Page 18 of What Lies Beneath

Mrs Harris shook her head once more. “My grandfather remarried late in life, so I had an aunt and uncle who were relatively close in age to me. They were like siblings.”

“They lived with you?” he asked, relieved that she’d had family. He was close to his brother and sister and could not imagine having grown up without them.

“No. I lived with them. My parents died when I was a child,” she added.

Well, that explained her reluctance to speak of it, he supposed. The poor girl. “I’m so sorry,” he said, meaning it with his whole heart. “That must have been very hard for you.”

“Not really,” she replied, her words curt. “My parents left me with my grandfather before they died, for they had no interest in raising a child. I was too much of a bother and interfered with their lifestyle. I hardly noticed they were gone after the accident that killed them,” she replied. The words were hard and her expression cool as she met his eyes. He felt she was provoking him on purpose, that she wanted him to think her cold and heartless, or perhaps she was daring him to disapprove of her. He wasn’t certain which, or why.

“Then I am even more sorry,” he said, his voice low. “You deserved far better than that.”

She started at his words, looking so shocked he wondered at it. Had no one ever shown her tenderness or consideration, for her to look so thoroughly startled by it? To his dismay, her eyes grew suddenly over bright, and she blinked hard.

“Oh, look, and here is our dinner!” she cried with too much enthusiasm as the door opened and serving staff hurried in with their meal. “Tilly, put your pencils away, dear. You can complete the drawing another time.”

“Oh, but I’m nearly finished,” Tilly said with a sigh, but did as she was told, perking up as the servants put a large pot of lamb cawl on the table with a fresh loaf of bread and a huge piece of cheddar cheese.

“Oh, my favourite,” Tilly said happily, as Mrs Harris ladled a serving into her bowl. It smelled delicious, and was thick with big chunks of tender lamb, carrots, and potatoes in a rich gravy.

Pip watched Mrs Harris as she served him next. She had regained her composure and looked as calm and self-assured as she always did. Yet the more he looked at her, the more he wondered.

Her glasses, as always, were covered in fingerprints, and he had to restrain the urge to pluck them from her nose and give them a good clean. It always bewildered him how a woman who was in every way so neat and precise could endure seeing the world through a fog. Though her eyes might be somewhat obscured as he studied her face, he noted how fresh and unlined it was. How old was she? He had been certain she was well into her twenties at the very least when she had come to look after Tilly, but now…surely she looked no more than four and twenty at most. Surely that wasn’t possible? She must have been little more than a child when she’d married.

Mrs Harris looked up to hand his bowl back to him and started as she found him studying her face so closely. Colour pinked her cheeks once more and Pip smiled, hoping to put her at ease again.

“Thank you.”

She nodded and began cutting the bread with deft, sure hands, before offering a perfectly straight slice to Tilly and one to him. Taking one for herself, she filled her own bowl.

“This is delicious,” Tilly said happily. “May I have some cheese?”

Pip cut a chunk off for her, and one for Mrs Harris, before helping himself. The tart bite of the cheddar cut through the rich meatiness of the stew and was a wonderful accompaniment. Once they were done, Tilly looked longingly down at the remnants of gravy in the bottom of her bowl and then up at Mrs Harris, a slice of bread poised in her hand.

Pip grinned and picked up his own bread, using it to mop up the last of the delicious gravy before stuffing it in his mouth. As he had intended, Mrs Harris laughed, and Tilly gave a yip of delight before following suit.

“If you do that in polite company, I shall disown you,” Mrs Harris warned her charge earnestly, before picking up her own slice of bread and doing likewise.

Pip caught her eye, and she shrugged. “It’s too good to waste,” she admitted ruefully.

“There’s no argument here,” he replied, relieved to see she had recovered her good humour.

What she had said about her past still troubled him, though, as well as her reluctance to speak of it. Perhaps that was only natural. He was her employer, after all, and yet he hoped they had a different relationship than merely that of employer and employee. Different how? He wondered, but he had no answer to the question.

After a dessert of fresh Welsh cakes dusted with caster sugar, still hot and slick with butter, everyone was fortified enough to go back out into the blustery, bright afternoon and do a little more shopping.

Pip watched Mrs Harris surreptitiously, realising Tilly had been quite right. There was such longing in her eyes whenever they fell upon a colourful shawl or a bolt of jauntily patterned material that it made him feel wretched for her. When she thought no one was watching, she had touched her fingers to a rose-pink cashmere shawl as though she were touching something utterly forbidden. Closing her eyes as the silken material slid over her skin, she had let out a little sigh. The image had burned itself into his brain, the moment so private and so sensuous it made him feel oddly unsettled. Having never been denied a single thing he ever wanted, he could only imagine how frustrating it must be to see things one desired, and be forced to deny yourself the pleasure of them. Why should she deny herself? Admittedly, it would not be at all the thing to have his daughter’s governess dressed like a fair Cyprian, or even in brightly coloured gowns every day. In a bachelor household like his, it would cause a deal of talk. In any household, it would be most improper. But surely a colourful scarf, or a pretty bonnet, would not be amiss?

Having determined this to his own satisfaction, Pip made an excuse to free himself of their company for a little while, and returned to buy the pink cashmere shawl he had seen her admiring. How he was going to give it to her without having the thing thrown back in his face, he did not know, but he would think of something.

Regina sat back in the carriage with a sigh of relief. It had been a lovely day, though not without its trials, but she was weary now and relieved to take the weight off her feet. Even Tilly, usually so indomitable, curled up on the seat and put her head back, her eyes growing heavy as the carriage took them back to Goshen Court. Regina did not doubt the girl would sleep for the entire hour it would take them to reach home, and she might have done the same if not for the earl. It was impossible to be entirely at ease with him around, and so she ensconced herself as comfortably as she could and looked out at the wintery landscape as it passed. The scenery was so lovely here she never grew tired of it, no matter the season. The steep and lofty cliffs that Wordsworth had so admired called to something in her, the sense of history, of being rooted to the land in some intangible but forceful way, made her feel at peace in a way she never did whilst in town.

“We should be home just before it grows dark,” Ashburton remarked, breaking her out of her reverie.

“Yes, perfect timing,” she agreed. “Thank you for a lovely day, my lord. It was kind of you to invite us.”

“Think nothing of it. I have enjoyed having your company.”

He meant his daughter’s company, of course. She knew that, yet the compliment warmed her.