The Governess Club: Sara (5 page)

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said ruefully. He shook his head. “You have seen me at my worst. I am normally very charming and endearing.”

Sara smiled at that. “I shall have to take your word for it, sir.”

“You slay me with your doubt,” he replied. He looked down the path. “Now which way to Windent?”

Sara gestured the way she had been originally heading. “We start this way.” She retrieved her basket and put her brother’s letter into it. They began to walk side by side, but not touching. She matched her stride to his although his limp was barely noticeable beside her. She wondered where his cane was. Perhaps it was not necessary at all times.

“Do you travel these paths often?” Mr. Grant broke the silence.

Sara shook her head. “It is not the most direct way to Ridgestone from Taft, but it is such a pleasant day I wished to extend my journey. There are times, however, that I will explore them just on a whim.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You do not fear getting lost?”

She smiled. “It has not happened yet.”

Mr. Grant shook his head. “I must be hopeless, then, to have gotten lost on my first time.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself,” Sara said. “I have been living at Ridgestone for nearly a year and am much more familiar with the paths than you. I had Claire with me the first few times I ventured in here.”

He looked at her questioningly. “Claire? Is she your sister?”

She blushed at her faux pas of mentioning Claire. “Mrs. Knightly. She is a friend and owns Ridgestone along with her husband. He is the gentleman who offered you assistance when your horse was lame last Sunday.”

Recognition dawned on him. “Ah. Yes. I thought you were familiar from more than just yesterday. You live with them?”

They were approaching a fork in the path. Mr. Grant must have chosen the wrong one to follow as the other led to a field directly beside Windent Hall. She turned them down that path. “Take note of the three-limbed tree here,” she pointed out. “It indicates the path to Windent Hall. And yes, I do live with them, along with Miss Hurst, another friend.”

Mr. Grant looked surprised. “Three females and one male?”

“Yes,” Sara nodded. “Mrs. Knightly, Miss Hurst and I became friends when we were all governesses in the same area. We banded together to create our own school.”

His eyebrows rose. “How ambitious.”

Sara fell silent, unsure of how to interpret his tone. Was he sincere or mocking? It was difficult to tell and it flustered her.

After a few steps in silence, he spoke again. “If you are involved in a school, how is it you find yourself free in the afternoon? Are there no pupils today?”

She cleared her throat. “I only teach the youngest children, in the mornings; they are too young to be expected to last the whole day. It leaves my afternoons free for administrative duties and errands.”

“Such as fetching the post,” he said, looking at her basket.

She held it more closely to her, tucking the handle around her elbow. “Yes. I fetch the post every Thursday. I enjoy the walk.”

“Do you often sit under a tree to read your letters?”

Was that actually a teasing tone he used? It seemed foreign coming from him. Butterflies appeared in her stomach and she couldn’t stop a slight blush. She looked down into her basket and nodded to the crumpled letter. “I received a letter from my brother today. Adam serves as a midshipman on the HMS
Explorer
along the Barbary Coast. His letters can be infrequent and I was eager to read his news.”

“No wonder you were so engrossed. Are you close to him?”

Sara shook her head. “Not particularly. He is several years older than I and was always rebellious. He caused my parents a fair amount of grief. He was always out of the house, doing as he pleased. The Navy has been good for him, though. I look forward to his letters.”

“And your parents? Do you see them often?”

She glanced at him, wondering at his inquisitiveness. Was he genuinely interested or merely making small talk? “No, they both passed away some years ago.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Sara pointed out another path, one narrower than the rest. “That path leads along the side of a rock face and up a steep climb, coming full circle close to here. It is safe, but one must be cautious. That large rock that looks like an old man is the marker. I recommend walking it; there is a beautiful view of the countryside and a waterfall at the top.”

“I will keep that in mind. Tell me more about the school. How is the teaching divided? Do you have individual students to focus on, as with governessing, or do you teach according to subject, as in university?”

She was grateful for his continued interest. She had not known how to respond or interpret his earlier comment on their ambition. Sarcasm seemed inherent in this man. “We teach according to subject and age. With the younger children, their education consists primarily of basic literacy, numeracy and etiquette.”

“Ah yes, the foundations of our esteemed society.”

There was the sarcasm again. She risked another glance at him, but quickly averted it.

“You have stopped speaking again. You do that frequently.”

Sara forced herself to speak. “I apologize.” They were nearing the end of the path; the light was increasing and she could hear cows.

Mr. Grant stopped and put a hand on her arm, stopping her as well. The contact was light, but Sara felt his touch vibrate all the way to her bones. Shocked, she pulled away.

He dropped his hand to his side. “You do not need to apologize. It is clear that I keep saying something to cause you distress. If you tell me what it is, I can avoid upsetting you in the future.”

She looked in the direction of the clearing, wondering how to answer him.

Mr. Grant shrugged and gave that sardonic smile of his. “If you don’t say anything, I will simply assume that you are a poor conversationalist.”

Her eyes flew to his and he chuckled. “A reaction. Now tell me what the matter is.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Sara blurted out. Shocked by her audacity, her hand flew up and covered her mouth.
Disrespectful girl!

He chuckled again. “That is more like it. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Sara shook her head, her hand still over her mouth.

He reached and gently pulled her hand away. He kept her hand in his and Sara could feel her skin prickle where he touched her. The prickles swam up over her skin, drawing all of her attention to where his skin met hers.

Mr. Grant shifted until he stood so close that she would have to move to see around him. He held her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. The prickles now danced around her chin and she instinctively parted her mouth.

“There is nothing to fear,” he murmured. “It is just you and me and there will be no judgment for speaking your mind. Just tell me what you want.”

Sara stared into his eyes. The ice blue orbs began to warm, giving a soft glow that pulled her in. Looking that deep into his eyes, something welled up in her, a sense of security and assurance. He said there was no judgment and she believed him. No harsh reprimand, no chastisement awaited her.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered. “You say things and I don’t know if you are sincere or mocking me. It is disconcerting. That is why I stopped speaking.”

Mr. Grant raised his eyebrow in question. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “Like when you said it was ambitious of us to open a private school. Do you actually admire us or do you feel we are behaving unnaturally for women and believe we will fail? Others have said as much. And the way you mentioned how I fetch the post and make visits with Mr. Pomeroy. Your tone and inflection made me feel ridiculed for doing such things, even though I enjoy them. I dislike conversations where I have to second-guess everything being said to me.”

Oh my, what a sense of exhilaration to speak her mind! Sara continued. “Mr. Pomeroy said you were cynical and I feel I must agree with him. You are not making it easy to welcome you and your cynicism does not endear you to others.”

Mr. Grant looked at her for a long moment. “Perhaps I am cynical. Perhaps it is for a good reason.” He stepped away from her, dropping his hand from his chin. Her skin felt chilled from the sudden lack of contact. “Perhaps I do not wish to endear myself to anyone.”

“If you wish to live the life of a hermit,” she replied, “then you have come to the wrong place. People in Taft are very open and welcoming, generous with their time and affection.”

“Remember, I have seen their welcoming nature in the form of uninvited guests.”

“To which you reacted most abhorrently.”

“Abhorrent?” He let out a humorous laugh. “Ah, the governess is taking me to task. How novel.”

There was no mistaking his tone now. The cynicism was back in full force, making itself known in his cutting words. Sara swallowed, her confidence fleeing; her reprieve was over. She could see it in his glacial eyes and the downward curl of his mouth.

“You do not know the true meaning of ‘abhorrent,’ Miss Collins,” Mr. Grant continued, his cold tone biting. “I assure you that you have never experienced the sort of twisted souls I have and you likely would not recognize them if you did. These people disguise themselves in well-tailored clothing and proper manners, twittering and giggling and speaking and shouting of bettering the world while selling their allegiances and beliefs for nothing more than a few guineas and a slap on the back. These people, these lying mongrels, are so depraved I doubt even Beelzebub himself would welcome them.”

Mr. Grant had become so vehement that Sara took several steps back. He sneered at her. “Do not think to teach me the meaning of abhorrence. I reek of it and it will take more than a quaint country town to cleanse me. My life as an anchorite is well deserved, for I am so polluted I infect the very nature of what surrounds me.”

It was a morbid fascination that kept Sara’s eyes riveted on his face. As she watched, the loathing in his expression shifted until it was directed at himself; she could identify the very moment his eyes registered the reality of his words and the self-hatred appeared.

With another sneer she knew was not intended for her, he said, “It appears I am still not fit for company. Pray excuse me.” He turned his back on her, marched into the clearing and disappeared into the distance. His limp was more pronounced.

Sara stared at the departing man in such shock she did not notice the ants in her throat until it was too late. Even as the noose closed around her throat, she couldn’t help but think that Mr. Pomeroy had been accurate in stating the man had a wounded soul. She struggled to breathe, stumbling to a tree to lean against for support. In two three four, out two three four.

Oh dear heavens, the poor man is practically begging for help.

T
he door swung open and Nathan stepped into the darkening library. His eyes adjusted to the fading light, noting the shapes of the furniture, still shrouded in their dust covers. Dragging his leg, he moved farther into the room, the tap of his cane echoing against the bare marble floor. Standing in the middle, he turned in a circle, surveying the room. Either end boasted matching hearths with what he assumed were sofas, chairs and tables under the covers.

He chose the closest hearth and made his way to it. Leaning his cane against one of the shrouds, he pulled a dust cover off, revealing a side table. Removing the decanter of brandy from under his arm, he placed it on the table. The glass followed suit. Pulling off the larger dust cover beside the table, Nathan revealed an overstuffed chair that looked damn inviting.

Sniffing from the dust clouds, he sank down into the chair and stretched his left leg out in relief, the leather creaking under his weight. He rubbed his left thigh, the large knot easily found even through his trousers. He winced when he rubbed it a bit too roughly and cursed his bloody foolishness in riding from London instead of using a coach. And then that stupid romp over the damn estate without his damn cane, getting lost in that damned forest maze, hoping the exercise would work out the knot.

And maybe it would have if he hadn’t met Miss Collins.

Nathan shook his head and poured himself a brandy, using the setting sun as his light, waiting to welcome full darkness. He had barely noticed her when she had visited with the vicar, so consumed by pain he had been. It didn’t help that she hadn’t spoken a word.

But earlier this day, spying her sitting against that tree, legs tucked underneath her—he couldn’t deny he appreciated the pull of her dress over those thighs, the way the material tightened around the curve of her hips and how her bosom filled out the bodice. He wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t notice those things. He had drawn near to her before even realizing he knew her.

Looking at her, sitting like a seductive tree nymph, Nathan had felt a spark of envy for the bloody vicar. With a scowl, he took a generous swallow of his brandy, knowing full well the reason a beautiful unmarried woman helped an eligible man, even if he was a damned vicar.

Her timidity was obvious after speaking to her for just a moment. The feel of victory he felt when she finally spoke to him had been heady; he could not remember ever feeling such a thing before, not even in winning his first by-election.

He did not know why he had pushed her into walking with him; he was sure with directions he could have found his way out. Meek women did not appeal to him. But he had been attacked by an unexpected sense of vanity and wanted to prove to her that he could be cordial and sociable. He even minimized his limp as much as possible, something he had not felt compelled to do since his university days.

And what had he done? Forced her into speaking her mind only to lose control and embarrass himself. Nathan would be surprised if she ever wanted to speak to him again. With a disgusted shake of his head, he tossed back the brandy and poured another.

Not that he wanted to ingratiate himself to anyone. Not to the townspeople, his neighbors or that saintly vicar. And especially not to a timid, nearly mute redhead with curls and a generous bosom. Even if the hint of her legs had made his throat go dry and the appeal of her smile made him forget the words in his mouth.