For the space of moments, Oliver had been treated to the sight of one of the loveliest faces he had ever seen. A cascade of thick, black hair fell nearly to her waist, framing a face of such arresting beauty that he felt as though he was staring into the face of an angel. Her dark eyes had reached into his soul, tugging at the very core of who he was.
The memory of those eyes had stayed with him for years.
Then, belatedly aware that he had stumbled upon a lover’s tryst, Oliver had withdrawn. He’d closed the door and gone back to the ballroom, trying to lose himself in the crowd of revellers and merrymakers. But for some reason, the memory of what he’d seen had stayed with him, disturbing him to such a degree that even he himself hadn’t been able to explain it.
The next morning, he’d left Grovesend Hall and headed back to London. He hadn’t said a word to anyone about what he’d seen. Not even to Lord Talbot who, obviously too drunk to remember, had been surprised and disappointed by his young guest’s hasty departure. Nor had he seen the raven-haired beauty again.
Until this morning when he had arrived at Mrs Guarding’s Academy for Girls. Her name was Helen de Coverdale. And unless he did something about it, she was about to become one of the women who would have a direct influence on his impressionable young ward.
‘You wished to speak with me, Mr Brandon?’
‘Hmm?’ Oliver glanced across at the headmistress, and realised she had been waiting for him to begin. ‘Oh. Yes. I wanted to ask you about…one of your teachers.’
‘Miss de Coverdale.’
It wasn’t a question and Oliver frowned. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because she was the only one who elicited any kind of response from you. Forgive me for speaking plainly, Mr Brandon, but are you acquainted with Miss de Coverdale?’
‘No. At least, not formally,’ Oliver amended quickly. ‘I was not aware of her name until today. But I remember seeing her…many years ago under considerably different circumstances. I was wondering how she came to be in your employ.’
Mrs Guarding walked towards a fine black lacquer desk and sat down behind it. ‘Would it surprise you to learn that Miss de Coverdale was once a pupil here?’
‘Yes.’ Oliver picked up a particularly fine cloisonné vase from the table and turned it over in his hands. ‘Am I to assume she comes from a privileged background?’
‘Not privileged, but certainly genteel. Her father was a barrister. Her mother, I believe, was of foreign birth. Helen was with us for a few years and showed great promise with her drawing. And of course, she spoke Italian beautifully. After she left, I heard nothing more about her. Until three years ago when to my great surprise, I received a letter from her, asking if I would consider giving her employment as a teacher.’
‘Which you agreed to do.’
‘Most happily. I was delighted to have a teacher with her skills.’
Oliver nodded, pausing for a moment to deliberate upon how best to phrase his next question. ‘Does she have any…gentlemen friends?’
‘If she has, I am not aware of it. Miss de Coverdale seldom leaves the building.’
‘Not even to visit family?’
‘She has no family in England. Her parents are both dead and I have never heard her refer to anyone else in conversation.’
‘I see.’ Oliver crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Mrs Guarding, did Miss de Coverdale provide you with suitable references when she came to you?’
He saw a brief flash of annoyance darken the headmistress’s eyes. ‘Of course. Have you any reason to believe she would not?’
His shrug was purposely evasive. ‘I am merely curious as to the nature of Miss de Coverdale’s past employment.’
Mrs Guarding abruptly rose and crossed to the bell pull. ‘Miss de Coverdale’s work as governess to the children of Lord and Lady Peregrine was spoken of in glowing terms. The letter was written by Lady Peregrine herself, if that is of any consequence.’
Oliver smiled faintly. He had put the headmistress on the defensive, and her message to him was quite clear. She did not care to entertain intrusive questions about her staff, nor did she feel compelled to answer them. ‘I shall take up no more of your time, madam. I ask only that you provide me with periodic reports as to Gillian’s progress. I have reason to believe she will experience some difficulties in settling in, but I am sure everything will be fine once she comes to know the other girls.’
‘I am confident she will fit in very well, Mr Brandon. But I shall keep you apprised of her progress.’ The door opened and a black-garbed maid entered. ‘Molly will show you out.’
Oliver bowed. ‘Thank you.’
As Oliver followed the maid down the hall, he admitted to feeling a certain degree of frustration. He was no further ahead after his conversation with Mrs Guarding than he had been before it. It was clear the headmistress thought well of Miss de Coverdale, and it was equally clear there was nothing in her past that would have precluded her from being taken on as a teacher here.
But how could a woman who had been employed in a household where she might well have been the lord’s mistress, receive a glowing report from the lord’s wife? Had she been that good at concealing the nature of her relationships? Oliver wondered. Or had she simply been fortunate enough to end up in a household where the wife knew of her husband’s behaviour, and had been equally willing to turn a blind eye to it?
Helen set her easel close to the base of the linden tree and checked to make sure that the footing was secure. ‘Now, girls,’ she said, turning to smile at the eight young women who were gathered around her, ‘I thought today we might begin work on a new landscape. Miss Tillendon, did you not express the opinion that it would be challenging to paint the varying shades of blue in the sky?’
‘Yes, Miss de Coverdale.’
‘Then I think that is what we shall undertake. Now, to begin with, we should spend a little time studying the sky. We should look up and see how the colours in it change. Notice the way the blue is lighter there, and how the clouds come across it and make it appear—’
‘Miss de Coverdale, who is that gentleman?’ Rebecca Walters enquired suddenly.
Helen abruptly turned away from her study of the sky to glance in the direction Rebecca was pointing. To her astonishment, she saw Oliver Brandon striding down the path towards them, his face set in grim lines. He covered the distance between the school and the pasture in short measure, but then, as if uncertain of his welcome, stopped at the edge of the field and leaned against the fence.
Helen felt a quick surge of colour to her cheeks. What was Oliver Brandon doing out here? Surely he wasn’t expecting to have a conversation with her right in the middle of her lesson? But why else would he have come? He would hardly be interested in watching a group of young girls learn how to paint.
‘The gentleman’s name is Mr Brandon,’ Helen said, seeing no reason not to tell them. ‘He is the guardian of one of our new students, Miss Gresham.’
‘But why is he watching you?’ Lydia McPherson piped up.
‘He isn’t watching me, Miss McPherson. He is watching all of us attempt to paint the sky.’
‘I think he is looking at you, Miss,’ little Eliza Howard said shyly. ‘He is too old to care about the rest of us, or about our paintings.’
The girls started to giggle and Helen felt the blush in her cheeks spread to the rest of her face. ‘If he is looking at me, it is only because he wishes to see how I conduct my classes. His ward is to be a pupil here. No doubt he wishes to see what kind of teacher