Diane Gaston – A Lady Becomes A Governess (страница 5)

How much could two little girls take? Their mother. Their father. Their governess. Left with a strange uncle whose heart remained with his regiment. Garret had witnessed thousands of deaths, but these seemed the cruellest.

When notified that his nieces’ governess had died, Garret had been in London attempting to meet society’s expectations of a viscount. He contacted an agency in town to hire a new governess and left his obligations there to travel back to Westmorland to the family’s principal estate, to see to his nieces and await the new governess. He’d barely arrived at Brookmore when the agency sent word to expect Miss Tilson to arrive in Holyhead from Ireland.

What if Miss Tilson had drowned in this shipwreck, though? What was Garret to tell the little girls? That another person who was supposed to care for them had died?

He rode to Moelfre and enquired where the shipwreck survivors might be found. He was directed to the Pheasant Inn, a place bustling with activity.

The innkeeper greeted him. ‘Welcome. Do you seek a room?’

‘I am looking for a survivor of the shipwreck,’ Garret responded.

The man frowned and shook his head. ‘Such a tragedy. Almost forty people lost, I’m afraid. Only eleven made it through.’

That did not sound hopeful. ‘I am looking for Miss Tilson. Miss Claire Tilson.’

The innkeeper broke into a smile. ‘Ah, Miss Tilson! Yes. Yes. She is here.’

Relief washed through Garret. ‘May I see her?’

‘Of course.’ The innkeeper gestured for him to follow. He followed the man up two sets of stairs. ‘She’s been feverish since the rescue. Some men pulled her from the water, we were told. She seemed better today, our maid said. Might not be awake.’

‘I understand.’

The innkeeper knocked and a maid answered. ‘Someone to see Miss Tilson.’

The woman smiled and opened the door wider. Neither she nor the innkeeper asked who he was.

He approached the bed and gazed down in surprise. He’d expected an elderly woman like the previous governess. Miss Tilson hardly looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom herself. Her skin was smooth and flawless; her features strong, not delicate. Her hair, the colour of Kentish cobnuts, fell loose over the white pillow. Would her face fulfil the promise of character shown in her repose? He was intrigued.

He looked over at the innkeeper. ‘I do need a room.’

‘Yes, sir, I can accommodate you,’ the man answered. ‘Would you like to come with me now? I will show you to the room.’

Now that he’d found Miss Tilson, he was reluctant to leave her. ‘I will stay until she wakes up. So she knows I am here.’

She was bound to experience distress, waking in a strange place, after nearly drowning.

The innkeeper reached for Garret’s valise. ‘I’ll take this to the room and come back with your key, if you like.’

Garret nodded his thanks.

The maid spoke up. ‘May I leave, sir? I am very hungry. May I get food?’

The innkeeper glanced towards Garret.

‘I have no objection.’ Far be it from Garret to deny a hungry girl, so he wound up alone, seated at the bedside of a beauty he did not know, but for whom he was now responsible.

* * *

An hour passed, an hour spent with swirling thoughts of all he must remember to do, of all he’d learned needed his attention at the estate and even more demands in London and how much he wished he were simply marching with his men on some foreign road bound for the next battle. He missed his men. Worried about how they were faring. The war was over. Napoleon was on St Helena. Regiments were disbanding.

What was the use of wishing for what could not be? Even if his brother had not died, his army life would have changed drastically.

He had to admit he’d travelled to Holyhead mostly to give himself time away from these duties and regrets. Time to think. He could have easily sent a servant to escort her to the estate.

He rose when the innkeeper brought his key. As he settled back in the chair next to the bed, Miss Tilson’s eyes—unexpectedly hazel—fluttered open.

‘Where?’ she managed, her voice cracking.

He poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on the bed table. ‘You are safe, Miss Tilson,’ he told her. ‘You are at an inn in Moelfre.’

Her brow creased as if she were puzzled. ‘Miss Tilson,’ she whispered. ‘Claire.’

He helped her to sit and held the glass as she drank. ‘I am Lord Brookmore.’ It still sounded strange on his tongue. In his mind Brookmore was still his brother. ‘Your employer.’

She stared at him a long time and it seemed as if he could see a range of emotions flit through her eyes. Puzzlement, horror, grief and, finally, understanding.

* * *

Rebecca’s heart pounded in her chest. This was not another fever-filled vision, but a real man touching her, helping her drink. Once she quenched her considerable thirst, she became acutely aware that she wore only a thin nightdress. From where? From whom? Had even the clothes she’d worn—Claire Tilson’s clothes—been lost? Her throat tightened again, but this time from grief. Claire. Nolan. All those poor people.

She shrank away from the man and he sat back in his chair, placing the glass on the side table.

He was Claire’s new employer, he’d said, and he thought she was the poor governess who’d been swept away by that killing wave. He did not look like a man who would hire a governess. His rugged face and muscular frame made him look untamed. His piercing blue eyes seemed a thin shield against painful remembrances. Dark hair, longer than fashionable, was as windswept as a man who’d galloped over fields on a wild stallion. The shadow of a beard covering a strong jaw gave him a rakish air.

Her eyes darted around the room. Why was such a man alone with her? She certainly had never before been alone with a man in her bedchamber, in her night clothes.

‘Why—?’ Her throat closed again and she swallowed. ‘Why are you here?’

His blue eyes fixed on her. ‘I waited at Holyhead. News came of the shipwreck so I rode here to see if you’d...survived.’

The shipwreck. Again she watched the wave consume Claire. Again she felt the rowing boat smash against rocks and plunge her into the water.

She shivered with the memory and he rose again, this time to wrap a blanket around her shoulders. Her skin heated at his touch.

She looked up into his face. ‘How many? How many survived?’

‘Eleven, the innkeeper said,’ he replied.

Only ten others? What about the woman and her two children? Were they swept out to sea like Claire and the gentleman with her? Her eyes stung with tears.

‘My God.’ She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.

She could feel him staring at her, even though he was still and silent. How humiliating to become so discomposed in front of this stranger. It was so unlike her.

She wrested some control, finally lifting her head and taking deep breaths.

Without speaking, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her tear-soaked face.

The handkerchief was still warm from his body.

‘Thank you.’ She took another deep breath and started to return the now soaked handkerchief. She pulled it back, laughing drily. ‘I—I will have it laundered.’

What a silly thing to say. She had no means of getting it laundered. She had no money. No clothes. Nothing.

She, of course, could identify herself. Send word to London of her predicament. To Lord Stonecroft. Who else was there to help her in London? But why would she want to ask for his help when she wanted to escape him? Being his brood mare seemed even worse than drowning.

Lord Brookmore sat back in his chair again, his face averted.

She should tell him she wasn’t Claire Tilson, that she saw Claire washed overboard.

Oh, why had Claire drowned and not her? Claire had independence. She had work for which she earned her own money and she also had the hope of finding a man to love her some day. Claire would have fared so much better than Rebecca, who had nothing to look forward to but a prison of a marriage. Why could fate not have let them trade places in death as easily as they’d worn each other’s clothes?

She stole another glance at Lord Brookmore and her heart quickened.

He thought she was Claire. Perhaps she was the only one who knew she was really Lady Rebecca Pierce, doomed to marry Lord Stonecroft.

She could not die in the watery depths instead of Claire. She’d have been willing to do so. But she could trade places with Claire now. She could live Claire’s life for her.

Escape her own life.

Lord Stonecroft would not mourn her; he’d merely be annoyed that he must search for another brood mare to marry. Her brother would not mourn her. He’d get to keep her dowry. She could not sacrifice her life instead of Claire’s, but she could become Claire.

Guilt pricked at her. She’d be deceiving this very handsome man. What a way to repay his kindness.

He did need a governess, though, did he not? She could be a governess. How hard could that be? It would help him, would it not?

‘I—I had a fever, I think,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember much except—’ Except plunging into churning, cold water and thinking she would die. ‘Except the wreck.’