her skills. Seeing her struggles, Claire and Louisa had made the decision to have her focus on the youngest children in their school, the four- and five-year-olds who came for half-days only. These students focused on basic reading and manners, primarily. In this, Sara found her mornings combining play with learning, laughter and love.

Bringing herself back to her task, Sara descended the other side of the hill, holding onto her bonnet as gravity sped up her steps. Once again breathless at the bottom, she allowed herself a giddy laugh for behaving like one of her students.

She entered a path that wound through the trees, leading back to Ridgestone. In the shade provided by the canopy, she pulled the letters out of her basket and flipped through them. Most were, as expected, addressed to Claire and Jacob; they were the owners of the estate after all. One was addressed to all of them, from their friend and fellow Governess Club member Bonnie Montgomery, now living at Darrowgate with her husband and their wards. But one in particular excited Sara as it was addressed to her, written in her brother’s hand.

Without a moment’s thought, Sara situated herself at the base of a tree and broke open the seal. His letters were infrequent and she cherished every one, treasuring the link to her sibling. She quickly became engrossed in her brother’s retelling of his seafaring adventures.

N
athan Grant paused at a junction in the path. He had the choice of three directions, including the one he had just come by. He looked back in brief contemplation but did not want to return that way; he had been wandering in this godforsaken maze of shrubbery and trees for the last hour and still had not found the path leading out.

He frowned, examining his two alternatives, as if the force of his glare would cut down the bloody trees and simply show him how to get the hell out of here. He never would have found himself in this sort of situation in London or at Cloverfields, his maternal grandmother’s estate. But foolishly, he had wanted a new place where no one knew him, so he could indulge his recently acquired misanthropy.

Bloody hell,
he thought.
I don’t have time for this.

Nathan chose a direction and strode down it, ignoring the pain in his left thigh.

I
can be honest with you, sister,
Sara was reading, her entire body tense.
I was shaking in fear. The Barbary pirate was advancing on me, a sword in one hand and a cruel knife in the other. Around me I could hear the yells of my shipmates, fighting their own battles. I knew I was on my own. My sword was drawn, my pistol spent, and I dared not look away from my opponent. Without warning, he let out ferocious yell and
—

The clearing of a throat interrupted her reading. Blinking, Sara looked up. Still caught up in her brother’s adventure, it took a moment to realize that it was Mr. Grant looking down at her.

Sara felt the blood drain from her face and the ants materialized in her throat. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring his offered hand. She stood several feet away from him, the letter clutched in her hand, her eyes focused on his perfectly tied cravat.

He was still as unsettlingly handsome as he had been the day before. His face was clean-shaven, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline. His stance obviously favored his left leg, yet he did not have his cane with him. His glacial blue eyes were piercing.

“Miss Collins,” Mr. Grant greeted with a bow. Sara automatically responded with a curtsey. They both straightened and she noticed he was more than a head taller than her, the top of her head only reaching his chest. Heavens, but he made her feel small, something she was not accustomed to feeling.

When she did not speak, Mr. Grant continued. “A lovely day to be reading letters outside.” He gestured to her brother’s letter in her hand.

Sara could still not respond, the ants running rampant in her throat. Her breathing was unaffected, but speech was beyond her. Anxiety rushed through her veins, tightening her appendages; she could feel the parchment of her brother’s letter crumpling in her hand and she silently prayed the words would not be destroyed beyond reading.

Mr. Grant cleared his throat again and looked down the path. “Is this the way out?”

Sara swallowed, trying to rid her throat of the ants.

He pursed his lips and cocked a brow at her. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

Sara blinked at him.

He let out a breath and spoke impatiently. “Right. I was beyond rude when you visited Windent Hall. Accept my apology.”

She stared at him, unsure whether she should be shocked or offended by his blatant insincerity.

“Please.”

Uncertain, Sara nodded.

“Excellent. Now tell me how to get out of here.”

She shook her head. The ants were lessening, but she still could not speak.

His brows lowered and his jaw tightened. “I see. So much for the welcoming nature of the community. Good day to you, Miss Collins.” He tipped his hat and made to move past her.

Oh dear
. He thought she was deliberately being unhelpful. Sara rushed forward and stopped him by placing her hand on his arm. The steely muscles beneath his coat bunched and flexed under her fingers. An unexpected thought appeared—this man was capable of protecting her.

Sara stared at where her hand cupped his bicep, her small digits barely able to span it. Glancing up, she saw he too was staring at where she touched him. A heat flared in his eyes, shocking and unexpected. She had the absurd desire to move her hand to his chest to see if those muscles were just as strong, just as hard, just as inspiring.

She dropped her hand as if she were scalded and took a step back.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low.

Sara swallowed again and put her hand to her throat, tapping it.

He furrowed his brow. “Your throat? Something is the matter with your throat?”

She nodded, smiling apologetically.

“You cannot speak? But you spoke to me yesterday.”

She took a deep breath. Perhaps the ants had receded enough that she could speak again. “I am sorry,” she squeaked out, her voice barely audible.

Mr. Grant had to move his head toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am sorry,” she repeated more loudly, though her voice still retained the squeak.

He looked at her for a long moment. He said, “I will make you a deal. Get me out of this godforsaken trap and I will accept your apology.”

She raised her brows at his language.

He placed a hand over his heart. “I swear, ’pon my honor, I will be pleasant.”

At that, Sara had to suppress a snort. Noticing, Mr. Grant tipped his head to the side and contemplated her. For the first time she saw his mouth curl into an actual smile, both corners turning up and giving a glimpse of straight white teeth. His features softened, making him seem less cold and more approachable. A warmth began to spread through her belly at that smile and she relaxed.