On Sunday, those of us who were astir trooped down to the village for church services. I wish you had been there so that I might have heard your opinion of the local vicar, one Reverend Benedict Underwood. He is only recently ordained—I believe the living was a gift from some uncle. His sermon on Galatians 5:19–21 was both thought provoking and scholarly (although I fear it sailed over the heads of the vast majority of his parishioners!). But I found his delivery most peculiar, for he reminded me of a thespian on a stage—quite self-consciously dramatic and so very proud. He is an attractive man for a vicar (if you like that look; I do not), although not, surely, quite as handsome as he believes himself to be. I told him in all sincerity how much I enjoyed his sermon and was tempted to add that I would love to hear him expound on 1 Samuel 16:17. But I was a good girl and held my tongue!
It was while we were still on the porch that a strange lout of a boy from the village—Reuben Dickie is his name—tried to chase a billy goat right into the church! They claim he is harmless—“half-soaked and yampy,” as they say here in Shropshire. His brother soon put a stop to the lad’s antics, with the assistance of Samuel Atwater, Northcott’s strangely solemn steward. But as they led Reuben away, he threw me such a look over his shoulder that I’ve quite made up my mind to avoid the village from now on.
But never fear, my dear Miss Rice, for I am having a marvelous time. I can’t wait until next February, when we go to London! And now I must dash off, for Mrs. Irving has got up an expedition to Northcott Gorge, which is said to be quite lovely and haunted by the ghosts of two star-crossed medieval lovers. I will write more later.
Your devoted pupil,
Emily
Sebastian was silent for a moment, caught by the pathos of the long-dead girl’s joyous enthusiasms. He folded the letter and handed it back to the former governess.
“She never wrote again?”
Sarah Hanson tucked the letter back into the book. “No. She came home three days later. I knew the instant I saw her that something dreadful must have occurred, but she refused to speak of it. I didn’t learn the truth for another two months.”
“When she realized she was with child?”
She nodded. “She was forced. Although I’m afraid Lady Turnstall refused to believe her. Insisted that if Emily hadn’t given herself willingly, then she must have done something to make the man think she would welcome his advances.”
“She never named the father?”
“No. All she would say was that he was one of the men she had written me about, and that marriage to him was impossible. Once—after the child was born—I heard her whisper to the baby that she had her father’s hair. But that was the only hint she ever gave.”
“So the father was dark.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian thought of the men named in the letter. He understood, now, the origins of the list they’d found in Emma Chandler’s room. Of all the men mentioned in her mother’s letter, only Lord Stone had been missing from Emma’s list. But then Stone—nearly sixty now and riddled with syphilis—was famous for his full head of bright ginger hair.
“What happened when Lady Turnstall discovered her daughter was with child?” Sebastian asked.
“She sent her away. I had a cousin living in reduced circumstances in a large house in Barmouth, overlooking the estuary, and she was happy enough to have us come stay with her. Lady Emily was introduced to the neighborhood as the tragic young widow of a major recently killed in the American colonies.”
“A useful fiction,” said Sebastian. And borrowed by Lady Emily’s daughter herself decades later, although for a slightly different reason.
“The child came dreadfully early,” said the former governess, going to stand at the window overlooking the village high street. “She was so small and weak, I thought sure she would die. But she didn’t. Most women in her situation would have hated the product of such a conception, but Emily was besotted with the infant from the moment she first held her. She was desperate to keep her.”
“The Turnstalls refused?”
“How could they do otherwise? I tried to reason with her, but Emily remained hopeful she could bring them around. Then, one morning in late August, we went for a walk along the estuary. It came on to rain not long after we left, so we turned back toward the house. A carriage was just pulling away from the gate as we came up. The instant she saw it, Emily started to run. Somehow she knew what was happening, even before we saw the face of her father’s solicitor in the window. She screamed and begged for them to stop, but the coachman only whipped up his horses faster. She ran after the carriage until she could run no farther. Then she simply collapsed in the middle of the road, sobbing.”
Sebastian watched the former governess swallow hard, her hands clenching around the edge of the windowsill before her. He remained silent, waiting until she was able to continue.
“She lay there for what seemed like forever, curled in a ball, hugging herself, while the rain poured down around us. I kept saying, ‘Lady Emily; you must get up. You’ll catch your death.’ Finally she looked at me and said, ‘You think I care?’”
“She took sick?”
“It didn’t seem so at first. I finally persuaded her to let me help her inside. Then she went wild—demanded we return at once to Pleasant Place so that she could confront her father. We left for home that very day. I never knew precisely what passed between them, but I believe she threatened to shame the family and destroy her own reputation by taking out an advertisement in all the London papers proclaiming the child’s birth—and abduction—to the world.”