The Governess Club: Sara

At Finchley’s prodding, his wife began to undress to better display her wares and the revulsion nearly overwhelmed Nathan. In a harsh voice, he removed the two from his house and threatened them with prostitution charges. His next hours were spent in half-drunken loathing at what his life had become, at the ease that he felt in such a corrupt profession, where loyalties were traded for such prices. And how for one revolting moment he had considered Finchley’s offer.

It was then he made the decision to leave London and had it all arranged within days. Windent Hall had seemed a perfect place for his newly acquired misanthropy.

More brandy flowed down his throat, the memory of Finchley and his wife shifting until a young, brown-eyed vicar stood in his place, introducing him to a luscious red-headed nymph who was willing to help out wherever needed. The similarities had shaken Nathan to the core and he had lashed out. In hindsight, he knew he had overreacted, but at the time he had only the desire to rid himself of them. Even worse, she continued to tempt him, appearing in his thoughts and dreams.

Yelling a foul curse at the discarded letter, he drank more.

The old nag stood patiently, appreciating the respite. George shifted the reins slightly in his hands. “Miss Sara, you want I should drive to the house?”

She didn’t acknowledge him right away but continued staring at Windent Hall, her last stop of the day. Every other visit had gone smoothly, giving her a sense of security and confidence that she was doing the right thing.

Her last visit here had resulted in her being insulted. Of course, Mr. Grant had apologized for his behavior, in a manner of speaking. And then proceeded to get frightfully angry. She still didn’t know what to make of his behavior in the pub last Saturday. Thinking of the intensity of his gaze, so potent she had felt he was touching her, still made shivers run down her spine.

Windent Hall did not look as though it housed an irrational, angry man. It still had a neglected look to it, although she could see more curtains had been opened and the window glass sparkled in the sun, even from her position at the end of the drive. She knew Mr. Grant could be a comfortable conversationalist, as proven on their walk. His outbursts all seemed to come from some sort of provocation, even if she didn’t know what caused it.

He couldn’t be all that bad. He was just a man, one Mr. Pomeroy was convinced was recovering from some sort of spiritual wound. She would just have to take care to not provoke him in any way.

That settled her mind. Giving George a nod, Sara instructed, “To Windent Hall, please.” George clucked and flicked the reins, setting the gig in motion. They reached the door in a matter of moments. George helped her down from the gig and she took the last basket from the back. He followed her to the door, knocking on it. When no answer came, he pounded even harder.

The door slowly swung open, more easily than it had last time, revealing the same elderly man dressed in a butler’s suit. He squinted against the sunlight, a large scar running down the right side of his face, his lips pulled back into a sneer.

The ants teased her throat. Just breathe, she instructed herself, he’s just a servant. She cleared her throat and said, “Good afternoon, I am Miss Collins. I have come to call on Mr. Grant.” Her voice was higher-pitched than normal.

One corner of his lips curled, his eyes raking over before he turned and shuffled away. He had left the door ajar; at her look, George shrugged and pushed it open. Sara stepped inside the darkened foyer just in time to see the man disappear down the same corridor as during her last visit.

She stood with her hands curled around the basket, unable to see much of the artwork due to the lack of light. Other items were still hidden under dust covers; Sara thought one might be a suit of armor or perhaps a statue of some sort. She did not mind the wait, as it gave her throat time to recover from that shock of a servant.

Shuffling sounds from down the corridor captured her attention and moments later the butler—for lack of a better word—reappeared. “His lordship says he don’t want to see nobody today.” The man’s voice was raspy and sent frissons of discomfort down her spine.

Sara cleared her throat again, choosing not to correct the man in his address of Mr. Grant. “Did you say who was calling? I am certain he would not be averse to speaking with me for a few moments.”