Chapter One

'Out with it, Constance!'

Lady Constance Templeton, startled out of her reverie, almost dropped her porcelain teacup in surprise. 'Really, Isabelle!' she retorted, once she had recovered herself. 'I don't know what you mean.'

The two ladies, both vigorous despite being over seventy years of age, were taking tea in the splendid drawing-room of Templeton House. It was a hot afternoon in the summer of 1814, and the tall windows were open to let in the cooling breeze.

'How long have we known each other?' demanded Isabelle, fixing her friend with a shrewd eye.

'I don't see what that has to do with anything,' returned Lady Constance evasively.

'Oh, don't you?' snorted Isabelle. She put down her cup with a determined clatter. 'We have been friends for the best part of fifty years, Constance, and I know instinctively when something is wrong. And something is wrong now. No, don't bother denying it,' she said, with a firm shake of her head. 'I won't be put off. And I won't rest until I know what it is. Although, from the way your eyes keep drifting to the portrait of your nephew, I can guess. It is my belief it has something to do with James.'

As she spoke, her own eyes turned to the large portrait that hung above the magnificent Adam fireplace. It was of a strikingly handsome young man, with black hair and coal black eyes. High cheekbones and a determined chin defined his face, in the same way that long, firm limbs and a broad chest defined his body. Strong hands held the reins of the stallion he was riding, and although the animal was rearing he controlled it with an air of arrogant ease.

'Arrogance,' said Isabelle, as she continued to look at the portrait, not realising she had spoken out loud.

Lady Constance gave a heavy sigh. 'Arrogance,' she agreed. 'Pride, pigheadedness and downright stubbornness! Why he doesn't see what he is doing to the children is beyond me.'

'Aha!' said Isabelle triumphantly. 'I knew there was something.' She picked up her chicken-skin fan and wafted it in front of her bony chest. 'What has James been doing to make you so distracted this time?'

Lady Constance shook her grey head with vexation. 'It is too bad, Isabelle, it really is. Especially after the last time. He has scared yet another governess away.'

'Another one? But Miss Raistrick only left six weeks ago! Miss Farthingale hasn't had time to be scared away.'

'Miss Farthingale!' exclaimed Lady Constance, raising her thin eyebrows. 'My dear Isabelle, you are behind the times. Miss Farthingale lasted only two days! Which is a great pity, as she spoke not only fluent French and German but Russian besides. No, it is not Miss Farthingale this time, it is Miss Dove who has packed her bags and, like her namesake, flown away!'

'But what is the reason for it?' enquired Isabelle with a frown.

'My dear Isabelle, what is always the reason? Discipline.'

'A very good thing,' said Isabelle stoutly.

'Of course it is, in moderation. But James doesn't seem to have realised he is no longer in the army. It is discipline, discipline, discipline, morning, noon and night. He treats his estate as though it is a parade ground , and he treats the children like raw recruits. Do you know, Isabelle, he never allows the children to play, but has them marching along the terrace twice a day instead? And when poor Miss Farthingale tried to protest, he had her marching along the terrace as well!'

'But why did she not stand up to him?' demanded Isabelle. She folded her fan with a snap. 'Why did she not tell him that it would not do?'

'Have you ever tried standing up to James?' asked Lady Constance quellingly.

Isabelle remembered the last time she had encountered James - Lord Randall - and pursed her lips. At six feet two inches tall and thirty-five years of age, he was not an easy man to stand up to. Particularly as his height and maturity were matched by a commanding presence - the result of ten years spent fighting in the army against Napoleon - and a formidable will.

'I see.'

'Really, Isabelle, I don't know what to do. Given time he will adjust to civilian life, but he has seen so little of the children whilst he has been abroad that he has lost touch with their needs.'

'It is such a pity their parents were killed,' sighed Isabelle.

'It is. But James is a loving uncle and a caring guardian. It is just that, at the moment, being so newly returned from the army, he is too strict. I have managed to persuade him to let Lucilla come to me for a few weeks.' Lady Constance's face softened as she thought of her great-niece who, at six years old, was adorable. 'But he will not let me have the boys as well. He is concerned to make sure they don't fall behind with their studies, particularly as he promised their mother, on her deathbed, that he would not send them away to school. They are too busy to come to me, he said -'

'But Preston can't be more than ten years old!' interrupted Isabelle. 'And Fitzwilliam is only eleven. Studies are all very well in their place, but in all this heat? Constance, you must do something. You must take a hand. At least until James had adjusted to the children. They require a new governess, you say? Very well, you must appoint the young lady yourself. Some sensible person who will be sensitive to their needs, and who will stand no nonsense from James.'

'Even if I could, by some miracle, find someone like that, it would not answer, because James has forbidden me to interfere. He is quite capable of appointing his own staff, he told me - in no uncertain terms.' She leaned back on the sofa, and for the first time her full age became apparent. There was a tired set to her shoulders, and there were deep lines around her eyes. 'Besides, at the moment I have problems of my own.'

'Ah! Yes. I had forgotten. Your knees. Poor Constance: it is a trial to grow old.' She continued on a brighter note. 'Have you had any luck in finding a companion yet? Any answers to your advertisement? I must say I think it is a good idea. Having someone to fetch and carry for you will save a great deal of wear and tear on your legs - one doesn't always want to be asking the servants.'

'I am beginning to think it is impossible to find anyone who will suit.' Lady Constance's eye fell on the beautifully chased silver teapot that stood on the low table next to the sofa. 'More tea, Isabelle?' she enquired.

'Thank you, Constance, I will.'

Lady Constance filled both cups with the clear, fragrant liquid and together the two ladies enjoyed the refreshing drink. 'To answer your question,' Lady Constance continued when her cup was once again empty, 'no, I haven't found a companion - at least, not yet. I have seen three ladies so far, and they have all been impossible. One of them was even older than me!'

'Oh, Constance, that would never do! Have you anyone left?'

Lady Constance sighed. 'I'm seeing Miss Rodgers tomorrow, and Miss Davenport this afternoon. I only hope one of them will do.'

There was a whirring sound. The long case clock in the corner was preparing to strike the hour.

'Good gracious!' exclaimed Isabelle as the first chime reverberated through the room. 'Is that the time? I must go. Edward is taking me to Mrs Skeffington's this evening, and it will take me an age to dress.' She stood up in a rustle of silk. 'You must come to me on Thursday and let me know how you get on.'

'I will.' Lady Constance, rising, did not sound hopeful.

Isabelle kissed her friend on the cheek. 'You will find someone, Constance, I'm sure of it.' She took her friend's hands and gave them an affectionate squeeze. 'Miss Davenport may be just what you need.'

Sarah Davenport was at that moment waiting in the hall below. The butler had left her alone whilst he went to enquire whether Lady Templeton was ready to receive her, and she was making the most of the opportunity to tidy herself in front of one of the hall's gilded mirrors. Her auburn hair was arranged neatly in a bun, but one or two tendrils had fallen loose. She tucked them in, securing them with a pin, then turned her attention to her yellow muslin gown. It had grown limp with the heat, but otherwise was not too shabby. She puffed out the short sleeves and adjusted the buckle that trimmed the high waist, then arranged her reticule so that its barest patches were hidden. Having checked her appearance, she began to walk around the hall.

She was not looking forward to the coming interview. She never liked interviews, but in her present circumstances they were a necessary evil and she wished this one would begin. She was trying to take her mind off things by admiring the gilded furniture when, to her surprise, a little girl of about six years of age came into view.

Sarah smiled and felt her tension dissolve. The little girl was as pretty as a picture, with golden hair curled into ringlets and large blue eyes. She was exquisitely dressed, her silk frock and frilled pantaloons coming straight from the pages of Ackermann's Repository; one of Sarah's favourite journals in happier days.

'Hello.' Sarah's greeting was friendly.

The little girl did not reply. Instead she stayed at the far side of the hall, looking at Sarah uncertainly. Sarah was about to speak again when she noticed that the little girl's forearm was grazed. 'You've hurt yourself,' she said, going forward to look more closely. 'How did it happen? Did you fall?'

Again the little girl did not reply.

Thinking she must be unusually shy, Sarah said, 'Well, run along then, dear, and show your mama. She'll soon make it better for you.'

The little girl, whilst never taking her eyes off Sarah, stood on one pantalooned leg. Lifting the other leg behind her she held it there with one hand. Then, balancing precariously, she said, 'I don't have a mama. My mama is dead.'

Sarah now understood the cause of the little girl's withdrawn nature. 'I'm sorry to hear that,' she said gently. 'Run along, then, and show your nurse, my dear. I'm sure she will be wondering where you are.'

The little girl put down her leg and lifted the other one. Slowly she shook her head.

'Don't you want to?' asked Sarah.

She was beginning to sense that, underneath the silk dress and frilled pantaloons, the little girl was not very happy.

The child again shook her head. Then, by way of explanation, she said, 'Nurse will be cross.'

She had taken Sarah's measure and had decided to trust her.

Sarah smiled reassuringly. 'I'm sure she won't. But the graze does need cleaning. Look, it's all dirty and there are some pieces of grit that need washing out. Run along and show your nurse. She'll wash it for you, and then you'll be as good as new.'

Once more the little girl shook her head.

'Why do you think your nurse will be cross?' asked Sarah with a frown. She had dismissed the idea at first, but the little girl seemed convinced and Sarah realised she would not be able to persuade her to return to her nurse until the problem had been sorted out.

'Because,' said the little girl with an air of finality.

Then, a minute later she decided to elaborate. 'Because I was playing.' She hesitated and then confided, 'I'm not allowed to play.'

Sarah was startled. 'Not allowed to play? All children should be allowed to play. Well . . . ' Her voice tailed off as she realised she did not know the little girl's name. She lifted her eyebrows. 'Do you have a name?' she asked.

The tiniest smile broke out at the corner of the child's mouth. 'It's Lucilla,' she said, adding with a gurgle, 'Everyone has a name!'

Sarah laughed. 'Well, Lucilla - or may I call you Lucy?' Lucy nodded. 'Well, then, Lucy, if your nurse will be cross with you for playing I suggest we mend matters ourselves. Show me your arm.'

Lucy hesitated and then, putting down her leg, she held her grazed arm out to Sarah.

Sarah examined the graze. 'That doesn't seem too bad. I think we can manage without troubling anyone else. Now,' she went on, taking a clean linen handkerchief out of her threadbare reticule, 'spit!'

Lucy's eyes widened in horror.

'It's quite all right,' Sarah reassured her. 'Just this once. When you've spit on the handkerchief I can use it to clean your arm.'

Lucy hesitated and then, summoning all her courage, she did as she was asked.

'Good girl.' Sarah smiled, then formed the handkerchief into a tighter pad and used the moistened linen to dab Lucy's arm. She cleaned the graze slowly and carefully and was rewarded by the little girl's patience. 'There.' She let go of Lucy's arm. 'It's as good as new. No one needs to know what happened. And now . . . ' she went on, standing up. But before she could continue, she heard footsteps: Warner, Lady Templeton's butler, was returning.

With one last glance at Sarah, Lucy disappeared down one of the corridors which led off from the hall, leaving Sarah to face the butler alone.

He fixed her with a disapproving eye. In his opinion, young ladies who had applied for a position as a companion shouldn't forget their station in life by talking freely to members of the family; however young those members might be.

Ignoring his disapproval, Sarah folded her handkerchief and tucked it away in her shabby reticule.

'Her ladyship will see you now,' the butler informed her majestically. 'Be so good as to follow me.'

'Come in, Miss Davenport. Do sit down.'

Lady Templeton waved an elegant hand towards a chair that had been arranged on the other side of her rosewood desk.

Sarah dutifully sat down, and Lady Templeton continued. 'I think we will begin by discussing your background, and then you may tell me why you decided to apply for a position as my companion.'

Lady Templeton assumed an expression of interest as Sarah began, but in fact she scarcely listened to what Sarah was saying. She was too busy recalling the scene she had witnessed in the hall a few minutes before, which she had happened upon quite by chance as she had been en route from the drawing-room to the office where she interviewed her staff. She had seen Sarah's meeting with Lucy, and had overheard almost all of their conversation. Her anger at discovering that even Lucy's nurse - no doubt following James's orders - would not allow the little girl to play had gradually subsided, and what she had then seen and heard had given her pause for thought. She had realised at once that Miss Davenport was too young to be a suitable companion for her. She felt a twinge of guilt that she had not said so at once, but she dismissed it by telling herself that perhaps she might be able to offer Miss Davenport another position. The young lady before her had a rapport with children, and that rapport had set Lady Templeton to wondering whether she dare defy her nephew and appoint Lucy's new governess herself.

But as Sarah finished speaking she dismissed the idea with a reluctant sigh.

Miss Davenport might have a rapport with children, but there was no reason to suppose she would be able to stand up to James, any more than the long line of governesses who had passed through the doors of Watermead Grange.

'Thank you, Miss Davenport. Most clear. Unfortunately, I don't think this is the right position for you.'

She stretched out her hand for the silver bell that sat on the edge of her desk.

'May I ask why not?' enquired Sarah.

Lady Templeton's eyebrows raised; it was the first time she had ever had one of her decisions questioned. 'Since you ask, you are too young to be a suitable companion for me. From your letter' - here she picked up the letter which was lying on her desk - 'I'd gained the impression you were older. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the fact of the matter is that I need a mature woman. Unfortunately, you're not suitable for the position.'

Sarah listened to this speech with a mixture of surprise and disappointment. But she had a strong character and would not be so easily deterred; particularly as her small savings had dwindled into almost nothing, and her situation was verging on the desperate. 'I am not as young as I look, and my experiences have matured me beyond my years. I am used to being with older people. As I told you, I spent many years nursing my mother before she died. I believe you wouldn't be disappointed if you took me on.'

Lady Templeton's surprise deepened. She was not used to being argued with. Particularly not by someone applying for a position as her companion.

Ordinarily, it would have irritated her. But now it made her wonder whether she should choose a governess for the children herself. A young lady who could stand up to her may also be able to stand up to James . . .

But no. Miss Davenport, having made her protest, would most probably fall at the next obstacle.

'You don't lack spirit,' Lady Templeton acknowledged. 'But you cannot be more than twenty-one or two, whereas I am looking for a companion who is nearer fifty years of age.'

'Then perhaps, if age was so important to you, it would have been as well to say so in the advertisement. I have had a long journey on hot and dusty roads; something I could have been spared if you had given a little more thought to your requirements.'

Lady Templeton's hand crept back from the silver bell. 'You interest me, Miss Davenport,' she said. 'Are you always so outspoken?'

Sarah's face fell as she realised that her tongue had run away with her. She gave a rueful smile. 'My father called it my besetting sin,' she admitted.

'I think, in this case,' said Lady Templeton thoughtfully, 'it might just be a virtue. Tell me, Miss Davenport, have you ever thought of becoming a governess?'

Sarah shook her head. 'My accomplishments aren't good enough. My painting is poor, I am an indifferent pianist, and I never could master the harp!'

Lady Templeton felt a touch of sympathy; she, too, had never been able to master the instrument! But, in this instance, playing the harp was unimportant. She fixed Sarah with a clear eye. 'Do you really believe that children should be allowed to play?' she shot out.

Sarah was startled. She had had no idea that her conversation with Lucy had been overheard. 'How did you . . . ?'

'I was on the landing,' said Lady Templeton. 'I could not help but overhear.' She paused. 'What did you think of my great-niece?'

Sarah hesitated. 'She's beautiful.'

'But?' enquired Lady Templeton. There had been a definite "but" hanging unspoken in the air.

Sarah sighed. 'But I don't think she's very happy. Golden curls and silk dresses are all very well in their way . . .'

'Go on.'

'But little girls aren't dolls. They need to know how to behave, of course, but they need to have fun as well, and they can't do that if they are never allowed to play.'

Lady Templeton gave a thoughtful nod. Then, coming to a decision, she determined to risk James's wrath. Lucy needed a new governess, and even if Miss Davenport turned out to be no better than the others, she could hardly be any worse.

'Miss Davenport,' she said, 'I have a suggestion to make . . . '

Sarah looked around the schoolroom as she sat at her desk marking an assortment of exercises. Little had she guessed, when she had gone to Templeton House not three weeks before, that instead of ending up as a companion she would end up as a governess.

Her first few weeks at Watermead Grange, Lord Randall's estate in the county of Kent, had passed both quickly and enjoyably. Despite Lady Templeton's warnings that Lord Randall was not an easy man to work for, and despite her declaration that he had scared away all the previous governesses - including poor Miss Farthingale, who had left after only two days! - Sarah had settled in well; although, as Lord Randall was absent, this was perhaps not as encouraging as it seemed. The true test would come when he returned.

The schoolroom was large and airy. It was situated at the top of the house, with a window to the west. It was clean, and was well furnished with everything she could need, including desks, chairs, globes and maps. Lord Randall may be a difficult man to work for, but at least he provided well.

The children had turned out to be delightful. As well as Lucy there were also Lucy's two older brothers, Fitzwilliam and Preston, whom Sarah looked after in the evenings when their tutors had left the Grange. True, Fitzwilliam had been pale and withdrawn when she had first arrived, whilst Preston had been restless with suppressed energy. But a few weeks of running around after lessons had finished, and of playing ordinary childhood games, had soon changed the children for the better and Sarah was pleased to see just how happy and confident they had become.

She was just about to dip her quill into the ink pot on her desk when she heard the sound of someone running up the corridor. A moment later Edna, one of the housemaids, burst into the room.

'Beggin' your pardon, miss, for bursting in like this, but I've so much to do,' said Edna, who was red in the face and obviously flustered. 'The missus says . . . Mrs Smith . . . That is to say, the housekeeper, miss . . . She sent me to tell you . . . '

'Tell me what?' asked Sarah, mystified, as Edna caught her breath.

'It's the master, miss. Lord Randall. He'll be home by the end of the week!'

CHAPTER TWO

'Welcome home, my lord,' said Hodgess, the butler, as Lord Randall strode into the house with all the unthinking arrogance of a rich and powerful man.

'Thank you, Hodgess.' Lord Randall looked round him as though he was pleased to be home.

He was still recognisably the man in the portrait hanging in Lady Templeton's drawing-room. Although the portrait had been painted in 1804, the intervening ten years had changed him very little. He had the same proud features, the same black hair and the same black eyes, only now they had the look of seasoned maturity instead of the look of untried youth.

His figure, too, had changed very little. Whilst many of his fellows had gone to seed, Lord Randall had retained the firm and powerful body of his early years. The time he had spent serving with Wellington in the war against Napoleon had defined his muscles, hardening them, and giving him the sleek and powerful look of a jungle cat.

'You had a good journey, I hope?' murmured Hodgess deferentially, taking Lord Randall's tall hat.

'Yes, thank you.' Lord Randall's glance around the hall had now become more focused, and he was taking in every inch of the magnificent entrance. 'I see the worn baluster has been replaced,' he said, his eyes coming to rest on the sweeping staircase.

'Yes, my lord,' said Hodgess. 'As you instructed.'

'And the panelling in the library?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Good.'

Lord Randall glanced once more around the hall then, picking up his mail from a silver salver, he began to climb the stairs.

Sarah was in her room, reading. She was stretched out on the window seat with the mullioned window wide open next to her so that she could make the most of the cool evening air. The day had been hot and she was feeling sticky.

So welcome was the air that she decided to take a turn around the garden in order to really feel the benefit of the cooling breeze. Then she would turn in for the night.

She went out onto the landing and down the stairs, but just as she reached the first turning she heard someone coming up from below. A moment later, Lord Randall came into view.

Sarah knew a brief moment of panic before her customary good sense reasserted itself. She had not expected to meet Lord Randall on the stairs but she would have to meet him at some time; she might as well get it over with! She had just time to smooth her hands over her skirt and push a stray tendril of hair back behind her ears before Lord Randall looked up and saw her.

His face was arresting. The high cheekbones, straight nose and decided chin gave it strength, whilst his eyes, black like his hair, gave it character. His body was lean and powerful.

Instead of greeting her, however, as she had expected, a look of irritation crossed his face. His eyes flicked over her, taking her in from head to foot: the auburn hair, the oval face, the sea-green eyes, the clear skin; and the slight but subtly curved figure.

Then his eyes flicked back to her own. 'The front stairs are not for the use of housemaids,' he said briefly. 'The back stairs are for your use.'

Sarah was taken aback.

'I don't know what liberties you've been taking in my absence, but you won't take them again. Return to your own part of the house at once,' he said arrogantly. 'And tell Mrs Smith I don't expect to see any of the housemaids out of uniform again.'

Realising that she must correct his mistake, Sarah said, 'I am not a housemaid. I'm Miss Davenport, the new governess.' She gave him her brightest smile and held out her hand for him to shake.

'I haven't appointed a governess,' he said, looking her up and down once more before beginning to mount the next stair.

Sarah dropped her hand in surprise. She had expected him to know all about her appointment. 'I was appointed by Lady Templeton.'

He paused, frowning.

'I took up my appointment three weeks ago,' Sarah went on, 'and I've been teaching Lucy - Lucilla,' she corrected herself - 'since I arrived.'

'Lady Templeton doesn't have the authority to appoint my staff,' he remarked.

Sarah's eyes widened. She had been prepared for arrogance, but not this! She stood her ground, however, saying, 'Nevertheless, she appointed me.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'I find that difficult to believe.'

'Are you doubting my word?' She forgot for a moment that she was a mere governess and the question came out as a direct challenge.

But instead of taking up her challenge he ignored it altogether, and she realised that he considered her questions to be beneath his notice.

She was beginning to understand why the other governesses had run away!

'What are your qualifications?' he asked her suddenly. The hand holding his letters had dropped to his side and it seemed he meant to give her his attention. 'I take it you are a musician, but what instruments do you play besides the piano and the harp?' He went on immediately, without giving her time to reply. 'Do you speak French and Italian? Can you paint and sketch? Can you instruct Lucilla in the use of maps and globes?' He was feeling annoyed that his aunt had appointed a governess behind his back, but even so, he had to admit that if Miss Davenport was suitable it would save him a lot of trouble. Appointing governesses had never been one of his favourite occupations.

'I don't know anyone with so many accomplishments,' said Sarah in astonishment, when at last he gave her a moment to speak. 'If those are your requirements I'm surprised you've ever managed to find anyone at all.'

'Every governess at Watermead Grange has met those requirements,' he told her. 'Miss Farthingale also spoke Russian and German.'

'Then it's a pity she only stayed two days,' Sarah returned.

He looked at her curiously, but her face gave him no clue as to what she was thinking. After wondering fleetingly whether she was being impertinent, he rejected the idea. A governess, being impertinent to Lord Randall? Of course not!

'Indeed,' he said; but still, there was a hint of puzzlement on his face: somehow, the conversation didn't seem to be going as he had expected. But then he banished his puzzlement, and made an effort to put the conversation back on more normal lines. 'Let us hope you fare better than she did. In the meantime, you will join me in my study at 8 o'clock tomorrow morning and show me some of Lucilla's work. I'll want your opinion of her capabilities as well as -'

'Her capabilities?' Sarah's eyes flashed as her astonishment at this speech gave way to anger; she could not believe that he was talking about dear little Lucy in such a cold-blooded manner. 'Lucy is only six years -'

'I have had a long journey, Miss Davenport,' he interrupted her, 'and I don't intend to waste the rest of my evening in conversation with a governess.'

And so saying he walked past her, mounting to the landing and disappearing from view.

The arrogance! she thought. The overbearing, overweening conceit of the man!

I don't intend to waste the rest of my evening in conversation with a governess indeed.

But as she began to recover from the encounter she had to acknowledge that she had been warned. "He is arrogant, high-handed and overbearing," Lady Templeton had said.

Yes. He was certainly that.

But he was also, she realised unwillingly, the most attractive man she had ever seen . . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

From Chapter Seven

It was evening, a few days after the boating party. Sarah was sitting beneath a spreading elm in the middle of the lawn behind the house, and the children were in bed. The air was still and balmy. It was a perfect evening, and Sarah's occupation was perfect for it. She was reading Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, the work by Byron that had so captured the imagination of the fashionable world.

'It must be a good book, miss.'

The words took Sarah by surprise, as she had not noticed that Sam, the gardener's boy, was working near by.

'It is,' said Sarah. She had been finding it difficult to concentrate, her mind wandering back to the boating afternoon and to the intense moment by the lake she had shared with her enigmatic employer; so that she was glad to put the book down for a few minutes and talk to Sam.

'Seen you reading it for ages now, miss. Must take a deal of reading, a book like that.'

Sarah smiled. 'Reading's like everything else. It gets easier with practise.'

Sam laughed. 'That's what the parson used to say. Old Mr Merriweather. Him that was here before Mr Walker. Lives down by the sea now, in one of Mr Farbey's cottages. "It only takes practise, Sam," he used to say. And my dad said so too. But my dad never could learn to read, miss, all the same.'

'Now then, boy,' came a stern voice behind them. 'Don't you go bothering Miss Davenport. She ain't got time for the likes o' you.'

It was Todd, the head gardener.

Sam gave a guilty start and picked up his hoe, which he had been leaning on whilst he talked to Sarah.

'His lordship wants those flower beds seeing to by tonight, young Sam, not by next Christmas.'

Sam, suitably chastened, returned to work.

'Sorry if he was bothering you, miss,' said Todd. To his mind, young under-gardeners had no business talking to educated young misses.

'He wasn't,' Sarah assured him.

'Then no harm done.'

He tugged his forelock and moved away, leaving Sarah to read on in peace. The poetry was both beautiful and melancholy, and it was with real regret that Sarah came to the end.

It was still early but, having finished the Pilgrimage, she decided to go inside. She had one or two pieces of mending to do and wanted to get them done before the light disappeared. She went into the house through the side entrance and then went leisurely up the back stairs to her room.

As she walked along the corridor she was surprised to see that the door to her room was open. She frowned. The maids saw to the cleaning before lunch, and there was no reason for anyone else to be there. Quickening her step, she reached the open door to see Nelly, one of the under-housemaids, standing by her window.

'What are you doing in here?' asked Sarah curiously, as she set down her book.

Nelly turned round with a start. She was a plain girl, with oversized hands and feet, and she blushed guiltily at Sarah's question.

'What are you doing in here?' repeated Sarah more sternly.

She had been expecting Nelly to say that she had been sent with a message from the housekeeper, or some other such thing, but Nelly's face told Sarah there wasn't an innocent explanation for her presence in the room.

'I . . . I forgot something,' said Nelly.

It was an obvious lie. Sarah thought for a moment before asking, 'What did you forget?'

'The . . . my . . . . the . . . that is, the duster. Yes, that's what it was,' said Nelly, fingering her apron awkwardly. 'The feather duster.'

'And did you find it?' enquired Sarah. It was obvious by now that Nelly was lying, but having no way of proving it Sarah went along with the pretence.

'Why, no, miss,' blustered Nelly. 'I can't have left it here after all.'

'Then you had better go and look for it elsewhere.'

Nelly threw her a sullen look, but replied simply, 'Yes, miss,' before hurrying out of the room.

Now what was all that about? wondered Sarah.

Walking over to the window, she opened it. A light breeze blew across her cheek, and the scent of roses drifted up from below. What had Nelly been looking at? She did not have to wonder for long. Walking away from the house, his hands thrust into the pockets of his breeches, was an unmistakable figure. It was Mr Haversage.

Sarah gave a sigh.

So Nelly has a crush on Mr Haversage, too, she thought. Along with every other maid in the house! Nelly must have caught sight of him in the rose gardens and decided that Sarah's room would be an excellent spot from which to moon over him.

Well, at least the mystery was solved.

She left the window open and was just going over to the washstand when something white and fluttering caught her eye. It had fallen down the back of one of the cushions that were comfortably arranged on the window seat. Curious, she pulled it out from behind the cushion. As soon as she realised what it was her eyes went to the door through which Nelly had just departed. The item was a letter; one of the letters Sarah's brother had written to her during her stay at the Grange.

She picked it up and turned it between her fingers, her lips pursed. She never left her brother's letters lying about. She always put them away in her desk.

Could she have forgotten to put this one away? She didn't think so. Then could Nelly have taken the letter out of her desk?

It was possible. But why should she? What possible interest could Nelly have in Sarah's letters?

Extracts from A Most Unusual Governess by Amanda Grange, published by Chivers/Thorndike