Page 28 of What Lies Beneath

She knew he said it with kind intentions, trying to help her regain her equilibrium, but the warmth and care in his tone only made matters worse when set against the picture of the stern, cold governess he had always thought her to be.

“Quite so,” she replied, reaching desperately for the acerbic tone she usually used and finding it absent. His compassion was too much, overwhelming her with the desire to take the friendship he was clearly offering her and accept it, to lean on it and depend on it, and that she could not, dare not do. Deciding it would be far safer for her to put an end to an evening which she ought never have agreed to in the first place, she downed her remaining brandy, which caught the back of her throat and made her cough.

“Good lord!” Ashburton exclaimed, getting to his feet so he could pat her back. “You’re not supposed to down it like that. Not until you’re used to it, at least,” he amended.

“S-Sorry,” she spluttered, struggling for breath. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I ought to retire now. It’s been a long day.”

“Of course,” he said politely as she stood. “But can you forgive me for my tactlessness?”

She smiled at that, touched that he cared what she thought of him. “There is nothing to forgive. Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, Mrs Harris.”

She nodded and hurried away, wondering if the regret she saw in his eyes was merely because he had unwittingly caused her to cry, or because she had ended their evening so early. Telling herself she was the biggest fool in Christendom if she had the least bit of doubt about that, she took herself up to bed.

Chapter 6

Dear Mrs Harris,

I have a bone to pick with you, for you never came to visit as you promised faithfully to do.

I know we were never close, but I wish you would consider me a friend and allow me to help you if you are still in difficulties? I have recently married Mr Larkin Weston, and must confess to being so preoccupied with my own joy I did not think to contact you again until yesterday. I discovered then that you had returned to Monmouthshire.

Please know that you can trust me to hold my tongue if you need a confidant and write to me at any time. I have returned to the Manor, which has been restored to me thanks to my wonderful husband.

I cannot tell you how happy I am, and wish only to help you secure such a state for yourself in any way I can.

Yours sincerely, your friend.

―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Magdelina Weston to Mrs Regina Harris.

23rd November 1850, Goshen Court, Monmouthshire.

To Pip’s annoyance, his steward reminded him of an appointment he must keep with one of his new tenant farmers early the next morning. It had been a meeting he’d been looking forward to, for it was wonderful to see the estate coming back to life, and people returning to work the land which had been so long neglected. The work he had done to restore the properties and improve the land was reaping rewards and the progress delighted him. Mr Evans was a young, fit man with some modern ideas about farming that Pip was keen to exploit.

On waking that morning, however, he’d been reluctant to leave the house so early, and without first sharing breakfast with Tilly and Mrs Harris. He felt certain he simply wished to ensure she was once more in good spirits, which was only natural after having put his foot in it so horrendously last night, but discovered within himself a disturbing and urgent need to reassure himself of her happiness. That he had roused unpleasant memories, and that she had perhaps cried herself to sleep, made his guts tighten into a knot. His need to see her at once and confirm he had done no lasting damage was appalling.

He would see her at dinner that evening, which was quite soon enough. She had been widowed long before she came to work for him and whatever had upset her was in the past, he reminded himself, and he forced his belligerent brain to concentrate on the matter at hand.

Much later that day, Pip returned home, frozen and weary, but well satisfied with Mr Evans. The young man had been full of enthusiasm and his wife, who was due to deliver their first child in the spring, had cried with happiness when she had seen her new home for the first time. To his surprise, Pip had felt a little emotional too, warmed by pride. His father had instilled in him the importance of having good relationships with his tenants and treating them fairly, and Montagu’s reputation for fairness and generous wages had gone a long way towards encouraging tenants to return to a property which had been so long neglected. His aunt had been quite a different kettle of fish, and had treated her tenants with scorn and revulsion, but then Aunt Marguerite had been a wicked old termagant. To his relief, no one had yet held that against him.

Upon hearing the dinner gong, Pip hurried to his rooms to wash and change and presented himself at the dinner table a bare second before the soup course arrived.

“Evening, little bird. What—” he began cheerfully, intending to ask his daughter about her day, when he spied the empty chair beside her. “Where is Mrs Harris?”

“She has a headache,” Tilly said glumly. “Though I don’t think she really has.”

“What makes you say so?” Pip asked, anxiety gnawing at his guts. Was this his fault? Had he upset her so she could not bear to face him?

“Well, she’s been fine all day,” Tilly said reasonably. “And she never gets sick. I’ve never known her to suffer headaches, and now she has another one. I’m afraid she might just want to have a bit of peace. I did chatter rather relentlessly today,” she added sadly.

Pip’s heart clenched. “I cannot believe for a moment it was anything you did—providing you were not wicked and have not yet confessed to it?” he added quickly, for he was not so naïve as to believe his daughter incapable of inducing a debilitating megrim, never mind just a headache.

“Oh, I wasn’t, I promise,” Tilly replied. “I did all my French and got all the maths equations right, and then we went for a walk, and after lunch we did some painting. Harry said my drawing of you was quite marvellous. Would you like to see it?”

Pip agreed he would like to, after dinner, and felt a little less apprehensive at her words. But as the meal continued, a nagging voice in his head reminded him that Mrs Harris was a conscientious woman and would hardly inflict her moods on her pupil. The effort of remaining cheerful all day for Tilly’s sake, could well have induced a headache.

Damn it.