in the first place. ‘There was never any question of children,’ she added, not realising precisely what she was revealing to her interested listener, who turned away briefly, thereby concealing a flickering, enigmatic smile.
‘Forgive the assumption, ma’am,’ he responded, with just a trace of unsteadiness in his voice. ‘However, in my defence I must say it was an understandable mistake to make. Furthermore, if you have no children in your care, I fail to understand why you should require the services of a governess.’
‘I do not wish to employ a governess, sir…any governess,’ Gwen swiftly assured him, after having silently acknowledged there was some justification for his jumping to the totally wrong conclusion, ludicrous though it had undoubtedly been. ‘I merely wish to attain your permission to exchange a brief word with your governess, Miss Jane Robbins.’
All lingering traces of amusement vanished in an instant from Jocelyn Northbridge’s ruggedly masculine features. ‘I regret to say I am unable to acquiesce to your request, Lady Warrender. Miss Robbins, sadly, is no longer in my employ.’
Gwen made not the least attempt to hide her astonishment, though after a moment’s reflection she began to appreciate that it was perhaps understandable why, given her employer’s caustic temperament, Jane had eventually sought another post. What wasn’t so clear was why Jane had failed to furnish her with a forwarding address. After all, she had been well aware that her childhood friend would shortly move into the locale. Why on earth hadn’t she left a note in Mrs Travis’s care, or sent one to London for Mr Claypole to pass on at Gwen’s arrival in the capital?
She began to experience a definite feeling of unease. ‘Do you happen to know where Miss Robbins presently resides, sir? Could you possibly furnish me with her direction?’
For a moment Gwen feared he might, for reasons best known to himself, withhold the information, but then he informed her, without betraying the least emotion, ‘Yes, I am in a position to do that, ma’am. She has taken up permanent residency beneath the shading branches of a large yew tree in St Matthew’s churchyard.’
Jocelyn Northbridge could never have been accused of harbouring much sympathy towards females who suffered the vapours. In fact, his tolerance hovered only just above zero. Yet in those moments that followed his blunt disclosure, when he watched what he had already decided was a very sweet countenance lose every vestige of healthy bloom, the chivalrous streak in his nature welled as never before, and an unexpected desire to protect almost overwhelmed him.
Within seconds he had poured out a generous measure of brandy and was forcing the glass into a finely boned hand. ‘Drink!’ he ordered at his most dictatorial, a command seemingly that she could not or did not choose to disobey. Then he was able to observe, with a degree of satisfaction, the subsequent shudder and coughing fit restore a semblance of colour to delicate cheeks.
For a few moments he continued to watch her closely, all the time cursing himself under his breath for a boorish, unfeeling fool. Even a simpleton might have guessed that Warrender’s widow and Miss Robbins were likely to have enjoyed more than just a casual acquaintance, he told himself. Yet his voice when he offered an apology for breaking the news in such a callously abrupt manner remained quite impersonal, betraying none of the annoyance at himself or regret he was experiencing.
‘Evidently you and Miss Robbins were well acquainted, ma’am?’
‘As she was sadly orphaned at an early age, we grew up together, sir.’ Her voice, though soft, was blessedly level and free from any threat of tears. ‘She was my mother’s goddaughter. I looked upon her as a sister.’
As Joss turned at that moment and headed towards the bell-pull sited on the far wall, Gwen failed to see the self-deprecating expression flickering across his features. ‘You must allow me to summon your maid, ma’am. You have suffered a grievous shock.’
‘Indeed, I have,’ Gwen acknowledged with quiet dignity, while maintaining such remarkable control over her emotions that the gentleman who turned once again to study her could not help but admire her self-restraint. ‘And you need not summon my maid, sir. I assure you I’ve no intention of causing you or myself embarrassment by falling into a swoon. I should much prefer that you return to your seat and explain to me what happened to Jane. Was she yet a further casualty of the influenza epidemic that has been sweeping through the county in recent weeks? I have learned from the doctor that half his patients have fallen victim at some time or other, and sadly not all have survived.’
Instead of resuming the chair opposite, Joss took up a stance before the hearth. ‘Believe me, Lady Warrender, I wish I could confirm that it was so.’ There could be no mistaking the deep regret in his voice now. ‘Miss Robbins’s death could not be attributed to natural causes.’
He paused to reach down for the glass of burgundy he had placed on the table by his chair, and tossed it down in one fortifying swallow, before adding, ‘She met her end whilst out walking in Marsden Wood.’
For several long moments it was as much as Gwen could do to stare up at him, as she at last began to recall with frightening clarity elements of that conversation she had overheard between this gentleman and his friend in a certain posting-house in Bristol. Then, maintaining that admirable control, she asked bluntly, ‘Are you trying to tell me, sir, Jane Robbins was murdered?’
Almost a week passed before Gwen could even attempt to bring herself to come to terms with the fact that her surrogate sister had died in such horrible circumstances; and in the days that followed she discovered a deal more about Jane’s demise than Jocelyn Northbridge had seen fit to impart.
It was from her newly appointed housemaid, a mine of local opinions and gossip, salacious or quite otherwise, that Gwen learned that Jane had by no means been the only female in recent years to meet her end in Marsden Wood. Although a little reticent at first, the good doctor too had been persuaded to reveal certain other salient facts surrounding the deaths, and Jane’s in particular. From the local vicar, Mr Harmond, one of the few people whom she had agreed to see during this time of deep depression and sorrow, Gwen had discovered the identity of the person who had ensured that Jane had at least received a decent burial and had not been placed in a pauper’s grave.
‘What a complex gentleman Mr Northbridge is, Gillie,’ she remarked, as she led the way out of the churchyard, having at last brought herself to visit the grave. ‘A mass of contradictions! He even went to the expense of buying a decent headstone.’
Unbeknownst to Gwen, Martha Gillingham had thoroughly approved of Mr Northbridge from the moment he had insisted they make the return journey in his own carriage, after that one and only visit to his home.
‘A very solid, dependable sort, I should say, Miss Gwennie.’
‘Yes, and beneath that brusque exterior, he’s surprisingly kind and considerate too.’ She managed a weak smile, the first to curl her lips in days, as memory stirred. ‘One might not suppose just how kind he can be on first making his acquaintance.’
‘I think he’s what’s termed a man’s man, Miss Gwennie. He doesn’t look the type to stand any nonsense.’
Gwen readily agreed with this viewpoint, even though she knew it could be a big mistake to make snap judgements about people. After all, hadn’t she been guilty of doing precisely that, after their unfortunate encounter in a certain crowded posting-house? Whether or not she could ever bring herself to really like him, perhaps only time would tell. But at least she experienced no lingering animosity towards him whatsoever. How could she after the respect he had shown towards her dearest Jane?
‘I must
