and well fed, but also clothed.
The maid, Betty, brought her undergarments and a dress. ‘His lordship said to find you clothes and so I did,’ she’d said. ‘The ones you wore before were ruined.’
Claire’s clothes.
Betty helped her into the simple shift, a corset that fit tolerably well and a plain dress, not unlike the one Betty herself wore. The stockings looked newly purchased and the shoes, well-worn half-boots, were only slightly too big. Included in the bundle of clothes had been a new brush and comb, as well as a set of hairpins. Betty helped pull her hair back, as Claire had done.
Rebecca looked at herself in the mirror, but in her reflection she could only see Claire Tilson. Her eyes again filled with tears.
She blinked them away.
‘I’ll tell his lordship you are dressed,’ Betty said, hurriedly making up the bed. The maid left and a moment later Lord Brookmore entered.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Rebecca remembered to curtsy deferentially. This was her employer, after all. His presence made her a bit breathless, but that must be only nerves. She was lying to him, after all. It was not because he was very tall and very masculine.
‘Miss Tilson.’ He nodded. He handed her a bundle wrapped in paper. ‘I took the liberty of purchasing items you will no doubt need on the journey to Brookmore.’
She untied the string around the bundle and unfolded the paper to reveal a paisley shawl, a silk bonnet and lavender kid gloves.
‘These are lovely,’ she whispered. Every bit as fine as she’d once owned.
He nodded in response. ‘How are you today? We need not travel if you are not sufficiently recovered.’
‘I am well!’ she assured him. She was eager to start her new life.
Claire’s life.
She looked up from the items. ‘Thank you for these. Thank you for the clothing, as well.’
He shrugged. ‘You needed something to wear.’
Everything that had belonged to Rebecca Pierce was gone.
He stood just inside the door. Her impulse was to invite him to sit, to order tea, just as she might have done at home in Ireland. How foolish! She had no means to order tea and did a governess even invite a viscount to be seated?
It would take a little work to rid herself of Lady Rebecca.
He looked uncertain, his blue eyes finding hers only fleetingly. ‘I will arrange for a carriage, then. If you are certain you are ready.’
‘Quite ready,’ she replied.
She crossed the room to retrieve his handkerchief, which she had washed with the soap and water provided for her and dried in front of the fire. It was not pressed, but this had been the best she could do with no means to hire someone for the task.
She handed the handkerchief to him. ‘It is clean, sir.’
As he reached for it, his gaze lingered on her. Their fingers brushed and she felt a flush warm her skin. She stepped back.
He cleared his throat. ‘I will see to the carriage.’
He turned and left.
The carriage Lord Brookmore arranged was a small two-horse landaulet with two coachmen on the box. It was comfortable enough, but if she’d had to share it with the Viscount, it would have seated them so close their bodies would have touched. Luckily he rode on horseback, so she did not have to face being in such intimate quarters with him. Unfortunately it also meant she had no company at all.
For half the day, the road skirted the sea whose sight and scent made it impossible to forget the terror and loss she’d endured from its violence. There was nothing to divert her thoughts away from those memories. With every glimpse of waves outside her window, she relived the shipwreck.
She tried to look away, out the window that did not face the sea. Occasionally Lord Brookmore rode next to the carriage and asked her how she fared. She always replied that she did very well. The truth could not be easily explained. Other than that, she was silent, even saying little during their brief contacts when they stopped only long enough to change horses and procure food which she ate in the coach.
Eventually the sea disappeared from view, replaced by farms and fields and small villages. Rebecca’s nostrils filled with the odour of growing things. Of life instead of watery death, but still, being alone, her thoughts drifted back to the sea.
Lord Brookmore, who looked even more imposing on horseback, again appeared beside the carriage. ‘We are nearing Chester. We will spend the night there.’
* * *
At the inn in Chester, Garret dismounted and handed his horse off to the waiting ostler. The carriage pulled in behind him and one of the coachmen jumped down to help Miss Tilson descend the steps. Garret stood nearby, his valise in hand.
Miss Tilson carried only a small bag with those few items he had purchased for her.
In the waning sun, she looked even paler than when they’d started the journey. He’d suspected then that she was not recovered enough. Now he kicked himself for not insisting she rest in Moelfre at least one more day. He’d been impatient to return to Brookmore House, though, eager to see her settled and his nieces comfortable, and matters set to rights. Brookmore House still felt like his brother’s house, not his, even though he’d grown up there. Of course, when he’d been a child he’d been constantly reminded that his brother was the heir, the eventual owner of the estate.
He needed to return to London, although he was not as eager as he ought to be. He’d been swept up in events in London. It had been like watching another person negotiating that society and its expectations. Not him. Not at all him.
But it had been what he must do. Colleagues of his brother and father guided him through the ceremony, customs and politics of the House of Lords and of what was expected of a viscount there.
He needed to secure the inheritance, they’d insisted. His family would lose everything to some distant relation if he did not beget an heir. He’d seen the logic in that and so had done his duty. Attended the marriage mart. Became betrothed.
Lady Agnes was the perfect choice, his advisors assured him. He agreed. She was the daughter of the Earl of Trowbridge. She was polished, pleasant, accomplished and beautiful. She’d be the perfect hostess. There was absolutely nothing to object to in Lady Agnes.
Except Miss Tilson pulled more emotion from him than Lady Agnes ever had.
He stepped towards the governess and reached for her small bag. ‘You look fatigued. I will arrange a room for you and have a meal sent up to you.’
She gave him a stricken look that he did not understand, but he took her bag and she fell in step with him to the door of the inn.
When they entered the hall, the innkeeper’s eyes darted between them. ‘Welcome. A room for you, sir?’ His tone was uncertain.
‘Two rooms,’ Garret replied. ‘The lady will require a maid and a meal in her room.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The innkeeper bowed.
‘No!’ Miss Tilson broke in, her voice sharp. She immediately modified it. ‘No, please. I would prefer to eat my meal in the tavern.’
The innkeeper’s brows rose, as did Garret’s. She wished to expose herself in a public tavern? What sort of governess was she?
Garret frowned. ‘As you wish.’
The innkeeper cleared his throat. ‘Let me show you to your rooms.’
Garret followed behind the man and Miss Tilson as he led them up