The Governess Club: Sara (25 page)

He took a deep breath. “That is correct. Forgive me. Not for my statement, but for my lack of regret when it comes to defending you.”

Sara’s eyes flew up to his face. It was more serious than she had ever seen it, his jaw looking at though it were made from stone. “Excuse me?”

His jaw worked. “I don’t think it has been a secret these past few days, Miss Collins, but I have come to care for you as more than just a parishioner. It makes me uneasy to think that there are people who would seek to cause you distress and I fear it brings out the baser side of my nature. I wish to protect you from such people, if I may.”

Oh good heavens.
It was happening. Now?

He continued speaking. “I had planned this to be more circumspect, but this . . . indignation I feel on your behalf makes my need to speak to you more urgent.”

Yes, now.

Mr. Pomeroy ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect to feel this nervous.”

“Nervous?” Her voice squeaked.

“Surely you know what I am about to ask you.”

“I do?” Her eyes moved frantically over the courtyard trying to find a means of escape, a way to prolong her purgatory before having to face this impossible decision. Not now, she couldn’t do this now. She tried to stand, but the vicar placed a hand on her shoulder, the gentle pressure keeping her on the bench.

“Miss Collins, our time apart was revealing and I feel as though I have woken up from a sleep where you are concerned. Even now, seeing you every day, I find myself counting the moments until I can see you again and wondering what you are doing when we are apart.”

“Mr. Pomeroy—” Their presence in the courtyard had been noted by some of the assembly attendees. Curious faces appeared at various windows. Sara could see their mouths moving and some hands gesturing.

He gave a nervous laugh. “The speech I had prepared has abandoned me completely. Ironic that I can speak from the pulpit with nary a whisper of nerves, but I daresay this conversation holds more importance to my personal life than any sermon I might deliver. I suppose the best way to do this is to just say it.”

Mr. Pomeroy knelt down on one knee and took her hand in his. He looked at her with earnest, chocolaty eyes and swallowed. “Miss Collins—Sara, if I may—would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

The crowd at the windows had grown, the news of Mr. Pomeroy’s position on his knee spreading to attract the more avid gossips and whoever else was in the vicinity. Faces now pressed against the windows, some flattening on the glass in their eagerness.

Oh good heavens
. It was difficult enough to not have a clear head on the matter, but now to have an audience as a witness? The ants began to crawl in her throat.

Sara looked back down at Mr. Pomeroy, waiting patiently, eagerly. He had said he had not planned his proposal to happen this way and she believed him. It was more consideration than Nathan Grant would have shown her in a similar situation. The man might have promised her discretion about their week, but he has since shown his true colors.

Mr. Pomeroy was the opposite of Nathan Grant. He was kind, considerate and steady, traits Nathan had difficulty acknowledging even existed. Marrying the vicar would secure her future, giving her life security and purpose. It did not matter that his eyes were not a mesmerizing cold or that his hand felt limp in hers or that his lips did not promise endless moments of pleasure or that his body did not inspire thoughts of a day in bed.

He was a good man and he would make her a good husband. He would give her appropriate affection and fidelity. She could fill her days with seeing to the vicarage and church, visiting the sick, helping the needy, being an attentive wife, and raising the children, once they were blessed with them. Her life stretched out before her, every day the same.

No adventure in sight.

But wasn’t marriage an adventure in itself?

And it wasn’t Mr. Pomeroy’s fault that any association she had with the word “adventure” led her to think of rolling down hills, eating breakfast in bed and learning how to swim. All with a blue-eyed misanthrope who had charmed her with his blunt honesty and false flattery.

Even if it hadn’t felt false at the time.

You are more than a cliché.

He was skilled at smooth deception, evidenced by her easy confidence in him and his history in politics. He had presented temptation to her on a silver platter and she had not hesitated in sampling it.

“Miss Collins?”

Sara was jerked back to the present conversation. “Yes?” What had they been talking about?

A large grin spread over his face and Mr. Pomeroy stood up, drawing her to her feet along with him. “You have made me the happiest man.”

Her eyes widened. Had she just accepted his proposal? Her eyes flew to the audience at the windows. Expressions of delight were on their faces; Claire was smiling broadly at her with Jacob at her back while Louisa’s face was unreadable.

He kept speaking. “We can post the banns this week. I will have to send for another to officiate, but that should not be a problem.”

Dear heavens, it had happened
. She had accepted his proposal, even if it was inadvertent. And in front of the entire town. There was no possible escape from this. She could not embarrass him in front of everyone, in front of his congregation; he could not lose face as they watched and still act as their spiritual leader.

He certainly thought she had accepted. “It won’t?”

He shook his head. “No. I am sure Mrs. Knightly and Miss Hurst will help you with all the arrangements. Whatever you want, my darling.”

My darling?
So cliché.
Sara blinked at Nathan’s voice in her head.
You are more than a cliché.

Mr. Pomeroy’s face took on an expectant look. “If I may, I should like to kiss you now. Seal our betrothal with a kiss.” He smiled.

How trite.

He took her silence as acceptance and leaned down, pressing his lips to her cheek. They were warm and gentle, dry and unremarkable. No excitement danced across her skin, no warming feeling spread through her bones.

Nothing.

Exactly what Nathan Grant felt for her.

T
he hugs and handshakes took several minutes. The friends, all four reunited, could hardly stop talking long enough for Bonnie to assist the boys with their coats. It had been several months since their last visit, the occasion being Bonnie’s wedding to Sir Stephen Montgomery. He had been named guardian to her two charges after the sudden death of their parents and they had fallen in love as they struggled to help the boys recover from their trauma. They continued to live at Darrowgate, which belonged to eight-year-old Viscount Henry Darrow, the eldest of the two young brothers.

“Stephen, see them settled please,” she said, smiling at her husband.

“It would be my utmost pleasure,” he replied. “All I have dreamed about this entire journey is settling them in the nursery.”

“You’re being sarcastic again, Uncle Stephen. Aunt Bonnie says that’s rude.” Henry gave him a castigating look.

“Women say many things you will learn to ignore,” was the reply.

“Stephen,” Bonnie reprimanded.

“But never ignore your aunt,” he amended. Henry smiled at that. “Come along, you too, young Arthur.” The four year old clung to his hand, his eyes shying away from the unfamiliar people.

“My study, when you are ready,” Jacob called out after him.

“Have the rejuvenating potion at the ready,” Stephen replied over his shoulder.

Claire led them all into their private drawing room, tea having been ordered. “Bonnie,” she said, her tone scolding. “How could you not tell us? We write frequently enough that this should not be a surprise.”

Bonnie eased onto the couch. “I am truly not that far along. It is only in the last fortnight that I have ballooned up to the size of an elephant.” She rubbed her swollen stomach affectionately.

“When are you expecting?” Sara asked.

“Late October, by my calculations. Not a moment too soon. Stephen is driving me mad with his hovering.”

Louisa handed her a cup of tea. “He doesn’t strike me as the hovering sort.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t believe it myself until I realized he was serious. If he had his way, he would keep me in bed surrounded by pillows to prevent any sort of injury.”

“He just cares for you,” Sara said, smiling at the image.

“You would think I am the first woman ever to carry a child,” Bonnie replied. “I have assured him time again that the human race continues to perpetuate itself, so there is little to concern himself with. But the man does not listen.”

“I can empathize completely,” Claire said. All three sets of eyes swung her way and she smiled, resting her hand on her abdomen. “We were keeping it quiet until after the wedding, but I cannot any longer. Jacob and I are expecting as well for the new year.”

The next few minutes were filled with celebratory tea toasts, congratulations and talk of young children until Claire reminded them, “Ladies, we have less than two weeks to finish planning Sara’s wedding to Mr. Pomeroy. We have much to do.”

“Wait.”

All three heads swiveled toward Sara. She hadn’t meant to speak out loud, wasn’t even sure what she was going to say.

“Yes, dear?” Claire said.

Sara opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She knew she ought to tell them that the betrothal was a mistake, that she hadn’t actually accepted Charles’ proposal, but instead of words forming in her throat, the ants were swarming merrily, cutting off anything that might have resembled words. The thought of what would happen if the truth were known was too grave, too risky. Charles would be humiliated and she would be ruined.

The ants happily increased.

Bonnie smiled and patted her hand. “It is fine to be anxious about this, Sara. A perfectly normal reaction to such a large change in one’s life. But not to worry. This is your big day and we will not do anything you do not wish. But time is wasting away. We must get started making the arrangements.”

Sara swallowed the dread.

W
ith unladylike puffing, Sara pushed herself to continue up the narrow and rocky path. Trees canopied over her, blocking out the sunlight and cooling the air, giving the forest maze a more sinister feel, a usually safe place now shrouded with an air of the ominous.

She had only taken this path once before, a long loop up the side of an exposed rock face before returning to the easier path; the only benefits to its existence were its privacy and the view of a small, beautiful pond with a waterfall at one particular point, close to the summit. It was steep and a much more difficult walk than she was used to, but she relished it today. Today that biting pain in her legs and extreme focus on her breathing took her mind off—well, her mind. She had been stuck in a vicious cycle of thoughts lately, shortly after her engagement to Mr. Pomeroy.

He was a good man. He would make her a good husband. He was kind, steady; he would give her life the security and purpose she desired. She had been a good vicar’s daughter; she would be a good vicar’s wife. Charles even said as much. Passion and desire were not the foundation for any sort of reliable relationship, as evidenced by her adventure with the blue-eyed deceiver.

You happen to be my preference, Nymph.
Sara closed her eyes against his voice. He had no business in her life, not anymore. He filled his part of their arrangement, made it clear that she was not to expect more.

She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, pressing her hand to her side where it had begun to ache. Sara looked around, noting that she had made it to a vantage point that looked out over the area, the walker being above the trees. Looking to the east, she saw Ridgestone standing proudly in the sea of green.

Sara swallowed, her heart heavy. She hadn’t meant to exit in such a dramatic manner, but all the talk of the wedding had gotten to her. Bonnie had been harping about her hair as if it had really mattered; Sara knew that her hair would not obey whatever strictures her friends tried to put on it. But they hadn’t been listening.

Before her hair it had been the wedding dress, followed by which shoes Sara should wear. And gloves. She had only ever owned one pair at a time in her life. There was no question over what gloves she would wear.

Her hair was the third hour of the discussion. How could they even speak about a single thing for so long? And how could Claire and Louisa spare so much time away from planning their lessons? They had not cancelled the Governess Club’s services, and the parents would expect to receive the same level of continued service. In fact, Sara was unclear as to why Louisa was allowing them to focus on Sara’s wedding so much; Louisa was the one who consistently insisted on an almost single-minded dedication to their project.

Her breath steadied and side relaxed, Sara continued up the path. The sun was more prominent here, as was the wind, which blew across her face, cooling the sweat on her forehead. She was nearly halfway along the path and she was counting the minutes before she had to return to Ridgestone.

She knew exactly why she was feeling this way. It was his fault entirely. Nathan Grant’s. He was the one who had introduced her to who she could be, what she could have, and then abandoned her. Had his bedding without the wedding, indeed. How could she have been so mistaken about his character? Yes, he had been callous before, but he had never been cruel, not before a few days ago. Berating her for thinking there was more to their affair, for hoping that he had developed some sort of affection for her when he had made it clear from the onset that she was to expect nothing more from him beyond that week.

It wasn’t what he said; it was how he said it. He had felt it necessary to ridicule and humiliate her.

And that made her want to slap him in the face. And if she saw him again, well, she wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t. After Mrs. Glendoe, Nathan Grant would be a piece of cake.