It could be done. It was foolhardy. Why, it was positively scandalous. But she had nothing left to lose. It must be done.
‘That’s right,’ Martha said, her eyes even wider. ‘Oh, Maud, you’ve got that look on your face, the one you get when you are telling a story...’
Maud opened her eyes. Now here she was, in Cornwall, the wheels of the train turning on the track beneath her.
To lift her spirits, she forced herself to register the beauties passing by. From the moment she’d left London, there had been plenty to see.
Setting forth on the journey had been an intense relief. As the train moved further west, she’d even begun to experience a sense of freedom. The train moved so much faster than a horse and carriage, it was almost dizzying. There was so much to see, the landscape becoming wilder, more foreign, the deeper they moved into Cornwall. They had left the outskirts of London and the view of the backs of the houses, with their gardens and washing lines, then into the countryside of rolling hills and green fields dotted with sheep and cows. They had made a stop overnight in Exeter, where she had stayed at an inn near the train station, in surprisingly comfortable accommodation provided by her new employer, before continuing further south-west, where the clusters of villages and isolated country houses became sparser as they moved towards the remote, rugged coast.
A tiny thrill of excitement ran through her.
She pulled out the letter that she had tucked inside the book of fairy tales.
The strange address was printed at the top: Pendragon Hall, West Cornwall. A crest, a shield of three black crosses on gold and a band of black in an upward arrow lay below.
Dear Miss Wilmot
That was correct, at least.
She laid the paper down momentarily in her lap. Her hands were trembling. At least it didn’t say Dear Miss Martha Wilmot. She could take some comfort in that. A Miss Wilmot they wanted, and a Miss Wilmot they would get.
Swallowing hard, she read on.
Your acceptance of the situation as the new governess has been received. Train tickets are enclosed.
I will expect you at Pendragon Hall at your earliest convenience.
Yours sincerely,
Sir Dominic Jago
She traced the name with her gloved finger. The handwriting was strong and large, the words in black ink across the paper. The message curt.
Jago. It was an unusual name. She had never encountered it before.
All she had to hope now was that he had never heard her real name.
No one will believe your story.
Her fingers were still shaking as she folded up the letter. From the other information that Martha had passed on to her, she knew that the terms for her new employment were handsome, much better than she had expected, especially for a post in the country. It was not uncommon for a governess to be offered a home and no salary at all, but the post at Pendragon Hall paid a good wage, enough for her to save a little. She’d never had that opportunity before. Her last post had left her with nothing.
She would only be teaching one child: a girl, Rosabel, aged seven, who was recovering from illness. The application made no mention of any other children and, Martha had also informed her, Sir Dominic Jago was a widower.
To her surprise, the letter from Sir Dominic had also been accompanied by a first-class ticket on the West Cornish Railway for the final leg of her journey. On the previous trains, for she had changed twice, she had travelled in a second-class carriage, as governesses, footmen, ladies’ maids and other servants usually did. First-class travel was for gentry, not governesses.
She laid her head back against the leather seat. It was astonishing to be travelling first class. She must waste no more time on tears. The West Cornish Railway first-class carriage was so clean and new, she could smell the polish. The brass fittings and handles gleamed and a handsome brass lamp stayed lit so that she could read even as they went through woods and tunnels. There were three private compartments within the carriage, separated by a wooden screen, each with a pair of leather seats that faced each other.
It was so roomy. She stretched out her legs beneath her petticoats, resisting the urge to kick at them a little. How constricting they were! She still wore layers of them, in cambric, flannel, wool and cotton, rather than the new hooped skirt.
She stifled her sigh of yearning. Oh, how she longed for hoops. She could never afford to have her dresses made over in the new style. Hoops would probably be out of date before she could manage it.
To lift her spirits, she forced her attention back to the view. She would not miss a moment of the journey pining for things that could not be. In the large carriage window she could see her reflection, ghostly against the scenery of hedgerows, meadows and cottages. Underneath her green eyes were dark shadows and lines around her mouth that hadn’t been there mere weeks before. Wisps of brown hair escaped from her dove-grey bonnet, resting on the white collar of her grey dress.
Opposite her own reflection, Maud could see the only other occupant of the carriage, a sweet old lady, who had slept for most of the journey, Maud was pleased to note.
Earlier, Maud had helped her to settle into the window seat and find her smelling salts.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ the lady had whispered. ‘How kind you are. I find travel by locomotive very trying. It makes me quite ill.’
The train slowed and the whistle shrieked as they drew into a station.
Now the old lady awoke with a start. ‘Have we arrived already?’
‘Not yet. We still have a way to go to Penponds Station,’ Maud
