Her new position

As mistress of Pendragon Hall?

Unfairly dismissed from her previous position, her reputation ruined, governess Maud Wilmot is forced to take on a new identity. When she feels an ever-growing attraction to her new employer, Cornish railway entrepreneur Dominic Jago, Maud longs to reveal the truth. But doing so could end their fledgling romance before it’s truly begun…

ELIZA REDGOLD is an author, academic and unashamed romantic. She was born in Scotland, is married to an Englishman, and currently lives in Australia. She loves to share stories with readers! Get in touch with Eliza via Twitter, @elizaredgold, on Facebook, Facebook.com/elizaredgoldauthor, and Pinterest, Pinterest.com/elizaredgold. Or visit her at Goodreads.com and elizaredgold.com.

Also by Eliza Redgold

Enticing Benedict Cole

Playing the Duke’s Mistress

The Scandalous Suffragette

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Master’s New Governess

Eliza Redgold

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90144-8

THE MASTER’S NEW GOVERNESS

© 2020 Eliza Redgold

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Maud’s World

Saffron Revel Buns

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘She is near, she is near;’

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

Cornwall, 1855—

‘Once upon a time…’

The words blurred in front of Maud Wilmot’s eyes. Before she could stop it, a tear trembled at the edge of her lashes, but she blinked it away.

With shaking fingers, she closed the book of fairy tales and laid the worn blue leather volume with its faded gilt lettering on her lap. She traced her gloved finger over the title: Fairy Tales for Children.

Even the familiar stories couldn’t comfort her.

Another tear splashed on to the blue leather.

Leaning her bonnet against the back of the leather carriage seat, she pressed her eyes shut, her shaking fingers still clutched around the book.

‘This will never do,’ she told herself, in her firmest governess voice.

One deep breath.

Then another.

She wouldn’t cry. She mustn’t. She hadn’t let herself so far, and if she started now, seated in the train carriage bearing her nearer and nearer an unknown situation—her last, desperate chance—she might never stop. She hauled a third breath from deep inside her corset as the tears threatened to overcome her.

No matter how anxious she felt, she wouldn’t let it get the better of her.

Another breath. She let the motion of the locomotive lull her. She’d always loved travelling by train, not that she did it often, but it didn’t ease her agitation. She hadn’t managed to sleep the night before, tossing and turning, worrying about what lay ahead.

What else could she do? It went against every fibre of her being, but she had no choice.

Lord Melville’s voice jeered inside her head.

No one will believe your story.

As the train rolled along the tracks, her thoughts went back to the last few dreadful weeks.

‘Oh, Maud.’ Her sister, Martha, had hugged her. ‘How is it possible you have been dismissed? You’re the best governess I know.’

‘Thank you, Martha,’ Maud choked out. ‘But I have been dismissed without pay and without references, too.’

She had applied for funds from the Governesses’ Benevolent Institution and was in lodgings; but the money wouldn’t last long.

Martha hugged her again. ‘Perhaps I can talk to Albert—you can come and live with us.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Maud had replied, even as her heart was sinking. She was running out of time. Soon she would be on the street. ‘You’re newlyweds, Martha. I have no intention of making myself a nuisance.’

‘You’d never be a nuisance,’ said Martha. ‘That’s why this is all so unfair!’

‘Unfair or not, I must find a way out of it.’ Maud knew she sounded braver than she felt, but she wasn’t going to burden Martha, not when her sister had just found happiness with Albert. And she hadn’t told Martha the full story.

She could not.

It was unspeakable.

‘What will you do now?’ Martha asked, her soft brown eyes wide and worried.

Maud bit her lip. ‘I must find another position as a governess. It will be difficult, without references. Perhaps impossible. But I have no other means of supporting myself and I love teaching children. But after what happened—’ she clenched her hands ‘—no one will employ Miss Maud Wilmot.’

It was then the idea had struck her. ‘Martha. Didn’t you tell me you had been offered a situation in Cornwall?’

Martha nodded. ‘Yes, it was before Albert proposed. I applied and it took ever so long for them to get back to me. But then I got a letter, saying that they would be pleased to employ me at Pendragon Hall.’

‘Have you written back to them?’ Maud asked, hardly daring to voice the other question that came to mind. Of course, Martha would say no and that would be that. It was an absurd idea anyway.

Martha shook the blonde ringlets on either side of her head. ‘Not yet.’

‘So they are still expecting a Miss Wilmot,’ Maud said slowly.

She and Martha were around the same age, Martha two years older than Maud’s six and twenty. They had both spent quite a few years in service as governesses. They were both experienced.

It could be done. It was foolhardy. Why, it was positively scandalous. But she had nothing left to lose. It must be done.

‘That’s right,’ Martha said, her eyes even wider. ‘Oh, Maud, you’ve got that look on your face, the one you get when you are telling a story…’

Maud opened her eyes. Now here she was, in Cornwall, the wheels of the train turning on the track beneath her.

To lift her spirits, she forced herself to register the beauties passing by. From the moment she’d left London, there had been plenty to see.

Setting forth on the journey had been an intense relief. As the train moved further west, she’d even begun to experience a sense of freedom. The train moved so much faster than a horse and carriage, it was almost dizzying. There was so much to see, the landscape becoming wilder, more foreign, the deeper they moved into Cornwall. They had left the outskirts of London and the view of the backs of the houses, with their gardens and washing lines, then into the countryside of rolling hills and green fields dotted with sheep and cows. They had made a stop overnight in Exeter, where she had stayed at an inn near the train station, in surprisingly comfortable accommodation provided by her new employer, before continuing further south-west, where the clusters of villages and isolated country houses became sparser as they moved towards the remote, rugged coast.

A tiny thrill of excitement ran through her.

She pulled out the letter that she had tucked inside the book of fairy tales.

The strange address was printed at the top: Pendragon Hall, West Cornwall. A crest, a shield of three black crosses on gold and a band of black in an upward arrow lay below.

Dear Miss Wilmot

That was correct, at least.

She laid the paper down momentarily in her lap. Her hands were trembling. At least it didn’t say Dear Miss Martha Wilmot. She could take some comfort in that. A Miss Wilmot they wanted, and a Miss Wilmot they would get.

Swallowing hard, she read on.

Your acceptance of the situation as the new governess has been received. Train tickets are enclosed.

I will expect you at Pendragon Hall at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

Sir Dominic Jago

She traced the name with her gloved finger. The handwriting was strong and large, the words in black ink across the paper. The message curt.

Jago. It was an unusual name. She had never encountered it before.

All she had to hope now was that he had never heard her real name.

No one will believe your story.

Her fingers were still shaking as she folded up the letter. From the other information that Martha had passed on to her, she knew that the terms for her new employment were handsome, much better than she had expected, especially for a post in the country. It was not uncommon for a governess to be offered a home and no salary at all, but the post at Pendragon Hall paid a good wage, enough for her to save a little. She’d never had that opportunity before. Her last post had left her with nothing.

She would only be teaching one child: a girl, Rosabel, aged seven, who was recovering from illness. The application made no mention of any other children and, Martha had also informed her, Sir Dominic Jago was a widower.

To her surprise, the letter from Sir Dominic had also been accompanied by a first-class ticket on the West Cornish Railway for the final leg of her journey. On the previous trains, for she had changed twice, she had travelled in a second-class carriage, as governesses, footmen, ladies’ maids and other servants usually did. First-class travel was for gentry, not governesses.

She laid her head back against the leather seat. It was astonishing to be travelling first class. She must waste no more time on tears. The West Cornish Railway first-class carriage was so clean and new, she could smell the polish. The brass fittings and handles gleamed and a handsome brass lamp stayed lit so that she could read even as they went through woods and tunnels. There were three private compartments within the carriage, separated by a wooden screen, each with a pair of leather seats that faced each other.

It was so roomy. She stretched out her legs beneath her petticoats, resisting the urge to kick at them a little. How constricting they were! She still wore layers of them, in cambric, flannel, wool and cotton, rather than the new hooped skirt.

She stifled her sigh of yearning. Oh, how she longed for hoops. She could never afford to have her dresses made over in the new style. Hoops would probably be out of date before she could manage it.

To lift her spirits, she forced her attention back to the view. She would not miss a moment of the journey pining for things that could not be. In the large carriage window she could see her reflection, ghostly against the scenery of hedgerows, meadows and cottages. Underneath her green eyes were dark shadows and lines around her mouth that hadn’t been there mere weeks before. Wisps of brown hair escaped from her dove-grey bonnet, resting on the white collar of her grey dress.

Opposite her own reflection, Maud could see the only other occupant of the carriage, a sweet old lady, who had slept for most of the journey, Maud was pleased to note.

Earlier, Maud had helped her to settle into the window seat and find her smelling salts.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ the lady had whispered. ‘How kind you are. I find travel by locomotive very trying. It makes me quite ill.’

The train slowed and the whistle shrieked as they drew into a station.

Now the old lady awoke with a start. ‘Have we arrived already?’

‘Not yet. We still have a way to go to Penponds Station,’ Maud reassured her with a smile. They had discovered they shared the same destination. ‘We’re just making a stop.’

She peered through the glass.

A puff of steam obscured the platform, then swirled away, to reveal a man staring straight at her.

He was the kind of man it was impossible to miss. Tall, dark-haired, long-legged, he wore a long dark grey coat, with a scarlet cravat tied carelessly around his neck. His hands were gloveless and she saw the flash of a gold signet ring on his right hand. Yet it was the energy that emanated from him that she noticed most of all. Even standing still, he seemed to convey a restlessness, a sense of contained speed, as though, like the train in front of him, he wanted to move fast in a determined direction.

His dark gaze was intent as he stared through the train window into her eyes, before another puff of steam obscured him once again from view.

Maud drew back. The man’s gaze had been magnetic, powerful, as though there was not a glass window between them, but nothing at all.

The cloud of steam cleared once again, but the dark-haired man had vanished.

‘I say!’

Maud spun around on her seat.

Another passenger had entered the carriage, a portly young man in a checked overcoat, red-faced beneath his top hat.

‘Excuse me, madam,’ he said to the old lady in braying tones. ‘You are in my seat.’

‘Oh, dear, oh, dear,’ the old lady quavered. ‘What did you say?’

The young man scowled. ‘I tell you, that’s my seat! I especially wanted a window.’

The old lady’s mouth trembled.

Maud looked around for the train conductor. He was nowhere to be seen.

She leaned forward. ‘Excuse me, sir. Might I see your ticket?’

The young man turned. ‘What?’ he demanded, in an imperious tone, looking down on her, his blue eyes bulbous.

Maud lifted her chin. She hadn’t been a governess for five years to be intimidated by this overgrown boy.

‘Might I see your ticket?’ she repeated, in a tone that no child had ever refused.

The young man puffed out his breath and looked about to argue. Muttering under his breath, he handed it over.

‘Thank you.’ Maud scrutinised it, then glanced at the seat number. She bit her lip, vexed. When she had helped the old lady settle into her seat, she hadn’t thought to check her ticket.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to the old lady. ‘It seems there has been some mistake. You do appear to be in the wrong seat.’

The old lady clutched her lace handkerchief. ‘Oh, how dreadful!’

‘I told you so!’ said the young man, triumphantly.

Maud returned the ticket to him.

‘I’m sure this lady would like to remain in her seat,’ she said quietly. ‘She is suffering from travel sickness. Will you do her the kindness?’

Maud caught a whiff of claret as the young man puffed out his cheeks. ‘Certainly not! That’s my seat and I want it.’

‘That is the height of discourtesy!’ Maud couldn’t hold back the reprimand. ‘This lady is old enough to be your grandmother!’

The man turned even redder. ‘Who are you to try to teach me manners?’

‘It’s a pity no one else has taught you,’ Maud retorted. ‘Please, let this lady stay where she is.’

The old lady began to struggle up. ‘I don’t want to cause any inconvenience.’

Maud jumped to her feet, the book of fairy tales tumbling from her lap. ‘Please take my seat, if it is a window seat you’re after.’

‘I don’t want your seat,’ the young man said stubbornly. ‘I want the seat I paid for!’

Another, taller man had entered the carriage.

It was the man from the platform, Maud realised in a flash. The sense of suppressed purpose, of energy around him, was even more palpable in close proximity. Yet his demeanour was impassive as he surveyed the scene.

‘What seems to be the matter?’ he asked coolly.

‘This young gentleman…’ Maud allowed some scorn to enter her voice ‘…insists that this lady vacate her seat.’

‘I tell you. She is in the wrong seat!’ The young man brandished his ticket.

‘Wrong seat or no, surely you can allow her to remain. As I told you, she’s not well.’

‘That’s not my concern,’ the young man snarled.

The dark-haired man stepped forward. His voice was low, but the authority in it was unmistakable. ‘The train’s about to depart. I happen to know there is a window seat available in the other first-class carriage. If you would care to take it, these ladies can remain here.’

The young man began to bluster, but after a look into the eyes of the man in front of him, he appeared to change his mind.

‘Very well,’ he said with a sulky expression.

‘Excellent.’ The dark-haired man turned to the conductor, who had finally appeared. ‘Could you show this gentleman to his new seat?’

The conductor bowed. ‘Very good, sir.’

With another puff of claret-fumed annoyance, the young man followed the conductor out of the carriage.

Maud let out a sigh of relief.

The dark-haired man leaned down and picked up the book of fairy tales. He frowned as he glanced at the title. ‘Is this yours?’

She nodded. His fingers grazed hers as he returned it to her.

He bowed and left the carriage.

Maud took her seat. She clutched the book, the sensation of his warm fingers still imprinted on hers.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ the old lady said, with a grateful smile, as the train began to move away from the station.

A few minutes later the conductor returned. He tipped his cap. ‘I hope you two ladies are settled now.’

‘Very well, thank you.’ Maud was unable to restrain her curiosity. ‘The gentleman who came to our assistance. How did he know there was a seat available in the other carriage? Did he offer his own seat?’

The conductor chuckled. ‘They’re all his seats.’

Maud drew back her head. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘He’s the owner of the West Cornish Railway Line. That’s Sir Dominic Jago.’

Chapter Two

To the turrets and the walls;

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

‘Welcome to Pendragon Hall.’

Maud jumped. She had been watching a small copper butterfly dancing among the daisies on the chamomile lawn, when a deep voice spoke behind her.

One hand to her bodice, she spun around. ‘Oh!’

On the gravel drive stood Sir Dominic Jago.

He was silhouetted against Pendragon Hall, half in light, half in shadow, against the setting sun. In the golden light, the house behind him looked like an illustration from a fairy tale.

Maud drew in her breath. Never had she expected her place of employment to be so enchanting. Her previous post had been in a far bigger house, but it did not match this for pure charm. She had imagined a version of a thatched farmhouse—a long house—but for once, her imagination had failed her. Pendragon Hall was a large hall, built of golden-grey stone with a steep slate roof, chimneys as tall as turrets and arched stone windows. It seemed to glow in the sunset.

The house was situated some miles inland, away from the coast, but the fresh breeze ruffling the daisies—and her hair—was rich with the scent of the sea.

Now the wind blew her new employer’s dark hair away from his forehead, which creased as he studied her with his penetrating eyes.

Beneath her bodice, Maud could feel the rising and falling of her corset. Ever since what had happened in her previous post, she had been more easily startled. She jumped if someone entered the room unexpectedly, or even at a loud noise. Her nerves were strained. Yet it wasn’t only that which unnerved her now. It was Sir Dominic Jago, her new employer, with that aura of energy around him.

He inclined his head slightly. ‘My apologies. I had no wish to startle you.’

‘Not at all, Sir Dominic.’ To her relief, her voice sounded steadier than she felt. She wasn’t quite sure how to address him. She knew that knights used their first name with their title, rather than their surname, yet it seemed strangely intimate to address him so.

The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘So, you know my name.’

She nodded.

His gaze was as intent as it had been during their first encounter, through the glass of the train window. ‘And I know yours.’

Maud’s stomach turned over.

‘Perhaps I ought to have introduced myself on the train,’ he said. ‘I guessed who you were. The new governess.’

He had a very faint Cornish accent, Maud noted, yet there was no doubting he was a gentleman. He had received his title of knight, Martha had told her in awe, from Queen Victoria herself, for services rendered to the Crown. He was young to have received such an honour. The West Cornish Railway Company would never have been developed without his drive and determination, Martha had said, and Queen Victoria was known to be most enthusiastic about travelling by train.

He appeared younger than Maud had expected from Martha’s description. She had still anticipated a much older, perhaps portly, grey-haired gentleman to have accomplished all that Sir Dominic Jago had done before he was thirty-five years old, for she guessed that was about his age.

‘I appreciated your help on the train,’ Maud said to him. ‘The situation had become most uncomfortable. I hope you did not give up your own seat.’

‘It’s not the first time I’ve travelled in the engine.’ He brushed at his hair. ‘Coal dust doesn’t bother me. I want all passengers to be comfortable on the West Cornish Railway Line.’

‘It’s a marvellous train,’ said Maud, frankly. ‘I enjoyed the journey, in spite of the altercation. The conductor told me you’re the owner of the railway.’

‘Not entirely. I am one of a group of local investors who are committed to taking control of our railway lines and trains. Properly managed, they will bring prosperity to Cornwall. Prosperity, and something even more important.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Hope, Miss Wilmot,’ he said. ‘Hope is the engine of prosperity. Our aim is to have the West Cornish Railway Line enable travel by train all the way from London to Land’s End.’

‘Here be dragons,’ Maud said, before she could stop herself.

‘I’m sorry?’

Maud bit her tongue. Their conversation so far had been surprisingly easy, as if they were not new acquaintances at all, let alone governess and employer, and the phrase had slipped out. ‘It’s what they used to put on old maps. When the end of the land was marked and what lay beyond it was unknown. “Here be dragons.”’

The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘There are no dragons here, Miss Wilmot, in spite of the name of the estate. At least, I hope not. Have you had a chance to familiarise yourself with Pendragon Hall?’

‘Not the house,’ Maud admitted. ‘I was shown to my room, of course, and I hoped to see Rosabel, but she was having her afternoon rest and I needed some air after the train journey. I’m afraid I have been outdoors for some time. These gardens are so beautiful.’

She turned towards the rolling green lawn, where the butterfly still danced. The grass was well manicured, edged with flower beds, but it had a wildness to it. Climbing roses tangled together, thick with thorns, as if to protect a sleeping princess. There were woods on the estate, too, as well as leafy orchards that she had seen on her way from the small village station of Penponds. She’d half expected Sir Dominic to travel to the house in the carriage sent for her, but he had not appeared.

She’d questioned the coach driver, who had chuckled. ‘Sir Dominic’s got no time for travelling in carriages. Rides his horse to the train station and back, he does. A stallion. Goes like the blazes.’

‘So you like to be out of doors?’ Sir Dominic asked her now, unexpectedly.

‘Very much,’ she replied. ‘I am no botanist, but I enjoy studying the natural world. And I am particularly fond of butterflies.’

‘Butterflies. Do you collect them?’

Maud shuddered. ‘If you mean sticking them with a pin, certainly not. But I like being able to identify them and know their names. Did you know that butterflies return to the same place? You can always rely on finding them again.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that fact, no,’ he drawled.

Maud flushed. Once again, to her amazement, she had been far more at ease with him than she had expected and spoken more freely than she ought. ‘I’m sorry. I often provide too many facts.’

The corner of his mouth quirked again. ‘As a good governess should.’

‘I also enjoy walking,’ Maud added. She wanted to make that clear, at the outset. ‘Both in the daytime and in the evening, too. Sometimes at night.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Can butterflies be seen at night?’

She smiled. ‘Not butterflies. Moths. And…’ She swallowed hard, keeping down the anxiety that instantly threatened her equilibrium. ‘Sometimes, I find it difficult to sleep.’

His dark eyes seemed to become even more perceptive. ‘A woman being out alone at night is unusual.’

‘I hope that won’t be a difficulty,’ Maud said. The night air was the only antidote, sometimes, to counteract the terrible nightmares she had been experiencing recently and that had not been getting any better. Increasingly, her sleep was disturbed. The fear of the nightmares often kept her awake.

‘To the contrary.’ Sir Dominic bowed. ‘I appreciate your interest in the outdoors. But if you would care to come indoors for a while, Miss Wilmot, we can begin our interview for your position as governess.’ He indicated towards the house, now sunk into evening shadow. ‘If you will accompany me?’

Her agitation built as she kept up with his long-legged stride across the lawn and gravel drive, indoors to a room on the ground floor of Pendragon Hall. It was a large room lined with leather-bound books, which normally would have sent a warm tingle of delight through her. Even at first glance, she could see the works of Shakespeare and Gibbon. On the burgundy walls above the wooden wainscot panelling hung fine prints and paintings, too, but she could hardly take it all in.

Maud lifted her chin. ‘There appears to have been some mistake, Sir Dominic.’

He frowned as he moved behind a green-topped leather desk. He removed his coat to reveal a dark wine-coloured waistcoat and a pristine white shirt that showed no trace of coal dust. ‘What kind of mistake?’

‘I thought I had been accepted into your employ already.’ Her voice quavered a little. ‘Have I come all this way just for an interview?’

‘Ah.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Please sit down, Miss Wilmot. There are a few matters I need to discuss with you that are…sensitive. I wanted to do so in person. It is not my intention to ask you to return to London before you have even taken up your post. But it’s possible that after hearing what I have to say that you will consider this position…unsuitable.’

‘This is very unusual,’ Maud replied indignantly, trying to mask her anxiety.

‘If you will allow me to explain…’

Maud smoothed out her skirts with hands that only trembled a little and took a seat on the carved wooden chair. He could not make her change her mind about taking the post.

It was her only hope.

Opposite her, Sir Dominic moved to sit in the high-backed wooden chair located behind the desk. He pushed it back and crossed one long leg, but his relaxed posture belied the intensity of his eyes that still seemed to blaze into her.

‘First, your character references are excellent. It is the main reason I employed you.’

‘Oh,’ Maud said faintly. They were Martha’s references, of course. It pained her to have to use them, but her only comfort was that her references for teaching the Melville boys, of whom she had become very fond, would also have been excellent, if their uncle had not been quite so cruel.

She forced her attention back to Sir Dominic.

‘You will find Rosabel an easy charge, I expect,’ he told her. ‘She has experienced some ill health over the years and, of late, she has become timid. I can barely encourage her out of doors.’

‘Is Rosabel in poor health now?’

He shook his head. ‘She is not robust, a result of her history of illness, but she is well enough now. I’ve had the local doctor to see her. He says there is nothing physically wrong.’

Maud frowned, perplexed. ‘Fresh air is good for children. I will certainly see if I can encourage her out of doors.’

‘Thank you. You will understand, then, why I am pleased to learn you enjoy fresh air yourself,’ he said. ‘The grounds here are extensive and I hope you will be able to make good use of them with Rosabel. There are a number of gardens and orchards, and there are woods, too. She is not to spend all her time at lessons.’

‘I entirely agree,’ said Maud. She hesitated for a moment. She had planned what to say all the way on the train. ‘About Rosabel’s lessons…’

‘They are to be the usual lessons for a girl her age. Music, languages and drawing.’

‘That is not enough,’ Maud said firmly. ‘Young ladies need to learn much more than music and drawing, Sir Dominic.’

The corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Do they indeed? Are you a bluestocking, Miss Wilmot?’

‘I am a passionate supporter of female education,’ she retorted. ‘If that makes me a bluestocking, so be it.’

‘Do not mistake me,’ he said. ‘I would not be educating Rosabel if I, too, did not believe in women’s education.’

Maud clasped her hands together. ‘If she is in my charge, I would like to ensure that Rosabel is educated not only in the refinements befitting a lady, but that her mind, too, is broadened. Geography, mathematics, Latin and botany would also benefit her.’

He drew back his head. ‘Latin? Botany? Are you qualified to teach them, Miss Wilmot? Did you study such subjects?’

‘Certainly. My mama and papa were somewhat unusual in that they were committed to female education. My father was a schoolmaster. That’s why my sister and I had such a good education. We followed the same curriculum as the boys at the school, even though we studied at home. My sister…’ She hesitated, unable to call Martha by her own name. ‘My sister and I both studied hard and became governesses.’

He steepled his fingers as he regarded her from across the desk. ‘Rosabel is but seven years old.’

‘It’s never too early to learn,’ Maud assured him. ‘Do not think I would make it too challenging or unpleasant for her. On the contrary, Sir Dominic. My goal would be for Rosabel to love her lessons, or, even better, to not realise she is having lessons at all.’

‘How so?’

‘I have my methods,’ said Maud. ‘A child’s imagination must be awoken in order to learn.’ She leaned forward. ‘Please. Let me try my teaching methods with Rosabel. If she does not take to them, I will not pursue the curriculum. But surely she deserves the chance?’

‘You are most convincing.’ He deliberated for a moment. ‘Very well. You may have free rein.’

‘Thank you, Sir Dominic.’ She breathed out with relief. It meant so much to her, to be able to try her new ideas in the schoolroom. ‘You won’t regret it.’

‘I hope not, Miss Wilmot,’ he murmured.

‘I encourage you to observe my methods,’ she said. It was valuable for parents and guardians to be involved in their children’s education, yet so few parents ever did so, in her experience. Some of her charges had rarely seen their parents. ‘You will be welcome in the schoolroom at any time.’

‘You can be assured I will take up that offer, Miss Wilmot.’

He fell silent for a moment. ‘Now we have settled the academic pursuits, there are some other matters. Rosabel’s mother, Sarah, died not long after she was born.’

He spoke without expression, yet she sensed the grief that still lingered in him. There was a bleakness behind his eyes.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Maud said with sympathy.

He nodded his thanks, but that was all. ‘It is particularly because of her lack of maternal care that Rosabel requires a governess. She has a nursemaid who is devoted to her and will remain here at Pendragon Hall. But Rosabel also needs a woman of good character, such as yourself, not only to guide her in academic instruction, but also in manners and etiquette, in her moral education.’

‘Of course.’ Maud bit her lip. ‘That is a usual part of a governess’s duties.’

‘For Rosabel, it will be a most important part. As her father, I can guide her in some parts of her moral development, but not in all, and, of course, a governess is someone who can provide her the guidance she needs in the absence of a mother.’

‘You have not considered remarriage?’ Maud asked, innocently.

The change in Dominic Jago’s face was startling. On the platform, when she first saw him, it had been as if no glass was between them. Now there was a stone wall. ‘Is my marital status of interest to you, Miss Wilmot? Is it a reason you took the post?’

Maud shook her head, bewildered. ‘I knew that you were a widower, Sir Dominic. But it is certainly not the reason I took this post. Why would it be?’

‘What were your reasons, if I may ask?’ His voice had hardened.

‘My reasons…’ She faltered.

‘Indeed. Why did you leave your last post?’

Maud took a deep, shaky breath. ‘I wanted a new start,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘A position in the country.’

‘I see.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

He stood and went to the window. When he swung around his jaw was set. ‘This is a delicate matter, Miss Wilmot, but I fear it must be addressed at the outset.’

Maud began to tremble. Somehow, he’d found out that she wasn’t Martha. Somehow, he had heard what had happened in her employment by Lord Melville.

No one will believe your story.

Sir Dominic moved back behind the desk, but remained standing. His expression was more severe than when he had appeared out of doors, in the garden.

‘I am forced to speak bluntly,’ he said. ‘You realise that there was a delay before I contacted you and offered you this post.’

‘Yes,’ Maud whispered, trying to still her trembling body.

‘There have been other governesses.’ He exhaled. ‘Two, in fact.’

The trembling in her body turned to shaking she could barely disguise.

‘As a widower, I have discovered myself to be the subject of some…romantic notions.’ He laid his hand flat on the desk. His signet ring glinted. ‘It seems to be a fantasy of certain governesses that they might marry the master of the house.’

‘Oh!’ Maud felt as if he had thrown cold water over her.

‘Surely you have heard of such things?’ he asked curtly.

‘Indeed I have.’ As his meaning sank in, the shaking in her body disappeared as anger made its way through her limbs. ‘But in my experience, it is less to do with the expectations of the governess and more to do with those of the master of the house.’

He lifted his eyebrow. ‘Is that so?’

‘Women are all too often blamed for the behaviour of men.’ She was unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. She knew, all too well.

‘I can assure you that the previous governesses left of their own accord when they realised the position was not what they hoped it might be,’ he said evenly. ‘I merely wish to be honest and straightforward with you about this matter, Miss Wilmot, from the start.’

She jerked up her chin. ‘As do I. And you can be assured, Sir Dominic, that I have no romantic notions. None whatsoever.’

‘On the train I saw that you were reading a book of fairy tales,’ he said. ‘I thought you may be a woman who gives way to fanciful ideas.’

Maud tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I have an imagination. That is all.’

He looked at her keenly. ‘I do not seek to offend you.’

‘You have judged me without knowing me.’ Maud could barely contain her anger. ‘Simply because I am a governess.’

He drew back. ‘I meant no judgement. Please accept my apology if that is how you have taken it. My goal was to be clear about the nature of your employment.’

‘You have been very clear, Sir Dominic.’ Maud raised her head high. ‘You can be sure I will not pursue any…romantic notions about you.’

He inclined his head. ‘I regret if I have caused you offence.’

‘Perhaps it is better that the matter has been discussed.’ That was true, at least.

‘Are you willing to take the post under these conditions?’ he asked, after a moment.

‘Certainly, Sir Dominic.’ Maud stood to face him. He was a foot taller than she was, but she met his gaze, eye to eye. ‘Believe me, I would take the post under no other.’

Dominic drummed his fingers on the desk. His interview with the new governess—if it could be called an interview—had not gone entirely as planned.

Miss Martha Wilmot.

She had left the room without banging the door behind her, but he got the distinct impression she had been strongly tempted.

He picked up the letters from the table and tucked them into the drawer of his oak desk. The drawer still open, he stared down at them, perplexed. Her letters of recommendation had been excellent. By all accounts, she was an outstanding governess. Exemplary, in fact, to the point of being almost bland. There had been nothing out of the ordinary. Yet the impression he had formed of her upon reading the letters of reference was quite different from his perception of her on first sight.

When he had first spotted her from the platform, she had been looking out of the train window unguarded, with such interest and curiosity. So eager, so alive. His attention had been immediately drawn to her. She had reminded him of a bright-eyed wren, an image emphasised by the colours of her clothing, in shades of brown and grey. Drab colours, no doubt suited to a governess. Her hair, too, was light brown, her eyes green. They were not remarkable, yet at the moment their eyes met, Dominic had experienced a moment of unmistakable response to that eagerness, to those bright eyes that revealed, beneath the drab colours, a lively and enquiring mind.

In the conversation that had just taken place—for as she had pointed out, it could not be called an interview—he’d been forced to be blunt about his previous experiences with governesses. He’d already decided that upon her arrival it would be essential to warn the new governess against any fancies she might have, and when he’d seen Miss Wilmot’s book of fairy tales, it had only seemed more pressing.

But he’d affronted her. It was a risk he’d known he would have to take, to quell any possible misunderstanding right from the start, in light of what had happened before, but he had sounded more pompous, and more arrogant than he’d meant. It was damned unfortunate. And her response…

Dominic frowned.

She had been more than affronted. She had ably defended the position of a governess and she was right: all too often male employers took advantage of the women in their employment. It was a matter of which he was aware and it was one of the reasons he’d decided to be straightforward about what had previously occurred. He wanted absolutely no confusion on that score. But he’d mishandled it. And he’d sensed there was more to it, for her.

He’d witnessed pain, and a kind of terror, in her eyes when the subject had been raised. It had been quickly disguised, but it wasn’t an expression he cared to see in those bright eyes.

He closed the desk drawer.

Miss Wilmot was a puzzle. She had modern ideas about women’s education, too. He was willing to see the results from her methods before he made any judgement upon them.

He wanted the best for Rosabel. If Miss Wilmot could bring the roses back into his daughter’s cheeks, he would have no quarrel with the new governess. And she had made it perfectly clear that her interest lay only in teaching children.

It was a relief.

Dominic drummed his fingers again absently on the green leather top of his desk. He wondered how soon he would forget the enchanting expression he’d first seen, unguarded, in those bright eyes.

Maud washed her face and hands with rather more vigour than necessary in the white basin and pitcher provided in her new bedroom. She doused her cheeks again and again, tendrils of hair about her forehead dampened and curled, but her anger didn’t abate.

Romantic notions!

How dared Sir Dominic Jago suggest that she had taken on the post as the new governess simply because he was a widower! Did he think himself so handsome? Did he expect all governesses to drop at his feet? Or that she would find him so hard to resist? Did he really believe she had come all the way to Cornwall, not for employment, but to catch a husband?

If only he knew.

Hot tears joined the chill water on Maud’s cheeks.

Governesses sometimes married their employers, it was true. It happened. But it would never happen to her.

Marriage—to anyone, let alone the master of the house—was not in her future. Not now, not ever. Any promise of it had been torn away. No man could accept her and she could never explain. A future with a husband and a family would never be. Any dreams of such happy-ever-afters had been stolen from her.

She’d vowed, instead, to educate the children in her care with all the love and encouragement she had to give. She would dedicate herself to her vocation.

It was the only way she could go on.

Not all governesses considered themselves professional women, but Maud did. Some thought being a governess a last resort of penniless gentlewomen. But it was so much more to her. The work of private teaching was changing. Members of the Governesses’ Benevolent Institution not only received support in dire straits, but their membership was also beginning to share their experiences and expertise among themselves. Recommendation of teaching ideas and textbooks was becoming more common. Yet governesses still had the reputation of mere husband-hunters in disguise.

Or worse.

Maud shuddered.

Sir Dominic’s warning had cut her to the quick. She was already sensitive about such matters. Worse, much worse—she forced herself into the severest honesty—she had instantly liked him. That energy, she had to admit, was attractive and there was no arguing with his handsome dark looks. Had she looked at him with the eyes of a husband-hunter, even for an instant? No, it had been the ease with which they had conversed in the sunlit garden that had made her begin to believe that her new position as governess might prove to be a post she could truly enjoy.

Now she wished she could take the very next train away from Pendragon Hall, especially when what he suggested about governesses was, in her case, so far from the truth.

But perhaps—her brain began to tick—perhaps this post was ideal for her. Why, it was practically providential. A master of the house who had no interest in romance or marriage might not suit every governess, but it certainly suited Maud.

She threw more water on her face, washing away the tears. She would stay at Pendragon Hall. And she would, for the sake of her new charge, make the best of it.

Carefully she dried her face. The towel was of a fine snowy-white linen, clearly of good quality. In fact, all the appointments of her bedroom were the same. The room was large and airy, with tall arched windows that looked out over the gardens. There was an oak bureau and wardrobe that was far too big for the number of dresses she possessed. She only owned three: her grey cotton and her brown wool, for workday attire, and her dark green cotton, for special occasions. There had not been many of those, so it was still in good repair.

To one side of the room was a particularly beautiful four-poster oak bed. All in all, the room was far grander than the room she had occupied beneath the attics at her previous post.

Her bedroom had a connecting door to the adjacent schoolroom. She had glanced in when she had first arrived, but retreated, vaguely disappointed. It was well-furnished and decorated, but somewhat lacking, in her view. She had noted plenty of toys, a dolls’ house and a rocking chair, tables and chairs, but less of the equipment she considered essential to teaching than she had expected. The previous governesses had left no imprint on their surroundings, it seemed.

Perhaps they had been too busy having romantic notions about Sir Dominic Jago.

Maud smiled ruefully. At least her sense of humour was returning. Of all the governesses in the world, she was the last to have harboured such ideas.

The master of Pendragon Hall was safe from Maud.

Folding the towel and hanging it carefully back on the rail, she glanced in the mirror and smoothed back her hair. Wisps were escaping from the severe bun she wore, softening her profile. Most unfortunate. She’d not been wearing her bonnet outside and her complexion appeared to have caught another freckle. Perhaps not wearing her bonnet on the way to Pendragon Hall—for she had sat next to the coach driver in the open air, rather than inside the Jago carriage—had not been the best idea. But she did love to be out of doors.

If she could, she would help Rosabel learn to love it, too.

She crossed to the schoolroom door. Rosabel’s bedroom was on the other side.

It was time to make the acquaintance of a little girl who needed her care and to forget about her infuriating father, Sir Dominic Jago.

Maud pushed open the schoolroom door.

Chapter Three

On the little flower that clings;

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

‘Hello,’ said Maud gently.

A little girl was seated at a table, eating a supper of bread and milk. She had dark hair, the same raven black as her father’s, smoothed back under a black velvet snood. She wore a white ruffled pinafore over a yellow dress that didn’t suit her colouring—her skin had a slight olive tint that looked almost sallow, as if she spent too much time indoors.

She did need to spend more time in the garden, thought Maud, to make her cheeks as rosy as her name.

Seated beside the little girl was a nursemaid in a black-and-white uniform, a plump, blonde-haired girl of little more than twenty, with a broad face and a friendly expression.

‘Hello, miss,’ the nursemaid said, in an accent like the coach driver’s, with the same lilting burr that Maud had noticed tingeing Sir Dominic Jago’s voice. ‘You must be the new governess. I’m Netta.’

‘How do you do.’ Maud smiled at her. ‘Sir Dominic told me you looked after Rosabel, and that you will be continuing to do so.’

‘That’s right, miss. I give Rosabel her baths and meals and so on. She’s almost ready for bed now.’

Maud bent her knees slightly, to make herself closer to the girl’s level. She disliked leaning over her charges. It made her unapproachable. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

The little girl didn’t respond.

Maud moved closer and saw the girl draw back. On her lap was a golden-haired porcelain doll. Her gaze was fixed upon the toy and she clutched it tightly in her hands.

‘I see you’ve got a doll,’ Maud said. ‘Does she have a name?’

Rosabel hesitated, her eyes still cast down, then shook her head fiercely.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Maud. ‘A doll with no name. How does she come when you call?’

A splutter of surprised laughter escaped from the little girl’s lips, though she still did not look up. ‘She’s a doll! She can’t come when I call!’

‘How do you know if you’ve never called her?’

Rosabel lifted her head and stared at Maud. She didn’t respond, merely continued to look suspicious with her dark eyes. They were the same deep brown as her father’s.

‘The right names are very important.’ Maud ignored the tremor of unease that ran through her as she spoke. It bothered her more than she had expected, not to be using her own name. At least Wilmot was the same.

Maud sank down on her knees beside Rosabel’s chair. ‘You must have a name that a doll likes, otherwise she won’t play properly with you.’

For the first time Maud saw a dimple in Rosabel’s cheeks.

‘I wonder what her name might be…’ Maud mused. ‘Could it be…Mergetrude?’

‘Mergetrude isn’t a name!’ the girl burst out, with a giggle.

‘Isn’t it?’ Maud pursed her lips and stared at the ceiling, as if in deep thought. ‘Perhaps her name is Dorothea-Millicent-Margaret-Anne.’

Rosabel giggled. It was a sound that seemed awkward, as if it didn’t happen very often. The doll in front of her, she held it towards Maud. ‘She does have a name! It’s Polly.’

‘Of course!’ Maud touched her hand to her forehead, as if in mock foolishness. ‘How could I have thought otherwise? I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Polly.’

She gave a curtsy.

With another shy giggle, Rosabel inclined the doll into a bow in return.

‘You made up those names,’ she said.

‘Of course,’ said Maud. ‘Don’t you ever make things up?’

Rosabel once again looked suspicious.

‘Why, I do all the time,’ said Maud.

‘Is that so, Miss Wilmot?’

Maud swung around. The schoolroom door that opened on to the upstairs hall must have been ajar and she hadn’t heard Dominic Jago enter. Her attention had been fully focused on the child in front of her.

He leaned against the doorframe, his dark eyes surveying the scene.

‘Papa!’ Rosabel exclaimed.

He moved around the table and dropped a kiss on the girl’s raven head. The little girl beamed. Clearly, she adored her father, and it was mutual, judging by the way Sir Dominic regarded at his daughter. The angles of his face softened as he gazed down at the small girl.

‘I see you have been making Rosabel’s acquaintance,’ he said, as he ruffled her hair.

Rosabel giggled. ‘She thought Polly’s name was Merget… Merg…’

‘Mergetrude,’ put in Maud.

‘She made it up!’

Sir Dominic raised an eyebrow.

‘I encourage imagination,’ said Maud, quickly.

‘I see.’ He glanced around the schoolroom. ‘I hope you have found everything here is satisfactory to your methods.’

Maud bit her lip. She didn’t want to appear critical, but from their previous conversation, it was clear that Sir Dominic Jago prized being straightforward, to say the least.

In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought to herself.

‘Not quite,’ she replied.

She heard Netta the nursemaid’s stunned intake of breath.

‘What is it you require?’ Sir Dominic asked. She thought there was the slightest upturn of his mouth, but she couldn’t be sure.

‘Some more books,’ she said. She had brought her book of fairy tales and some other volumes, but they would need a great deal more. ‘And other educational materials. A globe of the world, for a start. I saw one or two in the library.’

‘A globe of the world,’ he repeated.

‘For geography.’

After a moment he nodded. ‘The library is at your disposal. You must help yourself to whatever you need.’

‘Thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘Might I fetch one of the globes now?’

His eyebrow rose. ‘This evening?’

Maud nodded. ‘It would be most useful.’ She turned her attention back to Rosabel. ‘Do you like stories, Rosabel?’

‘Yes,’ she replied doubtfully.

‘I can tell you and Polly a bedtime story tonight. Would you like that?’

‘Will you make it up?’ the little girl asked.

‘Certainly,’ said Maud.

‘Then I think I might like it,’ she said. ‘And so would Polly,’ she added as an afterthought.

Maud smiled. ‘Then while Netta puts you to bed, I will go and fetch the globe from the library.’

Sir Dominic stepped forward. His eyes glinted.

‘Allow me,’ he drawled. ‘I will fetch the globe for you, Miss Wilmot, if you will allow me to stay for the bedtime story.’

Maud halted the twisting of her hands. She would not reveal her nervousness to Sir Dominic.

She sat by Rosabel’s bed in her pretty bedroom. It was all done in pink silk, with roses on the wallpaper. It must have been decorated recently, for wallpapers were the height of fashion and this was one of the most delightful Maud had seen. The room was light and airy, looking over the same aspect of the garden as Maud’s.

Tucked up under the pink silk eiderdown was Rosabel, in her white nightgown. Polly had been dressed in a white nightdress, too.

‘That will be all for me, miss,’ Netta said now. ‘I’ll be going to have my tea in the servants’ hall. I suppose you will be having your supper on a tray in the schoolroom? All the other governesses did.’

Maud hid her sigh. The governess always hovered between stairs, neither upstairs nor down, not welcome to dine with the family, nor particularly welcome among the servants. Often, Maud felt lonely when she dined alone in the schoolroom, night after night. But she had learnt to manage being alone. She read books, or wrote letters, or prepared lessons. She would often mend and sew, too, and of course, when she could, she would slip out for a walk.

‘Thank you, Netta.’ Maud smiled at her. It wasn’t Netta’s fault that the governess wasn’t to be included below stairs. It was the way things were done. ‘A supper tray would be most welcome. I can fetch it myself, if that would be of help.’

‘Oh, no, miss. I’ll bring it. And your morning tray, too.’

Netta gave Maud one last curious look. The story of how the new governess had found fault with the schoolroom and spoken in such a forthright manner to the master of the house would be all over the servants’ hall in minutes, Maud guessed.

A few moments later he reappeared, carrying the globe. Again, she was aware of how he moved. He strode into the room with a casual ease that would have been attractive, had he not been so infuriating. She supposed she could see why previous governesses had been drawn to him—not that she would, of course, fall under his spell.

He bowed slightly as he passed the globe to Maud.

She made sure her fingers did not touch his as she took it. ‘Thank you.’

He gave a glimmer of a smile before pulling up a chair on the other side of Rosabel’s bed.

So, he did intend to stay and listen to the bedtime story.

‘Tonight’s story is about Little Swallowtail.’ Maud fought down her unexpected anxiety. She was never nervous when storytelling, but Sir Dominic Jago’s presence had an unsettling effect. He had said nothing at all since he came back with the globe, yet she could not help being aware of him.

‘Little Swallowtail is a fairy—a butterfly fairy, in fact. She is tiny and delicate, so tiny that from a distance you might mistake her for a butterfly herself.’ Maud leaned forward and whispered to Rosabel, ‘I think some of them might live in your garden.’

Rosabel’s eyes became saucers.

A fleeting smile passed across Sir Dominic’s face.

Maud settled back in the chair. Her nerves were abating now. ‘Once upon a time, there was a young butterfly fairy called Little Swallowtail. Though she wasn’t quite a butterfly fairy, not yet. You see, she didn’t want to grow her wings.’

Rosabel’s eyes were wide. ‘Don’t all fairies have wings?’

‘Not when they’re little fairies,’ said Maud. ‘At the beginning, they don’t have wings when they are born. They have lovely black-and-white-striped caterpillar bodies with yellow spots, and they stay on the ground.’

‘Ugh.’ Rosabel shuddered and hugged Polly tighter. ‘I don’t like caterpillars.’

‘Perhaps you haven’t met the right ones,’ said Maud. ‘Little Swallowtail is friendly, though the Red Admiral can be a rather unpleasant caterpillar, at times, and Speckled Wood can be a crosspatch in bad weather. But I’ve never met a Small Tortoiseshell I didn’t like.’

A muffled cough came from Sir Dominic.

Maud glanced up. His face, however, was expressionless.

She went on with the story. ‘Now, let me tell you about Little Swallowtail. She was born into a beautiful garden. Her family had settled in Cornwall long ago, though long ago, they came from tropical climes.’

Maud held up the globe so that Rosabel could see it.

‘Swallowtail’s family came from North Africa…’ she put her finger on the map ‘…and Asia.’ She showed Rosabel the landmass before spinning the globe. ‘And this is where we are, in Cornwall.’

She turned the globe again to show Rosabel the long distance between the two countries and held it steady so that Rosabel could spin it around.

Sir Dominic smiled. He leaned in. ‘Is that a little girl I see in Cornwall?’ He pointed to the location on the globe.

Rosabel giggled.

Maud almost dropped the globe on to the eiderdown. She hadn’t expected him to join in the fun of storytelling.

He reached out and steadied the globe with his long fingers.

His lips curved. ‘Shall I hold the world for you, Miss Wilmot?’

Maud quickly removed her own hand. ‘We have almost finished with it.’

His half-smile remained as he laid the globe on the bedside table next to him.

‘The Swallowtails liked the weather here in Cornwall,’ Maud went on. She had to focus. She refused to be perturbed by his presence as she continued the story, all about how Little Swallowtail didn’t want to fly like the other butterflies and how she found her courage, and her wings.

Rosabel listened with her doll gripped tight. Sir Dominic Jago, too, appeared to take in every word, as Maud described Little Swallowtail’s adventures as a caterpillar: how she got lost in the jungle of long grass by the meadow near the river and found her way home.

‘Finally…’ Maud got to the end of the story ‘…Little Swallowtail saw the vegetable patch and knew she was home. Her mother wrapped Little Swallowtail in her wings. “We thought we had lost you for ever!”

‘“I want to grow my wings,” said Little Swallowtail, “so I don’t ever get lost again.” So, she was wrapped up in her soft white cocoon, that is like the most comfortable of featherbeds, and when she came out of the cocoon, she had become Princess Swallowtail, with wings of pale yellow veined with black, a pretty blue frill and two scarlet spots.’

Rosabel had been listening eagerly. ‘Have you ever seen Princess Swallowtail?’

Maud smiled. ‘The butterflies are all asleep now and you must go to sleep, too. But one day, if you can show me the vegetable patch, we can try to find Princess Swallowtail, or perhaps one of her cousins.’

Rosabel drew back. ‘I don’t like to go out of doors.’

Maud clasped her hands together. ‘Why, that is just how some of the butterflies feel, about coming indoors.’

‘They do?’ Rosabel asked.

Maud sensed Sir Dominic’s hidden chuckle.

‘Indeed,’ Maud said. ‘I wonder if you can help. It would be most useful if you could allow some of the butterflies to visit you, indoors. They are used to the outdoors, you see, and if you would allow them to make a morning call on you, they might become more used to the environment.’

Rosabel thought for a moment. ‘How will they come indoors?’

‘I will bring them,’ said Maud, ‘in a large jar, with plenty of holes for air. Some might be bold enough to go free in the schoolroom, but we will have to see.’

‘Might I also be present for this morning visit?’ Sir Dominic asked.

‘Of course.’ Maud inclined her head without enthusiasm.

She stood and smoothed out her skirt. ‘I will say goodnight now, Rosabel.’

‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Sir Dominic.’

Idly, he spun the globe with his finger. ‘Goodnight, Miss Wilmot. Until tomorrow.’

Maud hurried through the schoolroom and into her own bedroom. She shut the door and leaned against it. She had no intention of lingering.

Sir Dominic’s presence during the storytelling had been more enjoyable than she had anticipated. She had to admit, as her heart gave another thud, he was the most disturbing man she had ever met. Most disturbing, indeed.

Chapter Four

It leads me forth at evening;

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

‘Good morning, Miss Wilmot.’

Maud entered the schoolroom to find Sir Dominic standing by the window. The sunlight streamed in, putting his face half in profile. It emphasised the set of his jaw.

She stepped back, then raised her own chin as she crossed the room and placed on the table the large jars she had borrowed from the kitchen earlier that morning. The glass glistened in the sunlight, making the foliage she had gathered inside them appear even more vivid green.

‘Good morning,’ she replied, unsmiling, with the slightest nod of her head. Overnight, for she had struggled to sleep as usual, her indignation at the master of the house had not abated. She had resolved to display the utmost propriety towards him at all times.

‘I thought I would come and see that you have what you need here in the schoolroom for today’s lesson. But I see you have already been busy,’ he said.

‘Since just after dawn,’ she admitted. ‘I was fortunate to find what I needed around the vegetable patch.’

He frowned slightly as he studied the contents of the jars. ‘Are these of sufficient size for your purposes?’

She ran her finger over the lid of one of the jars, where she had made the holes for air. She’d not only caught caterpillars, but a butterfly, too. ‘These jars are large enough for insect homes.’ She couldn’t suppress a sigh. ‘Ideally, of course, I’d have a vivarium.’

His raised eyebrow met the other in a slight frown. ‘You are already teaching me something, Miss Wilmot. I’m not familiar with the word. What is a vivarium?’

‘It’s a Latin term,’ she told him eagerly, unable to hold back her enthusiasm. She picked up one of the glass jars. ‘It’s a most innovative idea. Imagine this insect home being four or five times the size. That is the size of a vivarium. They are big glass cases or domes, with ventilation, where caterpillars and butterflies can be observed alive, without harm. Mr Ward of London has made some marvellous ones that are being used on long sea voyages to collect specimens, I believe. But we can make do.’

‘Thank you for enlightening me.’

Maud stiffened as she put the jar back with the others on the table. She wondered, for a moment, if he was mocking her enthusiasm, but she could discern no trace of mockery on his face. Instead, he was studying the insect homes with increased interest.

The door from the nursery opened.

Maud smiled. ‘Good morning, Rosabel.’

Rosabel edged towards the table, her doll Polly clutched against her ruffled pinafore.

Sir Dominic reached out and put his arm around her, drawing the little girl close to him. He pointed to the insect homes. ‘Come and see what Miss Wilmot has found.’

Rosabel peered cautiously at the jars. ‘Is that Princess Swallowtail?’

Maud shook her head. ‘I couldn’t find her this morning. She must be off on one of her adventures. Some of her friends have come to call instead. Would you like to meet them?’

Rosabel leaned further into her papa’s side, but she nodded.

Maud pointed at the brown-and-yellow butterfly fluttering against the glass. ‘This is Mr Speckled Wood come to say how do you do. I’m sure he is very pleased to make your and Polly’s acquaintance.’

‘How do you do,’ Sir Dominic murmured.

Rosabel giggled. ‘How do you do.’

‘I trust Mr Wood has found adequate refreshment,’ said Sir Dominic.

‘Indeed he has,’ Maud replied, repressing another smile. She hadn’t expected the master of the house to play along. ‘Long grass is his preference, so I have put plenty in the jar.’

‘We aim to please at Pendragon Hall.’ Sir Dominic leaned in. ‘I see there are leaves, also. Are they to Mr Wood’s taste?’

Maud couldn’t repress a chuckle. ‘I hope not.’

‘Can you see what is on one of the leaves in the other jar, Rosabel?’ Sir Dominic asked.

Rosabel cringed. ‘Is that a caterpillar?’

‘Indeed it is.’ Maud turned the glass around so that the little green creature was more visible.

‘Will it come out of the jar?’ Rosabel’s voice was high with fear.

Maud was quick to reassure her. ‘Oh, no, not unless you invite it to do so specifically. Caterpillars are extremely shy. They like to stay on their leaves. It is not a good idea to move them too quickly. They also get very, very hungry. We shall have to feed it lots of grass, in its new home.’

Maud moved the jar aside and took up the other. ‘And here is someone who likes to stay in bed.’

Sir Dominic leaned in. After a moment, Rosabel followed her father’s example.

‘This is a cocoon,’ Maud explained. ‘A more proper name for it is chrysalis.’ It was a little early in the year, but she’d found it on a loose piece of bark, near the scullery door. She never liked to disturb a cocoon unnecessarily and often they were attached to walls or fences. This one had transferred easily.

Rosabel’s shoulders were hunched, but Maud was pleased to see she couldn’t restrain a closer look at the hard white case that was stuck to the bark. It was only a couple of inches long. ‘Is there a caterpillar inside?’

‘It was a caterpillar,’ Maud went on. ‘Now it is sleeping on its pillow. But while it is sleeping, safe and sound, it is changing into a beautiful butterfly. A white-and-pale-green one, I think. When it is ready, it will come out.’

Sir Dominic glanced at her over the top of Rosabel’s head. ‘How long do you think it will take?’

‘A week,’ Maud told him. ‘Maybe two.’

His face was still, but he drew his daughter closer to him. ‘I hope I am there to see it.’

‘I can assure you, Sir Dominic,’ Maud said softly. ‘It will happen. The butterfly will emerge.’

Dominic slid the engraved card out of the envelope and sighed. Another dinner invitation.

He dropped the white card on the mantelpiece. He was not an unfriendly man, far from it, but at the end of a day’s work running the railway, let alone Pendragon Hall and the surrounding estate, he never particularly looked forward to idle banter around a dinner table.

Strange, how a mere piece of card could bring back so many memories.

The arguments. The misunderstandings. The complaints. The tears.

He returned to his desk, gritted his teeth and opened the book of railway accounts.

As he did so, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed.

He didn’t need to look at a timetable to know that a West Cornish Railway train would be arriving at a Cornish station at that very moment. Over the past few years, he’d memorised the train timetable almost without realising it. Every time a train arrived or pulled out, he knew it.

His challenge in the future would be to keep them running.

At least he’d been able to focus more easily on his work for the last few days, since the new governess had arrived. It was hard to put his finger on exactly what had altered, but one of the burdens he’d been carrying alone had been eased, at least.

Not that he had too much contact with the new governess. When he did, she was most stern in her manner. Even so, something had shifted in the house; some tension had disappeared. The change was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

Yet his other burdens remained. He squared his shoulders, took up his fountain pen and went over the figures again.

They didn’t add up any differently.

He exhaled as he dropped the pen on to the desk. For a moment he rested his elbows on the leather, put his head in his hands and pressed his fingers into his scalp, as if different numbers would emerge if he pressed hard enough.

Mentally, he calculated again. He’d trimmed back costs by taking on even more of the financial responsibility. It was a risk, but he had to take it, at least until he could find an alternative. He was not only a major investor, he also managed much of the line himself. No detail escaped him. He wanted the line to be the best in Britain, if not in Europe. Cornwall had lagged behind for so long. His county deserved to thrive in the new railway age. He must do everything possible to ensure it did.

The study door flung open.

‘Papa!’

Dominic leapt to his feet. ‘What is it, Rosabel?’

His daughter’s black ringlets flew around her head as she rushed into the room. ‘The butterfly has come out!’

Behind her came Miss Wilmot, carrying one of the insect homes. ‘Forgive the interruption, Sir Dominic.’

‘Not at all, Miss Wilmot.’

‘Butterflies often come out in the morning,’ she explained. ‘Rosabel and I were fortunate enough to see it in time, just after breakfast. It has occurred much earlier than I expected. The new butterfly had just begun to break free.’

Rosabel clapped her hands together. ‘We watched it come out, Papa! And now we’re going to let it out of the jar. Come out and watch it with us!’

Dominic turned away and cleared his suddenly choked throat. He’d barely realised how much Rosabel’s nervousness had been preying on his mind and heart.

He’d tried to convince himself that it was merely his young daughter’s temperament, that she took after him more than her mama. Sarah had been pretty, friendly and gregarious. She’d been sociable, loving to attend dinners and parties, to go and stay with acquaintances, to host a stream of guests at Pendragon Hall. Rosabel was more reserved. But he’d known, deep down, it was something else than temperament that had kept her indoors for so long.

He’d been more worried about his daughter than he’d ever been able to acknowledge.

Dominic turned and met the gaze of Miss Wilmot. Her face was grave, but in her eyes, he saw her relief.

His throat choked again. Until the new governess had come along, he had struggled alone with his fears for his daughter. Now he saw that she had shared his concern. An understanding, more profound than sympathy, emanated from every aspect of her being.

‘Papa! Didn’t you hear me?’ Rosabel came around the desk and tugged at his sleeve. ‘We’re going to let the butterfly into the garden.’

Under the guise of adjusting his cravat, Dominic cleared his throat.

‘Is it ready to fly?’ he asked Miss Wilmot, his voice rasping. He was unable to say more. ‘It is not too soon?’

That deep understanding flared in her eyes.

‘Not at all,’ she assured him quietly. ‘It is time to test its wings.’

Rosabel tugged his sleeve again. ‘Come with us, Papa!’

He tousled his daughter’s curls. ‘Of course.’

She half ran out of the study.

Dominic came out from behind his desk. As he did so, he caught Miss Wilmot’s fresh, clean scent—pure and natural, like the outdoors.

She held out the jar. The empty chrysalis lay on the bottom of the glass and a white butterfly was fluttering within. ‘Perhaps you would care to do the honours, Sir Dominic.’

She wore no gloves. As he took it, their fingers touched. Hers were warm before she quickly withdrew them.

‘Miss Wilmot! Papa!’ Rosabel called from the hall.

‘We’re coming, Rosabel,’ she replied.

Her grey skirt swished over the smooth wooden boards as he followed her into the hall.

He blinked as the new governess stepped forward and opened the front door. The morning sun streamed in. It turned the hall to gold, sending coppery glints into her hair.

Dominic gripped the jar.

As they watched, Rosabel ran out into the sunlight.

A twig snapped.

Maud shrieked.

‘Miss Wilmot!’

An owl screeched as she spun around, her boots slipping in the soft grass. Her breath came in jagged, painful gasps.

Her shawl fell back from her head. ‘Sir Dominic!’

He bowed slightly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I seem to be making a habit of it.’

She drew her shawl tight. Her whole body shook. ‘I didn’t hear you come up behind me.’

‘I can see that.’ He cast an eye over her as she stood before him.

She became aware of the rise and fall of her bodice as she clutched the shawl. Her heart was still pounding, her breath coming fast.

He stepped back. ‘I meant no cause for alarm. I noticed a light here in the bushes and recalled what you told me about moth-hunting.’

Maud glanced around. She hadn’t gone right into the woods, just stayed at the edge, among some of the oaks and blackthorn bushes. ‘Is there any difficulty in my being here?’

He shook his head. ‘Not in the least. I merely thought I would take the opportunity to thank you for what you did for Rosabel today.’

‘There’s no need to thank me,’ Maud replied as she counted her breaths, trying to slow them.

‘We both know that there is.’ He studied her. ‘Are you all right now?’

‘Yes. I mean, no. I mean, you surprised me.’ Her breath still came in those painful, jagged gasps. Tremors tore at her body like fingers. Ever since what had happened, as she now thought of it as a way of both trying to deal with it and keep the memories at bay, she had become easily startled. She jumped if someone entered the room unexpectedly, or even at a loud noise. Her nerves were strained, she knew, fluttering like a butterfly in a net.

He stood silently as she tried to regain her composure, his face half in darkness, half in lamplight.

Maud lifted her head to let the cool night air fan her face. ‘I didn’t mean to shriek.’

He pushed back his hair from his brow. His signet ring gleamed. ‘You gave the night owls a run for their money.’

He continued to study her, as if trying to assess her reaction. ‘If I may say, you don’t seem the type to startle easily.’

‘What type do I seem?’

His mouth quirked. ‘I am still making you out.’

Her stomach fluttered. His scrutiny was unnerving.

‘Miss Wilmot,’ he said, after a moment, ‘I believe we got off to a bad start and I am sorry for that. I am in your debt for what you have achieved with Rosabel in such a short amount of time.’

Maud drew back, stunned. She had never expected him to say such a thing.

‘Rosabel’s achievements are her own,’ she protested.

‘That is very modest of you, Miss Wilmot, but it is not entirely the case. You have more than proved your competence as a governess.’

‘Thank you,’ she said simply. It was what she taught her charges. To accept a compliment with grace. But it was more difficult, coming, as it did, with an apology from Sir Dominic Jago.

‘Changes make things difficult for Rosabel,’ he said. ‘After having lost her mother, new governesses, one after another…’

She nodded.

‘I understand,’ she said gently. More than he realised, perhaps.

He exhaled. ‘I believe you shared my pleasure at witnessing the butterfly emerge.’

‘I believe I did.’ She couldn’t deny it.

He glanced over to where she had placed the lamp carefully on the ground. ‘I have never seen moth-hunting before.’

Maud pointed to the lamp. Even burning low, a variety of moths were drawn to it, some of them large, some small, in shades of brown, white and grey. They fluttered around it now. It silvered their wings. ‘Moths are attracted to light, of course, and I can only catch them at night. They are interesting to compare to butterflies.’

‘I needed some air myself tonight,’ he admitted. ‘The railway is keeping me busy.’

‘Surely the railway doesn’t run at night,’ Maud said lightly. He’d said something similar to her about butterflies.

His smile was fleeting in the lamplight. ‘Trains need more than coal to keep them running. They need money. The West Cornish Railway Company needs other investors and needs them urgently. I am committed to connecting Cornwall to the rest of the world. The line has to expand, in both terms of track miles and more carriages and customers, or it will fail, taking away opportunities for all the workers and travellers, along with trade. The West Cornish Railway lacks funds and it is my job to find it. Failure is not an option, Miss Wilmot.’

‘It’s a big responsibility.’ It explained why his light was so often burning in the library, late at night.

‘Many people depend on me. It’s important for me to increase work and prosperity in Cornwall. My father was not a man of business and Pendragon Hall needs more than rents to keep going. I have been working hard to not only improve my father’s estate but the lives of all those nearby. There have been Jagos in this area for centuries. Once, they were tenant farmers, not landowners. I do not forget that. I have a horror of taking advantage of those who work for a living.’

He exhaled. ‘The railway needs my full attention at this crucial stage. Investment is essential if it is to reach its full potential, and investors must be found and cultivated. I must admit, it is the part of the business I like least, but unless money is found to ensure the prosperity of the line, my hopes and dreams for the railway may never come true. We need investors urgently.’

‘The West Cornish Railway is a fine train line,’ she protested. ‘Surely investors will be keen to support it.’

‘That is very kind of you to say, but there is little money here in my county and Cornwall has always struggled to gain English investment.’

‘You speak as if Cornwall and England are two different lands.’

‘To a Cornishman they are,’ he said. ‘We are accepted by English, but also not accepted. Not quite.’

‘Like governesses,’ Maud said. ‘We, too, are outsiders. Between stairs.’

‘I had not thought of it that way. Then we are alike, it seems.’

Silence fell over them again, like a net. She felt no wish to break it, as the moths fluttered by.

Nor, it appeared, did he. It was some moments later that he bowed. ‘I have imposed upon your leisure time. I will wish you goodnight, Miss Wilmot. Happy hunting.’

He vanished into the darkness.

Maud stared after him. What he’d told her about the railway line explained a great deal. He was a hard-working man, a driven one, committed to the people who relied upon him.

But it was a heavy burden to carry alone.

Picking up her lamp and net, she slowly made her way back to the house.

Chapter Five

’Tis a morning pure and sweet;

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

Dominic leaned back on his horse. ‘Whoa, Taran.’

On the gravel drive he paused and looked across the lawn to where Miss Wilmot and Rosabel were busy with their botany activities, as they had been every morning, without fail, for the past few weeks. Her unusual methods had continued to work. He had now become accustomed to stopping and watching them before he rode off to spend most of the day at the railway office, just as he had become accustomed to spending the early part of his evening in the nursery listening to Miss Wilmot tell one of her butterfly fables.

He had to admit it had become a most pleasant pastime.

This morning, he had been observing them more closely than usual. Usually, they carried butterfly nets with long wooden handles. Rosabel’s was some inches shorter than the governess’s net. Miss Wilmot’s also appeared to be adjustable. She was able to lengthen or shorten it with a sharp flick of her fingers, as if she were fly-fishing. At first, she had spent a great deal of time demonstrating to Rosabel how to leap and jump to make the best use of a net, much to Dominic’s hidden amusement. He had almost laughed out loud at one particularly adventurous swipe through the air, but he’d restrained himself. She hadn’t looked much older than Rosabel, with her enthusiasm and energy as, with her net aloft, she almost flew through the air.

It was in sharp contrast to the reserved, almost reproving manner with which she treated him, even after their nighttime encounter. He could not fault her behaviour in that regard. There was a distance between them that, to his amazement, he almost regretted. His initial warning had been entirely unnecessary, he realised, with some chagrin. She did not seek him out. She kept any conversation with him to a minimum. Each night she told her tale, bid Rosabel goodnight and vanished into the cocoon of her bedroom.

But his daughter was thriving under her care. Miss Wilmot had proved to be a gift and he had been able to relax in that regard, at least. Rosabel’s increased appetite, pink cheeks and general air of happiness showed that the new governess’s routine was continuing to make a difference. Miss Wilmot was much more than a good storyteller. She possessed that rare gift of being able to enchant children into learning. The stories she told each night were full of charm, but they also carried information, and usually held an intriguing lesson that would lead Rosabel out of doors the next day.

He had become intrigued himself.

As well as butterfly-catching, the pair of them seemed to spend a great deal of time hunting for caterpillars, or at least that was what he presumed they were doing. It was something he had never thought he would see Rosabel do. But there she was, digging among the bushes and plants and emerging with her white pinafore covered with dirt, her normally neat ringlets a mass of wild curls. Miss Wilmot was often not much better. She, too, was not averse to diving into the undergrowth, and, as it had this morning, her bonnet generally fell back completely, revealing curls that rivalled Rosabel’s ringlets in a shade that he now saw had warm reddish lights in the sunlight.

This morning there had been even more activity than usual. Netta, the nursemaid, and other kitchen staff had been going to and from the Hall, carrying more glass pickling bottles and jars, with Miss Wilmot directing their placement in certain areas of the garden. From the smiling response and interest of the servants, he gauged that the new governess was far more popular than any previous governess had been. She also seemed entirely unaware that there was foliage in her hair.

Dominic slid off the stallion’s back.

‘Watch me, Miss Wilmot!’ Rosabel ran across the lawn, her butterfly net aloft. The sun beamed down on grass that still held the faintest touches of morning dew.

Maud laughed. ‘That’s right, Rosabel. Keep chasing them!’

On the gravel drive that led to the large iron gates, she had seen Sir Dominic astride a black stallion, a huge animal with a glossy coat. He often stopped and watched them, she’d noted, before he rode away. But this morning he’d turned the horse, dismounted and led it across the grass.

When he reached her, he pulled up the horse beside him with a casual turn of his wrist.

‘Good morning.’ He bowed. His riding coat was as black as the horse’s mane, but his head was bare. ‘It’s good to see Rosabel so often out of doors. I must congratulate you on your methods.’

Maud nodded stiffly. Even though she had been at Pendragon Hall for a few weeks now, she made sure she never sought out Sir Dominic. He came and listened to her telling of The Butterfly Fables each night, but she carefully avoided being in his presence at all other times. It was imperative, in the circumstances. She must be certain not to lower her guard.

‘Butterflies are more often out in the morning,’ she said now.

‘As is Rosabel, of late.’ He moved the reins from one leather-gloved hand to the other as the horse shifted. ‘I am continuing to enjoy listening to her bedtime stories.’ His mouth curved in that half-smile again. ‘You are something of a Scheherazade, entertaining us with her tales of one thousand and one Arabian Nights.’

‘I do not seek to be an enchantress, Sir Dominic,’ she replied with severity. What, did he think her a modern Scheherazade, luring her king into love by means of bedroom tales? He might think she had designs upon him, or, heaven forfend, romantic notions. She had no intention of implying any such intentions on her behalf. ‘Nor, I believe, did Scheherazade. She was simply a woman who had the power of storytelling.’

‘Forgive me.’ Amusement gleamed in his dark eyes. ‘I merely meant to praise you for your teaching methods.’

Maud lifted her chin. ‘I am fully confident in their merit.’

He sketched her a small bow. ‘You have already proved their worth, Miss Wilmot. Please do not think I have any complaints.’

‘Papa! Miss Wilmot!’ Rosabel raced over to them, the butterfly net now cupped in her hands. ‘I’ve caught a butterfly!’

Maud clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, well done, Rosabel!’

Rosabel danced with excitement. ‘Is it Princess Swallowtail?’

‘Let’s look. Gently now.’ Carefully, Maud took the net and covered the hooped steel top with a white cotton handkerchief she pulled from her pocket. She loosened the net, giving the butterfly room to move.

‘It is a small blue butterfly,’ she said. ‘A male. His Latin name is cupido, named for Cupid, the little god of love. He is a good friend of Princess Swallowtail’s. Look at the colour on his wings. He is one of the tiniest butterflies in England.’

‘He’s so small,’ breathed Rosabel.

‘Yes, but he’s a good flier. Shall we keep him or set him free?’

‘Surely Cupid should fly free,’ murmured Sir Dominic.

Rosabel nodded.

‘Very well.’ Throwing off the handkerchief, Maud gave the butterfly net a shake. The dark blue butterfly fluttered momentarily in the net, then caught the opening and flew across the lawn towards the woods.

Rosabel clapped her hands in delight.

‘Bravo, Miss Wilmot,’ Sir Dominic Jago said. ‘Another success.’

‘It was Rosabel who caught the butterfly,’ Maud responded.

‘I wasn’t referring to the butterfly,’ he replied.

Maud glanced up at him.

His eyes were on Rosabel, pink-cheeked and laughing, before his gaze met hers.

Understanding flashed between them.

Instantly Maud broke the connection.

‘Shall we go and see if we can find some other butterflies in the woods?’ she asked Rosabel quickly. ‘We don’t need to go far.’

‘You can go as far as you wish, Miss Wilmot,’ Sir Dominic said. ‘Pendragon Woods are part of the estate.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We’re going to have a picnic in the woods, Papa,’ Rosabel said. ‘Miss Wilmot says that everything tastes better out of doors. Can you come, too?’

He smiled at his daughter. ‘Another time, I hope, if Miss Wilmot will allow it.’

‘Of course,’ Maud replied.

He bowed again.

Maud took Rosabel by the hand, the butterfly net in the other. She was aware of him still standing with his horse as they walked away.

When they returned from the woods a little later, there was no sign of Sir Dominic Jago. Not that she had been looking for him, she reproved herself.

A carriage had drawn up at in front of the house, and, with the help of a footman, a woman was descending, her hooped taffeta skirt swaying in the breeze. The fabric shimmered as if it were the ocean itself.

Maud sighed. The dress was so beautiful. With Rosabel’s hand still in hers, she moved closer, across the lawn.

The woman turned. She was probably the most fashionable woman Maud had ever seen, even in London, she thought, half-dazzled. Her hair was dark and her long-lashed eyes were an unusual blue-green, a light turquoise that matched the velvet of the ribbons that held her black cape.

With an imperious, gloved hand, she beckoned.

Maud stiffened. She disliked being summoned in such a way, but it would be rude not to respond. She had to be careful, always, to be polite to visitors to the house. It was part of the role of a governess.

The woman looked Maud up and down as they drew near, as if Maud were a specimen on a pin. ‘You must be the new governess. Dominic has mentioned you.’

Maud inclined her head. Governesses did not curtsy or bob, in general, but she always aimed to be courteous. ‘Yes. I am Miss Wilmot. How do you do?’

‘I am Averill Trevose.’ The other woman’s voice was crisp and high. ‘Soon to be mistress of Pendragon Hall.’

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