“Have another glass then. I’ll ring for it.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Everard. One was quite sufficient for the purpose.”
“Then some cake. And you’ll not say no, thank you to a cup of tea, I know. Sit down by the fire. I’ll bring you some.”
“I can—” she began, but he held up a hand.
“Please, Miss Cole. Seat yourself.”
She was aware he studied her, even as he cut the cake on its pedestaled stand and poured her out tea into a cup of marvelous thinness and delicacy. Feeling slightly ridiculous already in the oversized banyan, Lillian began to be nervous. All the more so when he came closer.
After putting the plate and cup on a small table he placed by her knee, Thorpe dragged over a chair and sat beside her. Was this the prelude to possible seduction? Of course not, not with the children in the room. Lillian didn’t know if she were glad or sorry. Certainly, Thorpe had not seemed the sort to attempt such a thing with a servant. Trying to act nonchalant, she tasted the cake. It was flavored with orange and yet somehow a hint of cinnamon came through as well.
“Do you like it?”
Lillian swallowed. “Oh, yes, it’s very good. I can’t think when I’ve tasted anything quite like it.”
“Poor girl,” he murmured.
“I beg your pardon?” That was certainly something she’d never been called before.
“No, I think I should beg yours. What a difficult life you must lead. Miss Cole, if I’m not being impertinent. I mean, I am being impertinent, but it makes me angry.”
“What does?”
“You. Here you are, an intelligent girl, obviously well-brought up, forced to slave for strangers. Governess to two great girls, those silly Garnets.”
“You know them? That is, really, there’s no need to feel sorry for me. I...” This was hideously uncomfortable. If only Thorpe knew the truth, he’d not waste either his sympathy or a moment before telling her to leave. “Besides, I don’t think of it as slavery. I receive a perfectly adequate salary, as you ought to know.” Oh, goodness. Paulina had never told her what her remuneration was supposed to be.
“A mere thirty pounds a year. What is that? I think I should give you a rise.”
“Oh, no! After all, I pay nothing for my food and lodging. Mr. Everard, please believe me, I’m perfectly content with my lot.”
“But a young woman like you shouldn’t have to say please and thank you for every crumb thrown in your way. It’s obvious you hardly know what to do with a compliment. I think you should have a husband of your own.”
At that, Lillian half rose from her seat. “Mr. Everard, I would remind you that I have only arrived in your house today. I hardly think a conversation about my future is proper at this early juncture. I’m grateful for your concern, but—”
“But,” he said, “you’ll thank me not to interfere. Sit down again, Miss Cole. I shall not embarrass you further.” He lifted his shoulders and smiled. “I do interfere, I know. If I were a woman, they’d call me a bothersome old busybody, and I suppose they’d be right. But I can’t bear to see anyone unhappy. I know too much about it.” The last words were almost inaudible.
The gamekeeper’s boy sat up, his face alert. “The dad’s here, Gina. Time to go.”
The door to the library opened. “Jack Price to see you, sir,” Becksnaff said.
“Send him in.” Thorpe stood up and walked toward the door. “Jack, have you come to find your wandering chicks?”
“Just to send ‘em home, sir. The missus’s awaiting.” The big man in the moleskin coat stopped short at the sight of his children. “Fine as five pence. What happen to them other clothes?”
“Well,” Thorpe said, passing his hand through his hair, “there was a bit of an accident. They can go as they are; I’ll send someone over tomorrow with the others.”
“All ri’. You better get along, then, younglings. Say thank ‘ee to Miss Everard.”
Addy inclined her head to her friends’ thanks like the lady of the manor accepting prayers from her minions. She seemed to have forgotten completely that, five minutes before, they’d been playing together, though not as equals. Addy had been much the underling.
The two children ran off, yelping as their father feigned swipes at them. “An’ don’t be dawdlin’ on the way!”
Thorpe said, “Where are you off to this evening, Price?”
“Well, sir, I wasn’t goin’ to say nothin’, seein’ what yer views is, but I’ve got a poacher t’ take down to the magistrate.”
“Oh, no. Who?”
“That there Tom Maxwell, as was born to be hanged.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but what’s the good of my catchin’ these fellers if yer only goin’ t’ let ‘em go again?”
“Nevertheless, it’s my rabbit. Was it a rabbit?”
“No, sir. Fish.”
“Well, then, it’s my fish. If I choose not to prosecute, no harm’s done.”
“ ‘Cept you’ll have every ruffian with wire or snare here inside the week.”
“Then you’ve never to fear you’ll lose your position, eh, Jack? Where is the rascal?”
“Tied to one o’ them horse holders out front.” The big gamekeeper rolled his eyes heavenward as he turned to follow Thorpe out of the room.
Thorpe was kind. Kind to children, kind to poachers, kind even to frogs. Had he not gently suggested that Frank let his bagged catch go upon emerging from the lake? Lillian knew that she would be foolish beyond belief to misinterpret his attentions to her. He simply listed governesses among those people deserving his kindness.
Looking up, she met Addy’s eyes. The girl’s lower lip was slung forward, perhaps insubordinately, perhaps thoughtfully. Lillian had not spent enough time about small children to be certain, young Sir Lewis Pritchard not withstanding. Feeling as though she were being observed by a stray dog, Lillian spoke in a low and soothing tone. “What time do you usually retire, Addy?”
“Whenever I want.”
“Oh.” There didn’t seem to be an answer to such a statement that would not sound critical of the girl’s upbringing. Lillian rose to her feet. “What a lot of books your father has,” she said, wandering over to the shelves.
The firelight flickered over the spines of the tall volumes on the shelves. They were not covered by matching morocco leather with golden crests; rather, they seemed to have been bought over a long period of time by many hands. There was an entire section devoted to the science of the air, and another to everything known about water. She recognized titles from her school days, mysterious tales of murder and love, as well as sermons. Lillian chuckled as she ran her fingers over the complete works of Judge Fielding, bawdy tales with which she should properly have had no acquaintance.
“Do you . ..” Lillian almost jumped, having forgotten, for the moment, that Addy was still in the room. The words had petered out at once, anyway, as soon as Lillian looked around.
She turned her attention once more to the books. “Do I what, dear?” she asked.
“Do you know any new stories?”
“Stories?”
“I’ve heard all of Great’s. Papa’s too. The servants don’t know any, ’cept for Becksnaff, but he only talks about the war. He was a soldier.”
“Well, I know a few,” Lillian said. This was the longest conversation yet she’d had with the child, and it felt very queer, knowing if she turned, the fountain would dry up, so to speak. “I learned a few stories while I lived in India.”
“India?” Disbelief filled the girl’s voice. “Don’t be silly.”
“It’s very rude to call someone a liar, Addy. I lived in India for a long time. Did you know, this coat I have on came from there.”
“You look silly in it.”
“Be that as it may, the silk came from there. Probably the cinnamon in your cake came from there too.”
“From your house?”
“My house?” Lillian was so surprised she turned around. Addy had come to stand within three or four feet of her, the closest she’d come yet. Even in the lake, she’d been careful to stay at a distance.
“My grandmamma and grandpapa live in Lympie Hall, and I live in the castle. The castle’s the biggest house in the whole world, bigger than your old India.” Lillian hadn’t known a six-year-old girl could sneer.
Lillian knelt down on the carpet, the blue skirts of the banyan spreading out on the red carpet like a pool of clear water. “Addy, India isn’t my house. It’s a country, far away, filled with strange people and wonderful things. Like silk, spices, and... and tigers. I lived there. While I was there, I learned many stories I promise to tell you.” Though Addy still looked suspicious, Lillian knew she was interested. “What time do you go to bed?” she asked again.
“Eight o’clock.”
‘Then, when it is your bedtime, I’ll come and tell you a story about India. If you like it, I’ll tell you another tomorrow.”
“I won’t like it.”
“That’s for you to decide.”
The front door closed and Addy whirled away, running off in search of her father. As she stood, Lillian could hear the child chattering away about the things Miss Cole had just told her. Suddenly, Lillian realized she’d placed herself in another difficult position. How could she explain to Thorpe about India when the letter of recommendation had said nothing about it? Lying was so much more complex than telling the truth. She’d best invent something, and quickly!
It wasn’t Thorpe who walked in, but Lady Genevieve. “Miss Cole, I realize you are new to our household, but what are you about leaving my great-granddaughter awake so late? It has gone past seven o’clock.”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Genevieve. Addy, if you hurry, I shall tell you that story. Isn’t it a good thing you’ve already had your bath?” The little girl and Lillian exchanged a look. Lillian tried to put across in a single glance that she wasn’t going to tell Lady Genevieve Addy had lied about her bedtime, provided there were no more such “mistakes” that evening.
Addy said, “Good night, Great,” and put up her arms to kiss Lady Genevieve’s cheek. For a moment, the two Everard females clung to each other. Then, the girl said, “Come along, Miss Cole,” in a tone not unlike her father’s, unconsciously imperious but without cruelty.
“Don’t trouble Miss Cole tonight, Addy,” Lady Genevieve said. At the little girl’s frown, the older lady repeated, “Not tonight. She is tired from her exertions and has been traveling all day.” Turning to Lillian, she said, “I have ordered you a light supper in your room, Miss Cole. If you will escort Addy to the nursery, Burrows will put her to bed.”
“Of course. Never mind, Addy. I’ll tell you a story tomorrow night and we’ll start lessons in the morning.”
Addy did not wait for this assurance to be completed but turned about and walked away considerably ahead of Lillian.
As they passed through the foyer and up the stairs, Lillian could hear Jack Price complaining about something, and the quick, kind answers of Thorpe Everard. She felt a pang, swiftly smothered, as she reminded herself never to read anything into Thorpe’s attentions save kindness. And she’d really have to give up thinking of him as Thorpe!
When Lillian awoke the next morning she discovered some trouble in recalling where she was and even more in remembering who. A pale pink glow coming through the gently stirring curtains told her it was still very early. It would be so easy to fall again into a light slumber. Lillian yawned. Really, she had nothing to do. A few more hours of rest would suit her down to the ground.
Someone knocked on the door. Carrying breakfast, no doubt. Blinking and stretching, Lillian sat up to allow the tray to fit across her knees. When the door opened, a curious odor wafted in, compounded of chalk, old damp paper, and cheese. Instantly, she knew it for what it was. That concentrated essence of classroom always met her when returning to school after a holiday.
She was Lillian Cole, governess, and she’d be lucky to get any breakfast at all. Certainly, it would not be laid across her knees accompanied by flowers. Though uncertain as yet whether she was to eat with the servants, the family, or her pupil, she knew she would not be pampered in the manner Lillian Canfield had grown accustomed to.
“It’s me, miss.” The maid came in, carrying the poplin dress. “I done my best. It didn’t do no good.”
The frill of lace about the bodice had gone from white to a murky tan. The sleeves must have been made of cloth from a different dye lot, for their color had run and marked the bodice. Though the fabric had once been a pretty shade of pale blue, the muddy water had changed it to a mixed and spotty gray.
“I would say that the only thing to do is to have it dyed black,” Lillian said, resigning herself. And, she thought, to make a vow never to go bathing with my clothing on. This conjured up an image of herself bathing with no clothing on at all. Reprehensible, perhaps, but what brought the blush to her cheeks was that Thorpe apparently insisted on joining her, wearing no more than she herself. Somehow, the thought took her back to the disquieting dreams she’d been so reluctant to leave.
The maid peered at her closely. “A good black dress is ever so useful, my mam says. I was a mite surprised you didn’t have one before this. Don’t governesses always wear ‘em?”
Come to think of it, her own governess had worn quite a bit of black, but then her relations always seemed to be dying. At least, she’d often asked leave to visit their funerals.
“I suppose we do. The color doesn’t matter me, though, I think. Well, I shall have to make my muslin do again. I wish I’d brought more things. How soon is it possible to have this dress dyed?”
“I dunno,” she said. “I can ask Mrs, Becksnaff. Not till washing day and that’s nigh a week off. We just done it Monday.”
“I see. Thank you.” When dressed—the maid helping her while explaining it wasn’t her regular job—Lillian asked about breakfast.
“I dunno,” the maid said again. It seemed to be her stock answer. “You might as well have a bite with me. ‘Course, I had some bread and cheese afore I first begun my work, but I could do with another taste of something.”
When asked, the white-aproned cook gave an unfeminine sniff and whacked a hunk off a loaf of bread with what seemed to Lillian to be unnecessary vigor. “Here,” she said, pushing it at her. “Butter and jam’s on the table.”