Without a Mother's Love by Catherine King Page B

her fury heightened. He had assumed she would obey him without question. She tried to remove his arm but it was anchored firmly around her body. ‘Not thinking of running, are you?’ He grinned.
    She strained her head away from him. Her anger was turning quickly to fear. He was tall and strong, he smelled strongly of spirits, and his grip was tight. She was frightened of what he might do next.
    She had never experienced such an attack from a gentleman - or, indeed, from any man - and could only say, ‘Stop this at once, sir.’
    It was inadequate, she knew, for he was not listening to her. But in her increasing panic she could not think what else to do. Mrs Cookson could not help her. She was in the stables, probably drunk by now. And she dared not call for the master for he was sure to blame her for the incident. It was always the servant’s fault.
    ‘Comely armful, aren’t you? What was your name? Ah, yes. Miss Trent. The comely Miss Trent. The governess.’ His speech was slurred and he spoke with an exaggerated slowness as if he wanted to be sure that he articulated the words correctly.
    Her heart was pounding with dread and she tried to steady it by breathing slowly. She knew she was no match for his strength. He tossed aside the whip and took the flask from his other hand, draining it into his open mouth. Then he threw it across the room. Dread turned to horror as his hand fell on the swell of her breasts and he dug his fingers roughly into her flesh. She squealed and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘No, sir. No,’ she begged. ‘Please let me go.’
    ‘Over here,’ he growled, and dragged her towards the schoolroom table, pushing her backwards and pressing his body to hers. ‘ C ’ m ’ on, governess’ he slurred. He grasped her chin. His florid face and open lips had made contact with hers before she knew what was happening.
    She screamed in her throat and struggled to break free of him. As she did so the schoolroom door banged against the wall and, over his shoulder, she saw the master standing in the doorway with a lighted candle in a brass holder. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried.
    Hesley’s grip slackened and he slumped over the table. She scrambled away from him to stand alone in the centre of the room. The master would dismiss her for this. And without a testimonial. Oh, Lord, no! Where would she go and what would become of Olivia?
    ‘Stand up straight, Hesley, and get yourself off to bed,’ the master barked.
    Hesley turned his head slowly and gave his grandfather a look of contempt. The master took him by the scruff of his shirt, hauled him across the room and flung him out of the door. Harriet heard the younger man stagger along the landing as the older one turned to face her with a questioning look.
    ‘Sir, please believe me, he came here uninvited . . .’ Harriet began anxiously.
    ‘I know my grandson, MissTrent. ’ He sniffed audibly and looked her over in the candlelight. ‘And your gown becomes you.’
    She was relieved that he had sent away his grandson but she had the same uncomfortable feeling she’d experienced with him before: humiliation, as though she were a beast being sized up for market. She remembered Mrs Cookson’s warnings about the Mextons, and although she was grateful for the master’s intervention, she wished he would not stare at her so.
    Harriet swallowed. ‘What will you do, sir?’ she asked.
    ‘Do?
    ‘Am I dismissed, sir?’
    He guffawed. ‘Why should I want to dismiss you? You are an excellent servant, and mine until you are one-and-twenty at the very least. As I said, I know who is at fault here.’
    She breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘You will be kind enough to ask your grandson not to visit the schoolroom.’
    ‘He will keep away from you. I shall see that he does.’
    ‘Thank you, sir. Goodnight, sir.’
    He stood looking at her for what seemed a long time, then turned away. She closed the door quietly after him and went through to her bedchamber. She