Chapter Sixteen
Maggie did not slow, though her lungs burned by the time she reached the edge of the water. The lake was deeper than she had realised—deep enough for the duke to dive in and vanish beneath the surface.
He reappeared with a rippling splash, coughing, Emma clutched limp in his arms.
Terror clenched around Maggie’s heart. She glanced up the hill for help.
Lady Westbrook was descending at a brisk walk, her expression taut, while Lady Constance stumbled behind her, skirts dragging through the dirt.
Lord and Lady Farendale stood frozen at the top, gawping.
Maggie doubted anyone had had the sense to send a footman for assistance.
Neil splashed to the bank and wordlessly held Emma out. Maggie caught the child, carrying her to dry ground and laying her down.
Emma was conscious—thank goodness—blinking and sputtering, her soaked dress clinging to her limbs. She reached weakly for Maggie.
“I dropped my flowers,” she whispered.
Maggie let out a ragged sob and threw her arms around the little girl, pulling her into a tight hug. The front of her dress was quickly soaked, but Maggie could not have cared less.
Wet, squelching footsteps heralded Neil’s approach. A pair of shiny-wet Hessians appeared in her field of vision, and she glanced up at him.
His hair was plastered to his head, darker than usual, and water streamed from his soaked clothes. He breathed raggedly, each breath catching in his throat. His eyes seemed to have darkened too, turning from a deep blue to a stormy black, the colour of a sky moments before thunder began to roll.
“Is she—?” he began, unable to finish.
“She’s safe, I think,” Maggie murmured. “Unhurt, only shaken. We must get her home at once.”
Neil let out a ragged breath, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I did not see her fall. I—Maggie, I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t been watching her.”
Her heart stuttered. Maggie. He had called her Maggie.
“It isn’t your fault, your Grace,” she said softly. “Children find trouble quicker than we can blink.”
He crouched beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin through the chill damp, and smell the clean, green scent of lake water.
“Thank you, Maggie,” he said quietly, his gaze steady. “I believe you saved her.”
Her throat went dry. “Saved her? No—I wasn’t fast enough.”
He reached out, and for one breathless moment, she thought he meant to pull her close.
But his hand passed her by, reaching instead for Emma.
He gathered the child carefully into his arms. Emma nestled against him at once, her forehead pressed to his neck, her wide eyes darting about in dazed confusion.
I could tell him, Maggie thought, her heart beating painfully. I could tell him everything—why I fled London, what I saw, who Victor truly is.
Surely, he would understand. Surely, he would see that she was more than a governess—more than what she pretended to be.
She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Lady Westbrook arrived, breathless but composed, eyes sharp as glass.
“She must be taken home at once,” she declared. “I’ve sent a footman for the carriage.”
“It will be quicker if I carry her myself,” Neil replied, already rising. “Aunt, see to the rest of the party. The picnic is over.”
“Naturally,” Lady Westbrook murmured.
He passed her at a jog, Emma clasped close. Lady Constance reached out, saying something Maggie couldn’t catch, but he didn’t slow.
When Maggie turned, Lady Westbrook was watching her closely.
“I am glad you were paying attention, Miss Winter,” she said at last. “You seem to know precisely what you are doing.”
The remark might have been praise—or something else entirely. Lady Westbrook gave her no chance to respond before turning back up the hill.
There was nothing to do but follow. Maggie found that going upwards was much harder than coming down, weighed down as she was by her wet dress and her own worry.
She was fairly certain that Emma would be safe.
Jenny would be ready at the house with a hot bath and clean, dry clothes, and the little girl would be put to bed to recover.
When she reached the top of the hill, she found that Lady Westbrook had already outpaced her and begun her descent. The picnic was mostly packed away, the footmen concentrating on their tasks. Lady Constance puffed up the hill behind her, sour-faced, and moved over to where her parents stood.
“Such nonsense,” Lady Constance hissed. Her voice carried easily on the still air. “That child is the most spoiled little creature I have ever encountered.”
Maggie stopped dead, realising with horror that they were speaking of Emma.
“I don’t care for her either,” Lord Farendale grunted. “But the duke dotes on her. You’ll have to humour the brat.”
Lady Constance pouted. “She hates me. I daresay she threw herself into the lake just to ruin the afternoon. The duke barely looked at me—he was all concern for that child.”
“Don’t let it dishearten you,” Lord Farendale said. “Men are like that. They cling to what they think is theirs. Once you’re married, you’ll be his, and once you’ve an heir or two, he’ll forget all about his niece.”
Maggie’s stomach twisted. How dare they? How dare they speak of Emma as a problem to be solved?
“I cannot tell if he likes me or not,” Lady Constance continued. “He’s impossible to read.”
“Of course he likes you,” her father soothed. “You’re lovely and well-bred, and you’ve Lady Westbrook’s backing. He respects her like a mother. Be patient, my dear. Big fish don’t bite quickly. Dote on the child for now—when you’re Duchess, you can send her wherever you please.”
Maggie could almost imagine the smile spreading across Lady Constance’s face. She could hear it in her voice, too, when she spoke.
“I shall send her to the most dreadful school I can find,” Lady Constance said, venom in her tone. “And the governess—oh, I’ll be rid of her the moment I’m wed. Insolent creature, thinking herself superior to me.”
“When you’re Duchess,” Lord Farendale said complacently, “you may dismiss whomever you like.”
“I’ll see she never finds another position,” Lady Constance muttered. “A bad reference travels faster than any good one. That should cure her of her airs.”
Maggie stood rooted, her pulse roaring in her ears. Then, fearing discovery, she turned and hurried downhill after the footmen.
So that’s it, she thought bitterly. He’ll marry her. Emma will be sent away and forgotten. And I—she swallowed hard—I’ll have nowhere left to go.
Swallowing down a tide of misery and fear, Maggie quickened her pace, suddenly keen to get home.
***
“There you are, Maggie. You were missed at dinner.”
Maggie flinched, turning around. Night had fallen when nobody was looking, a blanket of blue-black sky and glittering stars. Cold air and a stiff breeze had come along with it. One could almost taste the rain in the air. There would be no picnic tomorrow, that much was sure.
Maggie stared at Neil, standing silhouetted in the doorway, poised to step out onto the terrace after her.
“Your Grace—Mrs Thornton said I could take the air out here,” Maggie found herself saying. “I thought you were all at dinner.”
“We were,” Neil responded, his smile wavering a little. “You didn’t join us.”
Was he mocking her? Maggie blinked, swallowing.
“Of course not, your Grace. Miss Emma is asleep, and I am her governess. Why would I dine at your table?”
He blinked, a little taken aback. “No—of course. Forgive me. I only meant to be courteous. I saw Emma; she’s sleeping soundly. Jenny says she’ll be well by morning. I didn’t see you, though.”
Maggie had borrowed a shawl from Jenny and kept it wrapped around her shoulders. She and Jenny were going to take turns sitting up all night beside Emma’s bed, just to be sure. It would be a long night.
There had been no time for a proper bath; she had only managed a hurried wash, drying her cold, clammy skin before changing into clean, dry clothes.
There was still a little dampness in her hair, although she was not sure whether that had come from.
Had she been splashed while pulling Emma out of the water? Perhaps.
“I’m quite well, thank you,” she managed.
Lady Constance’s words flickered through her mind again. She had thought, more than once, of telling him what she’d overheard—but what good would that do? Why should he believe a governess over a lady? Lord and Lady Farendale would deny it, their daughter too. It would be three against one.
“That’s good,” Neil said quietly, stepping forward. He joined her at the balustrade, looking out over the darkened gardens. For a time, neither of them spoke.
Maggie stole a glance upward, wondering whether his thoughts tangled as hopelessly as hers.
Does he think of me?
No, she told herself. Don’t be foolish. She was his niece’s governess, nothing more. He cared for her only because she cared for Emma.
Still—
She closed her eyes and let herself imagine, for just a heartbeat, what it might feel like to trust him.
I could tell him the truth.
She closed her eyes and indulged that idea, just for a moment.
I could tell him what I saw.
But the truth came back too vividly. The empty storeroom.
The shouting. The spatter of spittle on the floor.
The blood—thick, dark, and spreading. Victor’s hands around another man’s throat.
The memory of those same hands closing around her own, not hard enough to crush, just hard enough to remind her he could.
“Best keep quiet about this, eh?” he’d said. “You’re a sensible girl, Miss Camden. Or may I call you Maggie? Your father said your mother did. Maggie. What a pleasant name.”
She shivered and opened her eyes. The duke was watching her, his brow faintly creased.
“If you’re cold,” he said gently, “we can go inside.”
She shook her head. “I am not cold.”
She couldn’t tell him, of course not. Telling him would make him complicit—bound up in her guilt. Once he knew the truth, he would have only two choices: to turn her in, or to protect her and draw Victor’s wrath upon himself.
Maggie knew, with painful clarity, that she could do neither to him.
“You seem preoccupied,” he said after a moment, his gaze still lingering on her.
It would be sensible—proper—to make some polite reply and excuse herself at once. No good had ever come of a governess alone with her handsome employer. At best, one might expect a broken heart and perhaps a broken promise. Maggie did not care to imagine the worst.
And yet she didn’t move.
“We should go inside,” she said at last, her voice mechanical. “It is cold.”
She turned halfway, uncertain whether she meant to go—or stay. It didn’t matter. Her eyes met his, and the breath caught in her throat. She froze, lips parted, heart hammering.
He looked down at her, brows drawn together in some unreadable confusion, his finely cut features shadowed in the lamplight.
I am falling in love with you.
The thought came quietly, with the heavy inevitability of a cannonball rolling over a paper floor—soft at first, and then ruinous.
“There is something you are not telling me,” he said, voice low. “I would like you to know, Maggie, that you can trust me.”
I wish I could.
“Thank you, your Grace,” she whispered, the words slipping out on a breath.
“I want to help you,” he continued. “My reputation may be a harsh one, but I care deeply for my niece. And I… I care for you, too.”
What was that supposed to mean? Did he care for her as he did for Crawford, or Mrs Thornton, or the rest of his household who spoke so fondly of him?
Maggie longed to ask—to demand answers—but no sound would come.
Neil lifted his hand, hesitantly, gaze flickering across her face as though he expected her to pull back at any moment.
She was sure, quite sure, that he meant to brush his knuckles across the curve of her cheek. She could feel the warmth of his hand, a hair’s breadth from her skin.
And then he exhaled, and the hand landed, warm and friendly, on her shoulder.
“I will help you, if I can,” he said firmly, his gaze locked onto hers.
Maggie’s insides tangled themselves into knots. She could not breathe, could not move, could not look away.
Is this love? she wondered. This helpless, terrible confusion?
If it was, she wanted none of it. Then move, whispered a sensible voice inside her head.
But she didn’t.
A floorboard creaked.
Neil’s hand dropped away as though burned, and he stepped sharply back.
Moving as if in a dream, Maggie turned.
Crawford stood in the doorway, expression impassive. His eyes flicked once toward her, then fixed on the duke.
“Your Grace,” he said evenly, “I have been looking for you.”
“What is it, Crawford?” Neil’s tone was clipped, a little strained. He did not look at Maggie again.
“Lady Westbrook wishes you to meet them all in the drawing room, as is customary after dinner,” Crawford replied. “She was most insistent—at once, your Grace.”