and John will join us today.’
‘Yes, perhaps. I must go up and put on my bonnet. I shall not linger, but walk straight there and back.’
Sarah left her pupil sitting at the pianoforte and the sound of music followed her up the stairs. Francesca was still playing when she returned and left the house by a side door. She had the piece almost right, but there was one passage that she rushed every time. Sarah would show her how it should be played another day.
It was the first time she’d gone for a walk alone since it had rained. The air was fresh with the scents of early summer and the hedgerows were bright with flowers, wild roses twining amongst them and bringing the countryside alive with colour.
* * *
She had reached the village without incident and entered the inn, having noticed a horse with a white mark on its rump. She thought it might have belonged to Lord Myers, but wasn’t sure. If he were here, she hoped they would not meet. It would be embarrassing if he thought she’d sought him out. As far as she’d known, he’d ridden over to a neighbour’s house on some business.
She was met by the host’s wife, who took her letters and asked her for four sixpences, to cover the cost of sending them post.
‘It would be less if they waited for the mail coach, miss, but if you want them sent urgently it must be two shillings.’
‘That is perfectly all right,’ Sarah said and handed over her two shillings. ‘Do you have any letters for Miss Hardcastle care of Miss Hester Goodrum?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact one arrived by post this afternoon.’ The innkeeper’s wife looked at her curiously. ‘You’re Miss Goodrum, governess to the children up at Cavendish Park, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Sarah saw the curiosity in her eyes. ‘Miss Hardcastle is...well, I am accepting letters for her.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right, as it says “care of”,’ the woman said a little doubtfully. ‘I normally like to be sure a letter is given to the right person.’
‘I assure you I am the right person to receive this letter—and any others that are similarly addressed.’
‘Is something wrong, Miss Goodrum?’
Sarah jumped and glanced round as Lord Myers spoke. ‘No. I am just collecting some letters. Everything is as it should be.’ She took the letter from the woman’s reluctant hand as she seemed paralysed by Lord Myers’s arrival and was staring at him, seemingly mesmerised.
Sarah slipped the letter, which was quite a thick packet, into her reticule, but she feared that Lord Myers might have caught sight of the wording of the address before she could do so.
‘Is Francesca not with you?’ he asked, walking to the inn door and opening it for her. He walked out into the yard, standing for a moment in the sunshine as she hesitated.
‘Francesca wished to practise the music she is learning. I had some letters I wished to post.’
‘Do you write many letters, Miss Goodrum?’
‘Yes, several.’
‘To your family? Or are you seeking another post?’
‘I am not seeking another post at the moment. I have no reason to leave—have I?’
‘Only you can know that, Miss Goodrum.’
Sarah hesitated, then, ‘I understand you have engaged a dancing master for Francesca?’
‘Actually, her grandfather did so himself. I wrote and said I thought it might be a good thing and he sent word that he had seen to it. I heard this morning and told Francesca. I believe he is French—Monsieur Andre Dupree, I think he is called.’
‘Ah, I see. I had thought you might teach her yourself?’
‘I decided it might be wiser to employ a dancing master—for various reasons. Besides, most of my time is taken up with tutoring John—and there is estate business.’
‘You have been busy, I know.’
‘Yes.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘I should be returning to the house. My business here is done—and John should have had his riding lessons for the day.’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated, then, ‘Francesca wondered if you would both join us for tea today. I think she misses her brother.’
‘Yes, things have not quite gone to plan. We must have our picnic before the fine weather disappears again. Have you written the invitations?’
‘They need only the day and date. I was waiting for your approval.’
‘Then make them for this Friday. We must hope that the weather stays fine. I am told some of the strawberries will be ready for picking and that might amuse both the children and our guests.’
‘It will not amuse Francesca to be called a child. She will soon be seventeen.’
‘Not for a few months. I shall try to remember.’ He inclined his head to her. ‘I shall not keep you, Miss Goodrum—if that is your name...’
With that he walked away, leaving Sarah to stare after him in dismay. It was the first time he’d talked to her for a week, but she could not deceive herself; his manner was decidedly cool towards her. She was not sure if he was angry or whether he simply did not trust her.
Shrugging off her painful thoughts, she walked on towards the house. She would read her letter later, alone in her room. Sarah had recognised the hand and knew it came from the agent who oversaw her mills. Since he had written extensively there might be a problem.
Sarah sighed. For the past few years she’d dealt with the problems as they arose, but it had been pleasant not to have to think of them for the past week. It might be nice to be married and leave business to her husband, but it would have to be the right man for the sake of all those who relied on her for their living. Sir Roger would squander her money and care nothing for her people. Until she found someone she could trust and like enough to marry, she would have to carry on—but her agents must manage without her for a while. She would not leave Francesca in the lurch unless she was forced.
* * *
What was she up to now? Rupert was thoughtful as he put his horse to a canter. His business that afternoon had concerned the governess and he wondered why he had not mentioned it to her. Something in her manner had been guilty and it had made him hold back the news he thought might be interesting for her. She had definitely hidden that letter and so quickly that he hardly caught sight of the lettering, but he was sure it had been addressed to someone care of Miss Goodrum.
He’d sensed a mystery from the start and now he was certain that she was hiding something. Could she be collecting letters for Francesca? Had the young girl formed an attachment before he arrived, one she now wished to hide from him? Rupert frowned. Francesca was surely too young to have a lover—would her governess be complicit in such a deceit?
Or was it simply that Miss Goodrum was not what she claimed to be, as he’d suspected almost from the start? Why had she lied about her identity?
The
