Читать книгу The Guardian's Dilemma - Gail Whitiker - Страница 9

September 1812

Helen de Coverdale sat in the small, walled garden behind the main body of the school building and breathed a sigh of pure pleasure.

What a glorious morning it had turned out to be! With the sun so warm and the air so mild, it was hard to believe that the first of September had already come and gone. In fact, if she closed her eyes and tried very hard, she could almost convince herself that it was the fragrance of spring flowers perfuming the air rather than the dusky scent of autumn signalling the end of yet another summer.

How quickly time passed, Helen thought wistfully as she gazed out towards the gardens. Indeed, with the arrival of each new year, the days seemed to tumble over one another with ever-increasing speed. When she was a child, the summers had stretched on endlessly. She remembered long, golden afternoons spent in the Italian countryside, when there had been nothing more pressing to do than paint pictures of olive groves and fields of brightly coloured flowers. She remembered sitting with her grandmother in the little stone house, listening to her tell the same wonderful stories she had told Helen’s own mother when she had been a child growing up there. How blissful those days seemed now, and how very long ago. Before the long years of war had begun to change everything.

Thank goodness her memories of the past hadn’t changed, Helen reflected silently. They would always be there for her, reminding her of a time when her future had loomed bright and hopeful. Before the heartbreak of love and the harsh realities of life had intruded to shatter her expectations and chase away her dreams.

Helen picked up the letter she had placed on the seat beside her and smiled as she read it over one more time. It was from her dear friend Desirée Nash. Desirée lived in London now, but before that she too had been a teacher at the Guarding Academy. She had taught Latin, Greek and philosophy for over six years, until a most unfortunate incident had forced her to leave.

Helen’s smile faded as she thought back to that dreadful time. In the spring of last year, Desirée had been caught in a compromising position with the father of one of the students. The fact that she had been completely innocent of any wrongdoing meant nothing. The episode had been witnessed by Mrs Guarding and two of the girls, and it had effectively put an end to Desirée’s future at the school. It had also been a particularly difficult time for Helen. She and Desirée had become close in the brief time they’d known each other, and Helen had shed many a tear as a result of her friend being so cruelly sent away. But she knew there was nothing she could have done. There was nothing anyone could have done. It was simply the way young single women were misused by society.

But now, Desirée was having the last laugh on them all. She had gone up to London and become the companion of an aristocratic lady, and had then fallen in love with the lady’s dashing young nephew. Now, she was betrothed to marry him. Her letter was to inform Helen of the date of the wedding, and to say how very much she hoped her dear friend would be able to come up to London for it.

Helen sighed as she carefully refolded the letter. How wonderful it would be to go to London and see Desirée married. How satisfying to see her take her place in society as Lady Buckworth. Indeed, after everything she had endured, it seemed only right and fitting that she should. Unfortunately, as much as Helen would have loved to go, she knew it was impossible. The school was operating short of the full complement of teachers as it was, and there were new girls arriving all the time. Mrs Guarding had informed them that three new girls would be coming in at the end of this week alone.

Which simply meant there was no way Helen could take the time necessary to attend Desirée’s wedding. She could not afford to risk losing her position here. While she knew that being a teacher was not a profession many people would envy, it was all she had, and in her own way she was happy with it. She valued the company and friendship of the other women who worked here; women who, like herself, had been forced to make their own way in the world. And it was certainly a vast improvement from the positions she had held in the past. Better to be a schoolmistress in a country school than a governess in a fine house where one lived in constant fear of being caught alone by the master.

‘Helen, Helen, come quickly. Mrs Guarding is looking for you!’

Helen looked up to see Jane Emerson hurrying across the grass towards her. Jane was a pretty little thing with big brown eyes and dark hair. She taught dance and deportment at Mrs Guarding’s and was well liked by both the staff and the girls. But her appearance in the garden now with the news that Mrs Guarding wanted to see her came as something of a surprise.

‘But why would she wish to see me?’ Helen asked, hastily slipping the letter into her pocket. ‘I have no classes until this afternoon.’

‘Yes, but Miss Gresham and her father are here.’

Helen blinked. ‘Miss Gresham?’

‘One of the new girls.’ Jane stopped for a moment to catch her breath. ‘Mrs Guarding is gathering…everyone in the hall to meet them.’

‘But I thought none of the new girls were due to arrive until the end of the week?’

‘That was what Mrs Guarding told us, but Miss Gresham is here now and we must all take our places. Come, Helen, we had best make haste,’ Jane urged. ‘You know how Mrs Guarding hates to be kept waiting!’

‘I apologise for our early arrival, Mrs Guarding,’ Oliver told the headmistress in the privacy of her sitting-room, ‘but I thought it best that Gillian begin her studies here as soon as possible.’

Mrs Guarding inclined her head. ‘No apology is necessary, Mr Brandon. I have asked my staff to assemble downstairs and it will be only a few moments before they are there. But in the interim, is there anything you would like to tell me about your ward?’

Oliver glanced at the older woman in surprise. ‘Why would you ask?’

‘Because given Gillian’s age, I thought there might have been another reason for your haste in bringing her here.’

‘I’m not sure I take your meaning.’

The headmistress looked at him in the same manner she might have regarded a tardy pupil. ‘Mr Brandon, I am very proud of the reputation I have built here at Guarding’s, but I am well aware that education is not the only reason parents send their daughters away. Especially to a school like this.’

‘Like this?’

‘Yes. One where the main focus is not to prepare young women for marriage.’

As a man accustomed to plain speaking, Oliver appreciated the headmistress’s forthright style. He was also glad he had left Gillian in the corridor beyond. ‘You are quite right, Mrs Guarding. I did have another reason for bringing my stepsister here, and under the circumstances, I see no reason why you should not be made aware of it.’ He paused, took a deep breath, and then laced his hands together behind his back. ‘Gillian has developed an unfortunate tendre for a gentleman of whom I do not approve. I had hoped that by separating them for a while, she might eventually find her affections cooling, and that the gentleman might find another target for his.’

A gleam of understanding appeared in the headmistress’s eyes. ‘Am I to assume that your ward’s inheritance has something to do with the gentleman’s interest?’

‘I believe it has. Because of her wealth, Gillian will be pursued by a great many gentlemen. Some will love her for who she is while others will court her for what she has. I am hoping that when the time comes for her to make a choice, she will have the maturity and good sense to recognise the difference. At the moment, she hasn’t,’ Oliver said flatly. ‘She has been swept away by the romantic ramblings of a handsome officer and believes herself in love with him. That is why I have brought her here.’

‘I see.’

‘It is also why I would like to make a request of you.’

‘And that is?’

‘The gentleman’s name is Sidney Charles Wymington. He’s a dashing fellow to be sure, but I want it made clear that Gillian is to have absolutely nothing to do with him.’

Mrs Guarding’s eyebrows rose in inquiry. ‘Have you reason to believe he would attempt to contact her here?’

‘Regrettably, I have no reason not to believe it,’ Oliver replied without hesitation. ‘Mr Wymington has become rather persistent of late in his attentions. That is why Gillian is not to be allowed contact with any gentlemen who might call for her. She is also not to receive correspondence from anyone other than family members and female friends.’

Mrs Guarding nodded. ‘I will ensure that my staff are made aware of your wishes, Mr Brandon.’

Oliver hesitated, not sure whether he detected a note of censure in the woman’s voice, and even less sure why he should be disturbed by it. ‘It is not my intention to sound like an overbearing parent, Mrs Guarding. Gillian is an amiable child but at times she can be…impulsive.’ He gave the headmistress a rueful smile. ‘She has done an excellent job of winding her tutors and her family around her little finger, and I regret to say she has become accustomed to getting her own way. I simply wish to prevent her from making a terrible mistake.’

The reluctant explanation brought a smile to Mrs Guarding’s face. ‘I understand your dilemma, Mr Brandon. It is an unfortunate truth that all too often young women are guided by their feelings rather than by their good sense, and I would not wish to see your ward come to grief. However, having said that, I must remind you that Miss Gresham is not a prisoner here. I cannot restrict all of her activities nor force her to remain on school property. If she is not to leave the grounds or to venture into the village unescorted, you must be the one to tell her that. I shall then endeavour to enforce your instructions as best I can.’

‘That is only fair,’ Oliver conceded. ‘Gillian is well aware of my feelings regarding Mr Wymington, but as I’ve said, she’s a strong-willed girl used to getting her own way. I am hoping that you and your staff will be able to strengthen and refine certain aspects of her character. I have been assured that moral development and intellectual growth are encouraged here.’ Oliver took a deep breath. ‘I wish her to understand that a young lady in possession of a considerable fortune cannot always be ruled by her heart, since the gentlemen who are courting her seldom are.’

Helen accompanied Jane to the dining-hall and smiled at the other teachers who were gathered there. They were a quiet group of women, made that way by their upbringing as much as by their choice of livelihood. They had all been forced to seek employment as a result of neither having had the good fortune to secure a husband, nor being in the enviable position of not needing one.

Helen had come to the Guarding Academy with a slight advantage over the others in that she had once been a pupil here. But she had never had cause to regret her decision. Even now, as she approached the beginning of her third year, she still enjoyed the opportunity of working with the young women in her care. That was not to say that all the young ladies liked being shown the best way to apply watercolours to a page, or how to conjugate Italian verbs. Indeed, with travel on the Continent so restricted, many of them felt there was little need for any language other than French in their daily lives, and some even balked at the learning of that.

For all of the attendant aggravations, however, Helen was not unhappy. There was a sense of belonging here; a feeling that they were all part of a small community, and that was important to Helen. She had spent too many lonely years forced to live without it.

The sound of approaching footsteps caused the low murmur of voices to cease, and in silent expectation the ladies turned towards the door where three people had just entered. Mrs Guarding led the way, followed by a very pretty young woman of about sixteen, and behind her, a gentleman who looked to be somewhere in his late thirties.

The young lady was dressed in the first style of fashion, from the brim of her attractive straw bonnet to the tips of her dark brown kid boots. She wore a short pelisse of deep lilac trimmed with white, and her light blonde hair was attractively arranged in loose curls around her face. She had high, round cheeks, a pert little nose, and a soft, rosebud mouth. But Helen could tell from the petulant expression on that mouth that the young lady was anything but pleased at the prospect of becoming a pupil at Mrs Guarding’s Academy.

The gentleman behind her was equally well dressed. He was garbed in a dark blue jacket over fawn-coloured breeches, and was wearing a pair of highly polished Hessians. The perfectly tailored garments accentuated the width of his shoulders and the musculature of his legs, but there was nothing foppish about him. The fabric of his single-breasted waistcoat was tastefully subdued, while his snowy white cravat was well but not fussily tied.

Unfortunately, it was not the manner of his dress that gave Helen cause for alarm. As she slowly raised her eyes to his face, icy fingers tightened around her heart, and for a moment, she could scarcely breathe.

No! It could not be! Not now, after all this time, surely it was not him…

‘Ladies, thank you for gathering so promptly,’ Mrs Guarding began in her usual brisk manner. ‘I am very pleased to introduce our newest student, Miss Gillian Gresham. Miss Gresham comes to us from Hertfordshire and will remain with us until the spring. I know you will all make her feel welcome at the Guarding Academy.’

The young lady introduced as Miss Gresham glanced briefly at the cluster of women in the room, but she did not smile, nor did she respond to a whispered comment made by the gentleman beside her. She kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to look up or even to acknowledge him.

Helen bit her lip. She wished with all her heart that she could smile, but her face was frozen from top to bottom. Dear heavens, was the gentleman truly the young woman’s father? She would not have thought him old enough…

‘I would also like to introduce Mr Oliver Brandon, Miss Gresham’s guardian,’ Mrs Guarding went on to say. ‘Mr Brandon has been good enough to donate an excellent selection of books from his own library for our use, and we are exceedingly grateful to him for his kindness. And now, Miss Gresham, Mr Brandon, if you would be so good as to follow me, I shall introduce you to the members of my staff.’

Helen nervously clasped her hands in front of her as the three began their perambulation. She kept her eyes down, wishing with all her heart that she could turn and run from the room, but she knew she dare not. Mrs Guarding would never forgive such a breach of etiquette from a member of her staff. Worse, it would only serve to draw attention to herself, and that was the last thing Helen wished to do. Which meant that she would just have to stay and see it through.

Perhaps he would not recognise her, she thought with sudden hope. After all, it had been nearly twelve years since he had last seen her and her appearance had certainly changed from the time she was a young woman of nineteen. There was also the possibility that he might not remember her, given that the room in which he’d found her had been very dark. And considering the awkwardness of the situation, he could have had only the briefest glimpse of her before—

‘And this is Miss Helen de Coverdale,’ she heard Mrs Guarding say. ‘Miss de Coverdale has been with us for two years and instructs the girls in the areas of watercolours and Italian.’

Helen was aware of Miss Gresham and her guardian stopping in front of her and knew there was nothing she could do but acknowledge the introduction. She slowly raised her head and smiled tentatively at the young woman. ‘Good morning, Miss Gresham.’

‘Good morning,’ came the lack-lustre reply.

Finally, with a reluctance borne of fear, Helen turned her head and looked at Oliver Brandon, trying all the while to ignore the butterflies swirling madly inside her stomach.

He, too, had changed over the past twelve years. His face, a striking mixture of lines and angles, was no longer that of a youth but of a man; one who had experienced life, both the good and the bad of it. He had a slender nose poised above a firm chin, a beautifully sculpted mouth and eyes that glowed a rich shade of brown. His hair was so dark as to appear almost black, as were his brows and lashes.

And he was tall. Helen had to tilt her head back to look into his face. Unfortunately, as she did, she saw the change in his expression, and felt her breath catch painfully in her throat. She recognised a brief flicker of surprise, followed by confusion, and then disbelief as forgotten memories stirred to life like the cold ashes of a long dead fire.

Helen’s heart plummeted. It seemed that her hopes of escaping recognition were to be dashed. The man knew exactly who she was. And it was clear from the look on his face that time notwithstanding, he thought no better of her now than he had all those years ago.

Oliver stared at the young woman standing before him and felt as though he’d gone tumbling backwards in time.

Good God, was it really her? After all these years, could it possibly be the same woman?

He blinked hard, wondering if it was just his memory playing tricks on him. It had, after all, been years since he’d last seen her, and what he had seen of her at the time hadn’t been all that much. But if it wasn’t the same woman, it could surely have been her twin. The resemblance was uncanny. She had the same dark, lustrous hair and the same exotic beauty of the woman he had encountered so briefly all those years ago. But if it was the same woman, what the hell was she doing here?

How had a nobleman’s whore become a teacher at a private girls’ school?

‘Mrs Guarding, might I have a word with you in your study?’ Oliver said finally.

The headmistress glanced briefly at Miss de Coverdale, and then nodded. ‘By all means, Mr Brandon. Miss Emerson, would you be so kind as to show Miss Gresham to her room?’

‘Yes, Mrs Guarding.’

‘Thank you, ladies. You may all return to your classes.’

As silent as little grey mice, the teachers filed out. Oliver saw a few cast surreptitious glances his way, but he noticed that none of them met his eye. And Helen de Coverdale did not look at him at all. She turned and walked away, not scurrying as the others had, but seeming to float across the floor, her movements slow and graceful, indicative of a poise and refinement he would not have expected in one of her class. At the door, she hesitated.

Oliver held his breath. Would she turn and look at him? If she did, it would be tantamount to an admission of familiarity. He waited as the seconds seemed to drag into hours.

In the end, she did not turn. Helen de Coverdale left the room and quietly closed the door behind her. She did not look back at him once.

Oliver slowly let go the breath he’d been holding. It had to be her. He’d seen the tell-tale flash of recognition in her eyes. She’d known who he was as surely as he’d known who she was. Which meant that his suspicions had to be right.

Helen de Coverdale was the young woman he’d stumbled upon in a darkened library, clutched in the passionate embrace of the married lord who had employed her.

Helen sat on the stone bench in the rose garden and thought back to the one and only time she had seen Oliver Brandon. It seemed a lifetime ago now, and in many ways, it was. She had been employed as a governess to Lord and Lady Talbot at the time. A dreadful position, and one which, had she had a choice, she would have turned and run away from as far and as fast as her legs would have carried her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had a choice. She had taken the job because she’d needed money to live on after her father had died. But she had seen the look in Lord Talbot’s eyes the first time he had spoken to her, and had known what it would portend. Men had been looking at her like that since she was a child of thirteen, their hungry eyes lingering on her face and on her already ripening body.

Helen hadn’t always had to worry about her appearance, of course. Before her father had died, her life had been very different. Robert de Coverdale had been a barrister, and as his only daughter, Helen had been a most eligible young lady. Indeed, her father had held out great hopes of her achieving a respectable marriage, perhaps even to a titled gentleman of some fortune.

What he had not expected was to see his only daughter fall in love with an impoverished clergyman who had come to the village during the summer of her seventeenth year.

Helen shuddered as she cast her mind back to her youth. Her father had refused to countenance an alliance between his daughter and Thomas Grant, the young vicar who’d claimed to love her. He’d said it was so far beneath her as to be laughable, and he had forbidden Helen to see him. And dutiful daughter that she was, Helen had obeyed. But it had taken years to recover from the heartache of losing Thomas. He had been her first true love, and the loss of that love had nearly destroyed her.

Over the next two years, more unhappiness had plagued Helen’s life. Her mother had died in a freak riding accident, and her father, devastated by the loss of the woman he had loved more than life itself, had fallen into a series of personal and financial disasters. Unable to cope with a life in ruin, he had eventually taken his own life, and suddenly, Helen had discovered what it was to be dependent upon others. She’d had no relations in England. Her mother’s family was still in Italy, and her father’s only brother had been killed in the Americas. She’d had no one to turn to and no reputable avenues left open to her. It was then she started trying to disguise her natural beauty. She’d had no wish to appear attractive to the men who passed her in the street, or desirable to the husbands of other women.

Unfortunately, not even the wearing of plain clothes or the scraping back of her hair into a matronly style had been enough to disguise the true loveliness of her features. Helen had not been able to make her heavily lashed eyes appear any the less noticeable, or her full-lipped mouth any the less appealing. She hadn’t been able to hide the fact that she wasn’t as slim and dainty as were so many of the English ladies she met. She had inherited her mother’s lush, exotic beauty, and it was that lushness which men found so attractive, Lord Talbot included. He had been hosting a shooting party at his country estate in Somerset that fateful weekend. The huge house had been filled with guests, many of whom had come all the way from Scotland to partake of the sport and to enjoy the lavish entertainments Lady Talbot had planned for the evenings.

Helen had not been invited to enjoy any of the amusements, of course. She had been included in the outing to Grovesend Hall simply to look after the children, but as a lowly governess she was not expected to participate in any of the festivities. So after tucking her two little girls into bed, she had gone down to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk and had then headed for the library. Lady Talbot had told Helen she could avail herself of his lordship’s libraries. She had discovered Helen’s passion for reading, and had assured her that as long as the master was not about, she was welcome to browse through his extensive selection of books.

Helen often wondered if Lady Talbot had known of her husband’s philandering ways and had simply turned a blind eye to it. Whatever the case, Helen had made a terrible mistake that night. Believing that Lord Talbot would be busy entertaining his guests, she had made her way to the library—which was located well away from the source of the revelry—and had begun to look for something to read.

That was where Lord Talbot had found her.

Helen shivered as she went over it again in her mind. She remembered turning around at the sound of the door opening and seeing the look on his face; a look that had caused her to immediately forget all about books. Like most of the gentlemen, Lord Talbot had been drinking since noon and was well on his way to being in his cups. Knowing that, she had pulled her shawl more closely around her, had quickly retrieved her candle and her drink, and had gone to move past him.

For a drunkard, Lord Talbot had moved with terrifying speed. The milk and the candle had gone flying as Talbot pulled her roughly into his arms and started kissing her.

Repulsed, Helen had struggled against him, fighting to avoid the wet, slobbering kisses he had pressed upon her neck and mouth. She’d sensed that her struggles were only adding to his excitement, however, and given that he had the advantage of both size and weight, Helen had been left in no doubt as to the outcome. He pushed her back towards the settee, his mouth smothering the scream that left her throat as his other hand closed painfully over her breast.

At that precise moment, the door to the library had opened and Oliver Brandon had walked in.

Helen hadn’t known who he was at the time. He had simply been a guest in her employer’s home. But during the long, agonising moments in which he’d stood frozen in the doorway, Helen had seen the look of shock on his face. And she had watched it change to one of disgust as he’d placed his own interpretation upon the scene before him. He’d muttered an apology and abruptly withdrawn, not even guessing at the true nature of the horror taking place.

Helen closed her eyes as the humiliating memories came flooding back. The only good thing about it was that Mr Brandon’s appearance—however brief—had given her the chance she’d needed to escape. Distracted by the sound of the intrusion, Lord Talbot had momentarily looked up, and in doing so, had loosened his grip. In that blessed moment, Helen had broken free and bolted for the door. She had raced towards the stairs as tears of anger and humiliation had streamed down her face and had run all the way to her room. Once inside, she’d turned the key in the lock, wedged a small writing-table against the door and pushed the bed against that. She hadn’t slept a wink all night.

The next morning, she’d left Grovesend Hall for ever. She had returned to London, where she had lived off her wits until she had been able to secure another position in the south of England. She had never seen Lord or Lady Talbot again. She hadn’t seen Oliver Brandon either. Until this morning, when he had brought his sixteen-year-old ward to be a student at Mrs Guarding’s Academy.

But it had been clear from the look on his face that he had not forgotten who she was. And he would surely be wondering how and why a woman of such loose morals had ended up becoming a teacher in a private girls’ school. Especially one where he was intending to leave his own stepsister as a pupil.