30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

G regory's first instinct upon seeing Beatrice in a dark alcove of the gardens with another man was to grasp blindly at his side for the hilt of a sword that was not there. Their body language was tense, and they spoke in quiet, urgent whispers that he could not understand. When Florence had urged him to go and find Beatrice, he did not know what to expect; frankly, he still did not know what was happening, only that he did not care for it. Beatrice turned to face him slowly, and though she was clearly still tense, her eyes were unreadable behind her mask.

"Do I know you?" Gregory demanded, the strange man having addressed him as if they were old friends.

"We have not had the pleasure, though we do have a common acquaintance," the man in black replied, sliding a significant look to Beatrice. Gregory frowned at the implication put into the word "common".

"Are you all right, Miss Heart?" Gregory asked, turning his attention to her. With a tight jaw, she nodded but did not speak.

"I am grateful to have this moment to speak with you, Sir," the man continued, as if Gregory had not spoken at all. "If I might be so bold, I feel that it is my duty to warn you that you have let a viper into the henhouse."

"What do you mean?" Gregory demanded, his eyes still on Beatrice.

"Only that I wish to give you a warning, from one gentleman to another," the man replied easily. His eyes flicked to Beatrice, one dark eyebrow lifting almost imperceptibly. Gregory turned to give Beatrice a questioning look, but her eyes were fixed on the strange man, wide and staring. She shook her head as if answering a silent question.

"Warning? Who, exactly, are you?" Gregory turned his attention back to the man who spoke with such a familiar air, feeling all the more like he was witnessing a mummer's farce.

"I am the Honourable Judge Derrick Horner, at your service," he said with a little bow that felt ironic. "I would not speak so if I did not feel it a matter of such importance."

"Then say what you have to say," Gregory snapped, losing his limited patience. He had no tolerance for these sorts of intrigues and shenanigans.

"This woman," Judge Horner said, pointing with one startlingly pale finger at Beatrice, "is not who she says she is. I have known her for some years now, and it is my sad duty to inform you that she is a charlatan and a fraud."

"Sir, choose your next words carefully," Gregory growled.

The judge raised his hands, placating. "I take no pleasure in this, but I should hate to see a man with three young, vulnerable daughters be fooled in such a way. For heaven's sake, man, did you take the time to inquire into her references? Previous employers?"

Gregory had no reply for that. He shot a look to Beatrice, who remained silent, watching him. She did not object to what the judge said, which made the cold finger of doubt prick at the back of Gregory's neck.

Taking this as encouragement, the judge nodded sympathetically at Gregory. "Yes, you see it too, don't you? Can you truthfully say you have not had your doubts about her? Even now, look at her: Does she appear to be a governess to you?"

Gregory, unable to help himself, swept his eyes over Beatrice. All of the moments in which she had been cagey about her past, all of the hundreds of little things, a look, the way she stood, her manner of speaking... All of it added up into a crushing weight that Gregory was helpless to ignore.

The judge sidled up to Gregory, standing on his left side. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "And just how would a governess afford such sparkling jewels, hmm?" he murmured. "How does a servant come by such trinkets? I shouldn't wonder if they were stolen. I would imagine she has a whole secret cache of them. You hear about these things, you know, in the papers: These girls pretend to be respectable young ladies, and work their way into a fine household, and when they have earned the trust of the masters, they help themselves to the silver, and vanish in the night." The judge leaned in closer, his voice dropped to the timbre usually reserved for the utmost scandal. "And what is to say that is the worst of her crimes? I've heard it boldly talked of in London that she privately entertains gentlemen."

Gregory stared at Miss Heart, who was standing so very still that she may as well have been a statue. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, not wanting to believe it. He was a man who believed in facts and observable truths, and the unfortunate fact was, there was much he simply did not know about her. The judge spoke logically, and she did not object to his words.

"Where did you get those jewels, Miss Heart?" Gregory asked.

Miss Heart, unflinchingly, stared him straight in the eye, her own green eyes glittering. "They were a gift," she replied staunchly. "It seems gentlemen, whom I believe to be friends, are in the habit of giving me beautiful things."

Gregory rocked back a little on his heels, accepting that hit. Next to him, the judge shook his head, tutting sadly. "A likely story. Who is to say that she does not secure men's affections in order to secure their treasures as well?"

Miss Heart stared at Gregory, clearly waiting for him to say something. He could not, his mouth feeling as though it were full of molten lead. He felt like a fool, like an old, ridiculous fool who had been taken in by a pretty face.

How many times has she refused to answer questions about her past? How long has her past been shrouded in mystery? he reminded himself. All of the little doubts that had, just hours before, seemed like playful mystery came into sharp focus.

With great effort, he wrenched his eyes away from her. He was not sure what hurt the most: the fact that she did not deny it, or the fact that he had been so ready to replace his wife with someone so unworthy.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Heart lift her chin slowly, then bring it down once in a sharp, precise nod. Gregory forced his eyes from her again, and when he looked back, she was gone, as if she had never been there.

"You've done the right thing," the judge said, laying a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. Wordlessly, Gregory shrugged it off.

Like an automaton, he turned and began walking back to the house, the windows almost painfully illuminated against the dark sky. Gregory was aware that people were staring at him, but they were dim, out of focus. Someone called his name, but he ignored it, letting his feet carry him forward.

He did not realise that he had walked straight through the house until he was back outside again. The cool evening air brought him back to his senses a little, rousing him. He looked about, seeing that the assorted drivers, clumped in gossiping bunches, were watching him. He ignored them, walking a little further down the drive.

The wind began to pick up in earnest, bringing with it the smell of rain. Something dark blew across the drive, tumbling near his feet. Gregory bent down to pick it up and found that it was Miss Heart's discarded mask.

***

T he feeling of being in a distant fog persisted the next morning. Gregory went about his tasks automatically, with no real feeling or thought behind them. The sounds of the household carried on around him, muted as if he had musket wadding in his ears. When he sat down to breakfast, the dining room was almost painfully quiet.

Gazing down the table, over the large baked ham and plates of buns and boiled eggs, Gregory attempted to rouse himself for the sake of his daughters. Looking about at their faces, however, Gregory suspected they were in no mood for conversation, either. In fact, their faces were downright mutinous. Strangely, however, none of his daughters had asked where Miss Heart was.

It was Mrs Turvy, the housekeeper, who broke the silence first, bustling in with the pot of coffee. "I suspect you'll be looking for a new governess now, what with Miss Heart's untimely departure."

At least one fork and two knives clattered onto separate plates at that. Gregory judiciously ignored them and nodded at Mrs Turvy. "I expect I will, though we will have to be a bit more thorough in our inquiries. I apologise for any inconvenience this puts the household under."

"You can't be serious," Florence said at last, staring down the table at Gregory, her face incredulous. "You mean to replace Miss Heart, just like that?"

"Florence," Gregory sighed, suddenly very tired.

"No," she snapped, putting her silverware down. "You cannot just erase her, not after all she did for us."

"You do not know her, not really," Gregory replied firmly. "I suspect none of us did."

"Poppycock," Florence retorted. "I think it's you who never really knew her."

"She wasn't a proper governess, not a real one," Gregory insisted.

"Does it matter?" Eliza asked quietly. "If we look at this logically, you wished for us to become more well-behaved, proper young ladies, did you not? You cannot say that we have not under her tutelage. Therefore, she must be a proper governess."

"That's not all there is to it," Gregory said, trying to focus on pouring himself some coffee.

"What else matters? She cared for us," Florence continued arguing, rising from her seat a little. "I told you to go find her last night because I was worried about her, not so that you would drive her off!"

"You needn't have worried about her," Gregory muttered darkly. "Quite the reverse."

" Yes , I did—that man, the one in the creepy bird mask, he was altogether rotten. He smiled and said charming things, but the moment he got me alone, he turned..." Florence wrinkled her nose at the memory. "There was something wrong with him, like he was a wolf in a man's skin. And Miss Heart put herself between him and me, for which I will always be grateful to her."

"She did?" Gregory asked. "She was interceding on your behalf?" When Florence nodded, he looked down at his coffee, as if it would have answers for him. "But he knew her previously, he told me—"

"I imagine he told you all sorts of things," Florence interrupted. "He was altogether oily , and I don't doubt he would tell you anything to get his own way." When Gregory was silent for a moment, Florence narrowed her eyes at him, refocusing her attention on him. "Wait, what did he tell you? Was it something regarding Miss Heart?" More silence from Gregory. "Oh, Father, no! You let that brigand insult Miss Heart, didn't you? And you did nothing to stop it? Good Lord, no wonder she ran off as she did!"

"That is quite enough, Florence," Gregory said, a warning in his tone. "Miss Heart did nothing to refute his claims herself."

"I don't believe it is enough now," Florence shot back, standing fully and slamming her palms on the table. "She was a governess , supposed to be under your protection, and you wanted her to answer back to a gentleman of standing and position? How would that have worked, precisely?"

Gregory stared at Florence, knowing full well that he should check her, but feeling as if he simply did not have the authority to do so. He had a stone in the pit of his stomach, one born of the growing realisation that he had failed Beatrice, egregiously so.

"If you think this return to your headstrong ways is an argument in her favour, then you are mistaken," Gregory said at length. "It only proves that you needed a firmer hand."

"Actually, Miss Heart left a letter for the three of us," Eliza piped up again. "She entreated us to behave, and to be kind to you and the new governess when she arrives."

Florence tossed her head triumphantly, and a pang went through Gregory's heart as the gesture was a veritable copy of one Beatrice made regularly. For several beats, there was no sound, not even the scrape of silverware against plates. All of his daughters stared at him, and the combination of accusation, expectation, and disappointment was enough to make him hang his head.

"Why are you just sitting there?" Florence demanded. "Go after her! We all know that you want to."

Startled, Gregory felt his cheeks growing a little warm, furtively glancing at his daughters. "What—what are you implying?"

"You're fond of Miss Heart," Sophia said for the first time, her little voice incongruous with the weighty truth of that statement.

"The facts support that assertion," Eliza added.

"Honestly, we've been waiting weeks for the two of you to figure it out," Florence concluded, resuming her seat and reaching for the coffee, soundly ignoring Gregory's disapproving look.

"I don't even know where she's gone," Gregory pointed out.

"She had a reference when she applied for the job, didn't she?" Eliza asked pragmatically. "So it seems likely she has at least one friend in London; start there."

"I can't just take off across the whole of England on some wild goose chase for our governess," Gregory protested, but could feel his resolve weakening.

Florence, taking an experimental sip of her coffee, fixed Gregory with a level gaze. "Why? Isn't she worth it?"

Gregory sat for a minute, in a kind of staring contest with Florence. In that moment, he could see exactly the sort of lady she was becoming, the woman she would be in a couple of short years, and he was no longer worried about her future. Wordlessly, he pushed back from the table and went to his desk in the library, prepared to begin rifling through stacks of old letters to find what he was searching for.