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

Oliver was silent as he accompanied the headmistress back to her study. His mind was spinning, turning over in ever-increasing detail the memories of that fateful night so very long ago.

He had never forgotten what he had seen in the library at Grovesend Hall. He remembered with distaste the sight of Lord Talbot’s hand clutching the young woman’s breast, and the lustful expression on his face when he’d turned around and seen Oliver standing there. Even now, the memory of it repulsed him.

The problem was, Oliver hadn’t known William Talbot well at the time. Yes, they had frequented the same clubs, and they’d often run into one another at social occasions, but the difference in their ages had prevented them from forming any kind of a close friendship. But for whatever reason, Talbot had taken a liking to him and Oliver had been young enough to be flattered by his regard. So when the wealthy peer had invited him to come to his country house for a weekend shooting party, Oliver had accepted with alacrity.

He shook his head now, as he so often did when he thought back to the naïveté of his youth. He hadn’t known that Talbot was such a reprobate. But even if he had, Oliver would never have expected the man to flaunt his mistress in front of his guests during a crowded soirée. What would his wife have said if she’d been the one to discover them in the library?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, it hadn’t been Lord Talbot’s wife who had stumbled upon that sorry sight, but Oliver himself. He had opened the door to the library, wanting only to escape from the noise and revelry going on in the other rooms, and had come face to face with his host and a young woman locked in a passionate embrace. Obviously, the sound of his arrival had immediately served to catch the young woman’s attention, if not Talbot’s, and she had glanced up and stared at him across the darkened room.

For the space of moments, Oliver had been treated to the sight of one of the loveliest faces he had ever seen. A cascade of thick, black hair fell nearly to her waist, framing a face of such arresting beauty that he felt as though he was staring into the face of an angel. Her dark eyes had reached into his soul, tugging at the very core of who he was.

The memory of those eyes had stayed with him for years.

Then, belatedly aware that he had stumbled upon a lover’s tryst, Oliver had withdrawn. He’d closed the door and gone back to the ballroom, trying to lose himself in the crowd of revellers and merrymakers. But for some reason, the memory of what he’d seen had stayed with him, disturbing him to such a degree that even he himself hadn’t been able to explain it.

The next morning, he’d left Grovesend Hall and headed back to London. He hadn’t said a word to anyone about what he’d seen. Not even to Lord Talbot who, obviously too drunk to remember, had been surprised and disappointed by his young guest’s hasty departure. Nor had he seen the raven-haired beauty again.

Until this morning when he had arrived at Mrs Guarding’s Academy for Girls. Her name was Helen de Coverdale. And unless he did something about it, she was about to become one of the women who would have a direct influence on his impressionable young ward.

‘You wished to speak with me, Mr Brandon?’

‘Hmm?’ Oliver glanced across at the headmistress, and realised she had been waiting for him to begin. ‘Oh. Yes. I wanted to ask you about…one of your teachers.’

‘Miss de Coverdale.’

It wasn’t a question and Oliver frowned. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because she was the only one who elicited any kind of response from you. Forgive me for speaking plainly, Mr Brandon, but are you acquainted with Miss de Coverdale?’

‘No. At least, not formally,’ Oliver amended quickly. ‘I was not aware of her name until today. But I remember seeing her…many years ago under considerably different circumstances. I was wondering how she came to be in your employ.’

Mrs Guarding walked towards a fine black lacquer desk and sat down behind it. ‘Would it surprise you to learn that Miss de Coverdale was once a pupil here?’

‘Yes.’ Oliver picked up a particularly fine cloisonné vase from the table and turned it over in his hands. ‘Am I to assume she comes from a privileged background?’

‘Not privileged, but certainly genteel. Her father was a barrister. Her mother, I believe, was of foreign birth. Helen was with us for a few years and showed great promise with her drawing. And of course, she spoke Italian beautifully. After she left, I heard nothing more about her. Until three years ago when to my great surprise, I received a letter from her, asking if I would consider giving her employment as a teacher.’

‘Which you agreed to do.’

‘Most happily. I was delighted to have a teacher with her skills.’

Oliver nodded, pausing for a moment to deliberate upon how best to phrase his next question. ‘Does she have any…gentlemen friends?’

‘If she has, I am not aware of it. Miss de Coverdale seldom leaves the building.’

‘Not even to visit family?’

‘She has no family in England. Her parents are both dead and I have never heard her refer to anyone else in conversation.’

‘I see.’ Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Mrs Guarding, did Miss de Coverdale provide you with suitable references when she came to you?’

He saw a brief flash of annoyance darken the headmistress’s eyes. ‘Of course. Have you any reason to believe she would not?’

His shrug was purposely evasive. ‘I am merely curious as to the nature of Miss de Coverdale’s past employment.’

Mrs Guarding abruptly rose and crossed to the bell pull. ‘Miss de Coverdale’s work as governess to the children of Lord and Lady Peregrine was spoken of in glowing terms. The letter was written by Lady Peregrine herself, if that is of any consequence.’

Oliver smiled faintly. He had put the headmistress on the defensive, and her message to him was quite clear. She did not care to entertain intrusive questions about her staff, nor did she feel compelled to answer them. ‘I shall take up no more of your time, madam. I ask only that you provide me with periodic reports as to Gillian’s progress. I have reason to believe she will experience some difficulties in settling in, but I am sure everything will be fine once she comes to know the other girls.’

‘I am confident she will fit in very well, Mr Brandon. But I shall keep you apprised of her progress.’ The door opened and a black-garbed maid entered. ‘Molly will show you out.’

Oliver bowed. ‘Thank you.’

As Oliver followed the maid down the hall, he admitted to feeling a certain degree of frustration. He was no further ahead after his conversation with Mrs Guarding than he had been before it. It was clear the headmistress thought well of Miss de Coverdale, and it was equally clear there was nothing in her past that would have precluded her from being taken on as a teacher here.

But how could a woman who had been employed in a household where she might well have been the lord’s mistress, receive a glowing report from the lord’s wife? Had she been that good at concealing the nature of her relationships? Oliver wondered. Or had she simply been fortunate enough to end up in a household where the wife knew of her husband’s behaviour, and had been equally willing to turn a blind eye to it?

Helen set her easel close to the base of the linden tree and checked to make sure that the footing was secure. ‘Now, girls,’ she said, turning to smile at the eight young women who were gathered around her, ‘I thought today we might begin work on a new landscape. Miss Tillendon, did you not express the opinion that it would be challenging to paint the varying shades of blue in the sky?’

‘Yes, Miss de Coverdale.’

‘Then I think that is what we shall undertake. Now, to begin with, we should spend a little time studying the sky. We should look up and see how the colours in it change. Notice the way the blue is lighter there, and how the clouds come across it and make it appear—’

‘Miss de Coverdale, who is that gentleman?’ Rebecca Walters enquired suddenly.

Helen abruptly turned away from her study of the sky to glance in the direction Rebecca was pointing. To her astonishment, she saw Oliver Brandon striding down the path towards them, his face set in grim lines. He covered the distance between the school and the pasture in short measure, but then, as if uncertain of his welcome, stopped at the edge of the field and leaned against the fence.

Helen felt a quick surge of colour to her cheeks. What was Oliver Brandon doing out here? Surely he wasn’t expecting to have a conversation with her right in the middle of her lesson? But why else would he have come? He would hardly be interested in watching a group of young girls learn how to paint.

‘The gentleman’s name is Mr Brandon,’ Helen said, seeing no reason not to tell them. ‘He is the guardian of one of our new students, Miss Gresham.’

‘But why is he watching you?’ Lydia McPherson piped up.

‘He isn’t watching me, Miss McPherson. He is watching all of us attempt to paint the sky.’

‘I think he is looking at you, Miss,’ little Eliza Howard said shyly. ‘He is too old to care about the rest of us, or about our paintings.’

The girls started to giggle and Helen felt the blush in her cheeks spread to the rest of her face. ‘If he is looking at me, it is only because he wishes to see how I conduct my classes. His ward is to be a pupil here. No doubt he wishes to see what kind of teacher I am.’

‘I shouldn’t mind his watching me,’ Rebecca Walters said on a sigh. ‘He’s ever so handsome.’

Elizabeth Brookwell gave a disparaging snort. ‘You think all gentlemen are handsome.’

‘I do not!’

‘Yes you do!’

‘Ladies, please!’ Helen interrupted firmly. ‘It is not for us to wonder why Mr Brandon has chosen to stand by the fence and watch us. He is perfectly within his rights to do so, and I am sure it is nothing more than curiosity. Now, kindly return your attention to the sky. If you will recall, I was remarking on the number of shades of blue to be seen. Who can tell me how many different shades there are?’

The question served to focus the attention of most of the girls back on their work, and gave Helen a legitimate reason to ignore Oliver Brandon. But she could not so easily dismiss the awareness of his presence standing some thirty feet away. It was all very well to say he was only there to observe the activities of girls at their lessons. It was another thing entirely to believe it.

Oliver stood by the gate and watched Helen de Coverdale conduct an art class for the small cluster of girls gathered around her. They had each brought easels, paints and papers with them, and from what he could see, they were all diligently trying to replicate the ever-changing shades of blue in the afternoon sky. Even from this distance, however, it was obvious that most of them would never be called upon to make a living from their art. But what about the woman standing in the middle of the circle? What had happened to bring about such a change in her life?

There was no question in Oliver’s mind that Helen de Coverdale was wasting her time here. With those full pouting lips and that blatantly sensual figure, she could have been one of the most sought after courtesans in London. Wealthy, aristocratic gentlemen would have vied with one another to offer her their protection, while handsome young bucks would have been lined up outside her door.

And who could blame them? Oliver had never seen such a combination of innocence and sensuality in a woman before. Her skin was itself a palette upon which an artist might sketch. But unlike canvas, it invited touch. Even from this distance, he had an overwhelming urge to run his fingers over her face and see if it felt as warm and as soft as it looked. And her movements fascinated him. Helen de Coverdale walked amongst the girls with the same languid grace she had demonstrated in the dining-hall; her hips following her legs in a movement that was decidedly provocative, yet totally instinctual. Her attire, a simple, round gown of unadorned muslin, was not designed to flatter her figure, yet the voluptuous curves of her hips and the fullness of her breasts caused it to appear enticing in spite of it being so plain. Furthermore, in direct contrast to what was expected of a woman in her position, she did not hide her hair under a cap or restrain it in a matronly style. The glorious tresses rippled freely down her back, falling almost to her waist in a dark, shimmering stream.

Yes, she was certainly a woman to be desired, Oliver acknowledged. And given what he had seen of her conduct in the library at Grovesend Hall, she was not inexperienced in the arts of love. But if that was the case, what was she doing here? Sophie had assured him that the teachers at the Guarding Academy were all of the highest moral character. Yet what he had witnessed of Helen de Coverdale’s conduct in the past had been impropriety, plain and simple. How could a woman like that be hired to teach moral rectitude to the young women in her care?

Suddenly, Oliver straightened. The lady in question had broken away from her girls and was walking towards him.

Without thinking, he pushed himself away from the gate and removed his beaver. She might be a lightskirt, but she was a woman, and his manners were too deeply ingrained to allow him to treat her any differently. Besides, to demonstrate such shocking lack of manners in front of a group of young girls who were even now casting secretive glances in their direction would have been the height of rudeness.

Nevertheless, Oliver kept his voice polite but cool as he sketched her a brief bow. ‘Good afternoon, Miss de Coverdale. I hope my study has not disturbed you.’

‘It has not disturbed me, Mr Brandon, but I fear you are affecting the concentration of some of my girls,’ Helen said quietly. ‘They are easily distracted by the presence of strangers, especially those about whom they are curious.’

Oliver had expected her voice to be as seductive as everything else about her, but he was surprised to discover that her eyes were not brown as he had first thought, but a most unusual shade of dark green flecked with bits of amber and gold. ‘I apologise for any disruption I might be causing, Miss de Coverdale. I was simply curious to see if you were as good an artist as Mrs Guarding led me to believe.’

The beautiful eyes grew wary. ‘You discussed me with Mrs Guarding?’

‘Of course. As I discussed all of the teachers I met this morning. I thought it only wise since my ward is to be a pupil here.’

Oliver knew he didn’t owe her an explanation, but neither did he wish to make her feel as though he had singled her out. Why he should be concerned with her feelings, he had no idea. After all, it was not his conduct that had engendered his current opinion of her.

‘Does your ward like to paint?’ Helen surprised him by asking.

‘Paint? Yes, I suppose she does. Gillian is skilled in a number of areas, including those of a more creative nature.’

‘Good. Then I look forward to the opportunity of working with her.’

‘That is what I would like to speak to you about, Miss de Coverdale,’ Oliver said stiffly. ‘I think there are things which need to be clarified—’

Suddenly, a clattering behind them, followed by smothered gasps and then a burst of feminine giggles, brought an abrupt end to their conversation.

‘Miss de Coverdale, come quickly!’ one of the girls cried. ‘Rebecca’s easel has fallen over and she is all spattered with yellow and blue paint.’

Helen’s eyes widened as she turned to survey the spectacle. ‘Dear me! Miss Walters, did I not tell you to make sure your easel was securely placed?’ She turned back around and Oliver was surprised to see not anger, but laughter bubbling in the depths of her beautiful eyes. ‘Forgive me, Mr Brandon, I fear I must return to my class.’

‘But it is important that we speak—’

‘I am sure whatever you need say to me can wait, sir.’

With that, she turned and hurried back towards her class. The girls were all clustered around the unfortunate Rebecca, ineffectually dabbing their small white handkerchiefs at the spots of yellow and blue paint on her smock. Oliver listened as Helen put one of the older girls in charge, and then watched her escort the stricken Rebecca back to the school. Once again, she did not spare him a second glance.

Oliver bit back a sigh of vexation. He was not used to being summarily dismissed, and certainly not by a woman like Helen de Coverdale. But she had made her position clear. Obviously if he wished to have any kind of private conversation with her, it was either going to have to be before her classes, or after them.

Helen was somewhat surprised that she did not see Oliver Brandon again that day, but she was not in the least surprised to receive a summons to the headmistress’s sitting-room later that afternoon.

‘I hope you do not mind my asking you here, Helen,’ Mrs Guarding began, ‘but I think you know the reason why.’

Helen sighed. She had long since come to realise that Eleanor Guarding was not only an intelligent woman but an intuitive one. She had obviously seen the look on Oliver Brandon’s face this morning—as well as on her own—and the interview now was about achieving an understanding of what those looks had been about. For the good of the school, of course.

‘Not at all,’ Helen said, taking the indicated seat in front of the headmistress’s desk. ‘I am sure you noticed my reaction to Mr Brandon.’

The headmistress smiled. ‘I am used to young women blushing in the presence of a handsome gentleman, but I thought your response indicated something more than just a touch of simple embarrassment.’

Helen was dismayed to feel fresh colour rise to her cheeks. ‘It isn’t what you think.’

‘Oh? What is it you perceive I think it might be?’

‘I am not acquainted with Mr Brandon,’ Helen said carefully. ‘I merely saw him at the home of one of my employers, many years ago.’

‘Really. And yet it struck me there was some discomfort on your part. Why would that be, if you had done nothing more than see him?’

‘Because I saw him while I was being…’ Helen broke off, finding it difficult even now to say the words. ‘While I was being most…rudely treated by the man whose daughters I had been engaged to look after.’

‘I see.’ There was a moment’s silence during which all that could be heard was the ticking of the mantel clock. Then Mrs Guarding nodded. ‘It would be foolish of me to pretend an ignorance of what goes on in the world, Helen. You would not be the first woman to be unjustly put upon, and I sympathise with you for what you had to endure. I take it Mr Brandon did not realise what was happening at the time?’

‘No. I am quite sure he believed he was witnessing a mutually agreeable embrace. He said nothing, but he left the room very quickly.’

‘And you have not seen him since?’

‘No. I left Lord Talbot’s employ the very next day.’

Mrs Guarding laced her fingers together on the desk in front of her. ‘Well, I think we need say no more about it. I apologise if my question seemed intrusive, but for the good of the school, I had to ask.’

‘I understand.’

‘My other reason for inviting you here was to inform you of Mr Brandon’s concerns with regard to his ward.’

Helen frowned. ‘Concerns?’

‘Yes. It seems Miss Gresham has been keeping company with a gentleman by the name of Sidney Wymington. Mr Brandon is not happy with her choice of companion and has sent her here to place her beyond Mr Wymington’s reach.’

Helen glanced at the headmistress in confusion. ‘But if he has sent her here for that reason, why is he still concerned?’

‘Because he is of the opinion that Mr Wymington may try to get in touch with Miss Gresham here. As such, he has asked me to advise my staff that she is not to receive letters from the gentleman, nor to entertain him here. She is also not to leave the school grounds unescorted.’

At the headmistress’s words, Helen felt a mixture of anger and resentment kindle in her breast. Why did men always feel they had the right to meddle in other people’s lives? Especially those of their wives or daughters? Oliver Brandon was interfering in his ward’s life in exactly the same way her own father had meddled in hers; an interference which had cost Helen the love of the man she had dearly hoped to marry. Why was everyone so willing to accept such high-handed treatment?

‘Do you agree with what he is asking you to do?’ she asked stiffly.

Mrs Guarding picked up her teacup and raised it to her lips. ‘It is not for me to agree or disagree, Helen. Mr Brandon’s ward is my pupil; therefore, I have no choice but to act in accordance with his instructions. He has made me aware of certain facts and I must now do whatever I can to ensure that Miss Gresham and Mr Wymington do not meet.’

‘But what if he is wrong about the gentleman?’ Helen felt compelled to ask. ‘What if Mr Wymington is a perfectly amiable man who loves Miss Gresham and who has the best of intentions at heart?’

‘That possibility certainly exists, but it is not up to you or me to make it known to Mr Brandon. He has paid his ward’s tuition in full and has also made a most generous donation of books. I am in no position to challenge him about what he does and does not feel is right for his ward.’

‘But he is interfering in a young girl’s life!’

‘A young girl who is legally in his care,’ the headmistress reminded her. ‘As such, one who must be expected to abide by his decisions. I do hope I have your co-operation in this, Helen. I cannot have individual members of my staff acting of their own volition in matters such as these.’

Helen bit back the words she longed to speak and vented her frustration in a sigh. She knew there was only one answer she could give. Whatever her own feelings in the matter, they could have no place here. For the good of the school, she had to comply with Mrs Guarding’s wishes. But not for the first time in her life, the rules by which she was forced to live sat ill upon her conscience. ‘Yes, of course you have my co-operation.’

Mrs Guarding looked considerably relieved. ‘Thank you. I know you have strong feelings in the matter, my dear, but we really have no choice. If we do not do as Mr Brandon asks, he will simply remove his ward and demand a refund of the tuition he has already paid. And then we shall be in forfeit of both his good opinion and his funding.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Helen murmured reluctantly. ‘But it does not make me any the happier for knowing.’

‘We must do the best we can.’ Mrs Guarding smiled. ‘Thank you too for telling me the truth about the manner of your first introduction to Mr Brandon.’

‘Why would I not?’

‘Because it is not always easy to tell people about things we are ashamed of, especially if they happened in our distant past. And it takes even more courage to admit them to me.’

Somewhat reluctantly, Helen began to smile. ‘I had no idea what Mr Brandon might have told you. In the event he told you what he remembered seeing all those years ago, I thought it would be in both of our interests to tell you what really happened.’

‘And that is why we need say no more about it.’ Mrs Guarding raised the teacup to her lips again. ‘As far as I am concerned, the matter is closed.’