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Jemima got the distinct impression her mistress disliked her. When her son was in the room, her eyes never strayed from Jemima. Sometimes Jemima wondered if she was waiting for Jemima to betray herself—a laughable notion since young Mr Graves was not at all the kind of gentleman to impress Jemima, for all that he was ever solicitous of her comfort, asking if she was happy in her new position, and what might be done to ease her homesickness after he’d found her crying softly one evening.
Yet, he was probably the only person in a position to help Jemima get to London in order to make that auspicious “Twelfth day of Christmas” meeting.
Which got her to thinking. Perhaps another feigned bout of tears would tug at his heart strings enough for him to take her to London.
Perhaps she could claim that a family member was desperately ill. Mrs Graves might, in fact, be delighted at the prospect of losing Jemima for supposedly a few days.
Of course, once Jemima had met up with Sir Richard’s brother, she could cut ties with the Graves family. She had no money now, having sold the small bit of jewellery she had to fund a couple of serviceable garments, but surely Sir Richard’s brother would help her get back to her own family.
Perhaps her father’s murderer had already been apprehended and she didn’t know it.
One drizzly afternoon, Jemima sat sewing in the drawing room. Mrs Graves had just left and young Master Graves was at the writing desk near the window when Jemima rose with a sigh.
He looked up enquiringly.
“I think I shall go for a short walk,” she announced on another sigh, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Is everything all right, Miss Parsons?” He rose, glancing at the door as if afraid his mother was eavesdropping before asking boldly, “Would you like some company, perhaps?”
Jemima smiled. “I think perhaps that would be unwise,” she said, softly, also glancing at the door. She took a shuddering breath. “I shall be by the river.”
It was a clear invitation that he was welcome to join her, later, when they’d not be observed leaving together, and Jemima was astonished that her little ploy obviously worked so well. She certainly was not one to entice the gentlemen, and yet this one was easy prey.
She didn’t turn when she heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path behind her as she stood on the river bank, staring into the dark waters.
He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and Jemima turned and sent him a watery smile as she again dabbed at her eyes.
“I couldn’t stay a moment longer in the drawing room for fear your mother would see me cry.” Desperation made her say words she knew were unwise. She should never encourage Mr Graves but how else was she to appeal to his better nature so he’d take her to London?
“You’ve been crying, Miss Parsons? Oh, dear me, but I cannot imagine what’s making you so sad?” He stepped up close and offered her his own handerchief, clean and snowy as if he’d had it ready all the while. “Please, tell me?”
Jemima put her hand on his forearm before pulling it away quickly as if she realised, with embarrassment, her impropriety. “My aunt is ill. She’s the only family I have in all the world and I need to get back to see her.” Saying words that tiptoed around the terrible reality made Jemima’s voice quaver with real emotion so it was easy to look up at Mr Graves with tear-filled eyes. “I do so desperately want to get to London at the earliest, and yet I’ve been working in your household for so short a time, I don’t believe your mother would allow it.”
He was silent as he chewed his lip, thoughtfully. “No, she wouldn’t,” he said, slowly, and Jemima’s world seemed to take on a darker hue. She’d had no idea how much she’d been relying on somehow getting to London within the next couple of days.
With a sob, Jemima buried her face in the handkerchief and then suddenly his arms were around her. Startled, she found herself with her head against his chest, while he murmured soothing words, that, she was sure, included a promise that he’d do whatever he could to make her happy.
“You would?” She was so excited she didn’t care if he misconstrued her motivation. “You’d find a way to take me to London?”
He nodded, staring down at her with an ardor that would have made her run a mile if her entire future didn’t depend on his help.
“If that will please you, Miss Parsons, then, yes, I’ll find a way for you to get to London without making dear mama suspicious.” He paused and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “I have only one condition.”
A feeling of cold dread wound its way through her innards but she asked, as innocently as she could, “And what condition is that, Mr Graves?”
“That I am permitted to kiss you.”
Was there always a condition attached to doing what should have been a simple kindness? Her cousin Lucy, who knew far more about men, even though she was younger, alluded to this fact. It was one of the reasons Jemima had admired Sir Richard so much. He was a hero who’d helped her with no conditions, whatsoever.
But now Mr Graves was moistening his lips, waiting for her answer.
What could she do? She had to keep him onside if she were to make the long journey safely. She had no financial resources and, besides, no respectable young lady would d
ream of travelling alone.
But with a young man?
She balled her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms while she forced a smile.
