The Wayward Governess. Joanna FulfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Are you hurt, miss?’
‘No. I…I’m all right,’ she replied, hoping her voice wouldn’t shake.
‘Good. Then I’ll set you on your way.’
He looked round at the others as though daring them to challenge the words, but no one did. Instead they avoided his eye and moved aside. Seeing her bag lying nearby, Eden picked it up. As he did so, Stone came to, propping himself groggily on one elbow, his other hand massaging the lump on his jaw. Blood trickled from a split lip.
‘You’ll get yours, Eden, I swear it!’
If the other was in any way perturbed by the threat he gave no sign of it save that the glint in the grey eyes grew a shade harder.
‘I’ll look forward to that, Stone.’
Then, placing a firm but gentle hand under her elbow, he led Claire away from the scene.
For a few moments they walked in silence and she was grateful for the respite because it allowed her time to regain her self-control. She was trembling now with reaction and the knowledge of how narrow her escape had been. Moreover she was ashamed to the depths of her soul to have been seen in such a situation. Respectable young women did not travel unaccompanied and would never place themselves in circumstances where they might attract the attentions of such brutes as those. Her face reddened. What must he think?
She stole a glance at her protector, but the handsome face gave nothing away. Nor did he venture a comment of any kind. Instead they walked on in silence until they were well clear of the tavern, she all the while aware of the warmth of his hand beneath her elbow. It was a gesture that was both comforting and disturbing at once. Yet the nearness of this man was not threatening as those others had been. How much she owed him. She stole another look at his face.
‘Thank you, sir. I am most grateful for what you did back there.’
The grey eyes regarded her steadily a moment.
‘I beg you will not regard it, madam.’
Claire knew a moment’s surprise for the Yorkshire burr had disappeared to be replaced with the pure modulated diction associated with a very different social rank. However, fearing to seem rude, she did not remark on it.
‘Who were those men?’ she asked then.
‘Scum. They needn’t concern you further.’ He paused. ‘May I ask where you’re going?’
‘To Helmshaw.’
‘Helmshaw. That’s a fair walk from here.’
‘Yes, I believe so, but the public coach doesn’t go there.’
‘You came on the coach?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
Her cheeks reddened. ‘As you see.’
‘You have family in Helmshaw perhaps?’
‘A friend.’
‘But your friend is not expecting you.’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Not at all, I’d say, or you would have been met at the coach.’
Not knowing what to say, Claire remained silent. A few moments later they reached the end of the street. There he paused, looking down at her.
‘Yonder lies the road to Helmshaw. I’d walk along with you, but I’ve important business requiring my attention here. However, I think you’ll not be troubled again.’
She managed a tremulous smile. ‘I’m sure I shan’t be. You’ve been most kind, sir.’
‘You’re welcome, Miss, er…’
‘Claire Davenport.’
He took the offered hand and bowed. For one brief moment she felt the warmth of his touch through her glove. Then he relinquished his hold.
‘Farewell, Miss Davenport.’
‘Farewell, Mr Eden. And thank you again.’
He handed her the valise and touched his hand to his hat. Then he turned and walked away. Feeling strangely bereft, she watched the tall departing figure with a rueful smile. In all likelihood they would never meet again, though she knew she would never forget him. With a sigh she turned and continued on her way.
As the man Eden had predicted she met with no more trouble on the road, but half an hour later it came on to rain, a thundery summer shower. The open roadway offered no shelter and in a very short time she was soaked through. It was with real relief that she saw the first houses on the edge of the village. An enquiry of a passing carter directed her to a grey stone house set back from the road in a pleasant garden. Claire paused by the gate, feeling her stomach knot in sudden apprehension. What if Miss Greystoke had moved on? It had been seven years after all. What would she do then? Where would she go? Taking a deep breath, she walked up the paved pathway to the front door and rang the bell. A maidservant answered. On seeing Claire’s bedraggled and muddied appearance she eyed her askance.
‘The doctor’s not at home,’ she said.
Shivering a little now, Claire stood her ground.
‘It is Miss Greystoke I seek, not the doctor.’
Before the girl could answer another voice spoke behind her.
‘Who is it, Eliza?’
Claire’s heart beat painfully hard. The woman’s elegant lavender-coloured gown was different, but everything else was familiar from the light brown hair to the blue eyes now regarding her with shock and concern.
‘Claire?’ The woman came closer, wonder writ large in her expression, and then a beaming smile lit her face. ‘Oh, my dear, it really is you!’
‘Miss Greystoke.’
‘What a wonderful surprise. But what am I doing talking here on the doorstep? Come inside, do.’
Only too happy to obey, Claire stepped into the hallway and for a moment the two women faced each other in silence. Then Ellen Greystoke opened her arms and drew her visitor into a warm embrace. Knowing herself safe for the first time in days, Claire began to shake.
‘Good gracious! How cold you are! We must get you out of those wet clothes at once. Then we shall sit down and have some tea and you can tell me everything.’
Claire was escorted to a pleasant upstairs bedroom, provided with hot water and towels, and then left in privacy. Shivering, she removed her bonnet and then stripped off her wet things. How good it was to be free of them at last and to be able to bathe again and tidy her hair. Having done so, she donned a clean gown. It was one of two that she had been able to bring. Apart from those, a russet spencer, a few necessary personal items and her sketchbook, the valise contained nothing of value. Involuntarily Claire’s hand sought the locket she wore around her neck. It was her sole piece of jewellery and it bore the only likeness of her parents that she possessed. She had inherited her mother’s dusky curls and hazel eyes and her face had the same fine bone structure. Her father too had been dark haired with rugged good looks. It was not hard to see why her parents had been attracted to each other or why Henry Davenport should fly in the face of his family’s disapproval and marry a young woman with only a pretty countenance and a hundred pounds a year to recommend her. Goodness was not a marketable quality in their eyes. Yet, contrary to all predictions, the marriage had been a success. Claire had fond memories of her early years, days filled with sunshine and laughter when she’d been truly happy and carefree. How long ago it all seemed and how like a dream.
An outbreak of typhus changed everything: her father had sickened first and then her mother, the fever carrying them off within three days of each other. At a stroke she was an orphan. Miss Greystoke had taken it upon herself to inform her father’s family and in due course Uncle Hector had arrived. Her thirteen-year-old self could see the likeness