by Farr, Diane
She looked uncertain. He bowed, indicating two wing chairs that flanked a table near the window. The table should appeal to her. Nothing safer than to place a piece of furniture between them. The window was a nice touch, too. He saw her shoulders relax as she decided she was being overly missish. Good.
She walked slowly to the farthest wing chair and sat, but perched on the edge of the seat as if poised for flight. He noticed that the hem of her dress was damp and flecked with mud. She tucked her feet beneath it as if ashamed of her shoes as well. Her hair was the warm brown of molasses, and springy with natural curl. It threatened to burst from its confines; a few tendrils had already worked loose and coiled into ringlets in a haphazard pattern around her face. The effect made a man itch to touch them, if only to tuck them back under her hat. Her demeanor, however, did not second the invitation issued by her wayward curls. Her back was very straight; her chin, above the frayed strands of her hat strings, perfectly level. Never mind that she looked as if she had just tramped cross-country with the gypsies; Miss Whittaker was the picture of primness.
“What is it you wish to discuss, please?” she asked.
He settled into the chair opposite hers, leaning back to make himself comfortable, and studied her wary face. “My daughter,” he said softly. “As you have probably guessed.” He watched as several emotions chased each other across her expressive features, then added, “In fairness, I must tell you that I watched you through the window.”
She looked surprised, but not offended. “If you are so concerned for her safety that you watch her through the window, I wonder that you allow her to play all alone. She was very near the public street. I suppose you will say that is none of my business—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” murmured Malcolm.
“—but it seems to me that she is too young to be left unattended. Such a little girl, you know, is unaware of danger. She may behave imprudently.”
“You seem to know a great deal about little girls.”
Her amazing smile flickered again. “I used to be one.”
He couldn’t help smiling back. “I see. Well, there you have the advantage of me. I must bow, therefore, to your superior knowledge.”
Her eyes twinkled. “So I should hope.” She seemed to catch herself, then, and sobered at once. “I shouldn’t presume to advise you, however.”
“Don’t apologize. I told you I wanted to discuss Sarah.”
“With a complete stranger?” She shook her head, looking amused. Another tendril of hair escaped and curled, fetchingly, beside her temple. “I can’t imagine why.”
“It’s not hard to fathom. You look to be exactly the sort of young lady who dispenses excellent advice. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that most of your circle seek you out when they are in trouble, and beg for your assistance. Am I right?”
Some of her wariness returned. “Perhaps. Every circle of friends contains at least one individual who plays that role. You and I are not acquainted, so it would be extremely odd of you to confide in me. I suggest you seek out whichever of your own friends you rely upon for guidance.”
He chuckled. “Allow me to point out that despite our short acquaintance, you have just given me a piece of first-rate advice.”
She flushed. “Then I trust you will follow it. Good day.”
She started to rise from her chair. Without thinking, he reached to stop her. His hand closed on her wrist. “Please,” he said. “Don’t go.”
She stared at him in obvious astonishment and he felt himself coloring. “It’s important,” he said gently. He had to let go of her wrist; otherwise she would think him either mad or lecherous. But it was, in fact, so important that she stay, it went against the grain to free her hand. “Please,” he repeated, and indicated the chair where she had been sitting.
She lowered herself back onto it with obvious reluctance. “I hope you will explain yourself,” she said severely.
“I suppose I must.” He glanced over at his daughter. She appeared oblivious to the adult conversation—but one never knew, with Sarah. She could be damnably precocious at times. Malcolm leaned forward, one forearm on the table, and addressed his companion in a lowered tone. “As I say, I happened to be watching Sarah through the window when you approached. I was much struck by what I saw. I must tell you, Miss Whittaker, that Sarah is not a child who talks easily to strangers. It seems that you and she have a ... rapport, for want of a better word.”
A slight smile crossed Miss Whittaker’s features. She looked over at Sarah and he could have sworn he saw affection in her glance. He could have kissed her for it. She seemed unaware of his gratitude, however; her liking for Sarah was apparently genuine. All she said was, “Yes. I suppose that’s a fair assessment.”
He nearly had to bite his tongue to keep from telling her how long and hard he had searched for someone, anyone, who felt a rapport with his little girl. The best reaction he had encountered thus far was pity. And as for Mrs. Thorpe—
“What is your impression of Mrs. Thorpe?” he asked abruptly.
Her clear brown eyes flew back to his, startled. “Mrs. Thorpe? Why, she’s—” Miss Whittaker halted in mid-sentence and visibly struggled to keep her opinion to herself. “I’m sure it’s not my place to say.”
“If it were your place to say, what would you tell me?”
She bit her lip. “Really, sir, this is the most outrageous conversation—”
“Just tell me.”
She pressed her lips together, studying his face. She seemed to decide he was in earnest, for she eventually unclosed her lips enough to ask, “What is Mrs. Thorpe’s relationship to Sarah?”
“That of governess.”
“Governess! Surely she is too young for that?”
“I believe her to be nearly forty.”
Miss Whittaker gave a spurt of laughter. “I meant Sarah.”
“Sarah is ...” he paused. There were so many reasons why he had hired a governess rather than a nurse. But he must pick and choose among the many reasons, and only reveal one or two. For now. “Sarah is unusually intelligent. And I had hoped to achieve a certain ... stability in her life. In hiring either a nurse or a governess, one is hiring the child’s chief companion. I had hoped to select one individual to fill both roles. Sarah becomes extremely attached to the few people within her circle. I wanted to make her passage from babyhood to girlhood—”He stopped for a moment and searched for the right word. “Painless? Or at least easier. If I could.”
He hadn’t told her everything, but nevertheless he saw understanding flicker in her eyes. “I think I see,” she said quietly. “It was a kind thought.”
His mouth twisted wryly. “It hasn’t turned out as well as I had hoped.”
“No,” said Miss Whittaker absently. Her eyes returned to Sarah, playing quietly in the corner of the room.
He waited for her to elaborate, but she did not. “Mrs. Thorpe came with excellent references,” he offered, hoping to prompt her. “But I think she had always worked with older girls.”
An expression of scorn settled briefly on Miss Whittaker’s features. “I cannot imagine her methods working well with any child,” she said briskly. “They certainly would not have worked with me.”
“At Sarah’s age, do you mean?”
“At any age.” She gave him a rueful smile. “But I spoke without thinking. My comment is unjust. Mrs. Thorpe may, in fact, be an excellent governess. Some girls do respond best to a firm hand. I never did, but few children are as headstrong as I was.” She looked hesitant for a moment. “Based on the interaction I witnessed, my impression is that Mrs. Thorpe is a strict disciplinarian. Am I mistaken in that?”
“Hardly,” said Malcolm dryly. “From the moment I engaged her, a battle of wills has raged between her and my Sarah.”
Miss Whittaker frowned. “That will never do. Why do you not intervene?”
“I would, but my position is delicate.” He tried not to laugh. “I haven’t yet decided w
hich of them I side with.”
“Dear me.” She bit her lip again. “That is a dilemma.”
“My instinct is to side with my daughter.”
“That’s natural.”
“But I find myself in sympathy with Mrs. Thorpe as well. After all, I hired the woman to teach Sarah. It seems unfair for me to quibble with her methods. What do I know of teaching young girls? A governess, I suppose, must be allowed to govern.”
“My dear sir,” she exclaimed, “this is no time for fence-sitting. Mrs. Thorpe’s methods may be doing more harm than good. Your child’s future may be at stake.”
“Yes, so I think.” He gazed thoughtfully at the young woman on the other side of the table. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled with indignation. She was clearly a passionate person. Miss Whittaker formed opinions quickly and defended them with gusto—and yet she had a kind heart. The more he saw of her, the better he liked her. “I realize you are familiar with none of us,” he said, trying to sound diffident. “But frankly, your opinion will be more valuable to me for that reason. I need the opinion of an unbiased stranger. How would you advise me?”
“Regarding your Sarah?” She looked tempted, but shook her head. “I couldn’t. I have nothing to base an opinion on. I would be relying on pure intuition.”
Malcolm held up one finger. “And rapport,” he reminded her softly. “Do not forget that. I am inclined to respect your intuition. Tell me about my daughter.”
She stared at him. Her eyes were enormous. “How intense you are,” she said. Her voice shook a little. “It can’t possibly matter that much—what a stranger thinks.”
Her eyes were so clear. He felt as if he could look straight through them to the bottom of her soul, where he saw only the sweet, grave light of goodness. The notion was nonsensical, of course, but he could not shake it. What this unknown young woman thought, what she felt, was important. Somehow, it did matter. He felt it in his bones. If he told her so, however, she would probably think he was a lunatic. So he said merely, “Indulge me.”
She took a deep breath, then looked away from him. “Very well,” she said. “I will tell you what I think.” Her eyes focused thoughtfully on Sarah, still absorbed in an incomprehensible game with her toys. Sarah was whispering and singing to herself, moving the dolls in a pattern that only she could decipher. Miss Whittaker did not appear to find this either disturbing or funny; the little smile that touched her lips was one of understanding. “I think Sarah is a highly imaginative child.”
That was an understatement. “Yes, she is.”
“Such children tend to be sensitive, yet difficult to discipline. I imagine that Sarah rarely follows orders, and doesn’t respond well to threats or punishment.”
“That’s true.”
“On the other hand, an appeal to her emotions or reason will almost always have the desired effect.”
“Right again.”
He must have sounded amazed, for she laughed a little. “It’s only logical. Imaginative children are skilled at putting themselves in another’s place. If she behaves badly, ordering her to stop or punishing her may make matters worse. But I fancy that if you tell Sarah how her behavior affects you, she understands at once why you want her to stop—and stops, out of love for you.”
Malcolm realized he had been holding his breath. He let it go. “Miss Whittaker, you have hit the nail squarely on the head.”
She blushed. “I’ve only told you what anyone might have told you.”
“How do you know so much about children?” He hoped it wasn’t because she had a brood waiting for her at home. He’d assumed she was single, but, come to think of it, she hadn’t been specific. He glanced at her hands. If she wore a ring, her gloves concealed it.
She caught his surreptitious glance and looked amused. “I don’t know anything in particular about children. But people in general interest me, and children are people. What motivates them isn’t much different than what motivates the rest of us, I should think.” She tilted her head as if considering. “I don’t believe I’ve changed much, simply by growing older. Have you? I think we are all, most of us, the same person throughout our lives. It is only the exterior that changes.”
Now, there, she was wrong. He felt his jaw tightening and looked away from her, afraid that such an intuitive woman might read his thoughts in his eyes. “Some of us, I daresay, change very little,” he said shortly. “Others are not so fortunate.”
A tiny silence fell. She must have understood that she had touched a nerve in him, for she eventually said, with an attempt at lightness, “I dare not press the issue, since I have already told you what a headstrong child I was.”
He gave himself a mental shake and smiled, grateful to her for breaking the awkward moment. “Still headstrong, are you? No, you need not answer that! At any rate, it seems you would advise me to sack Mrs. Thorpe.”
She gave a choke of startled laughter. “Did I say that?”
“It’s what you meant, I think. And I’m inclined to agree with you. Mrs. Thorpe’s ways are unsuited to Sarah’s temperament. She has spent many months, now, attempting to instill obedience in my daughter through a system of strict orders and harsh punishment. She has not succeeded, and I am more certain every day that she will never succeed. It has reached the point where Mrs. Thorpe dislikes Sarah, even despises her. And Sarah is miserable.”
“Poor lamb. Perhaps when she is older—”
“No.” Malcolm rubbed his chin. “I think you are right that some people do not alter. I think Sarah will always be … imaginative. Not to the extent she now is, I hope, but I cannot imagine her ever embracing an organized, regimented kind of life.”
Miss Whittaker nodded in agreement. “You should try to find someone more sympathetic. Clever children are often difficult to handle, but with the right approach they can be delightful. Someone more gentle, with a vivid imagination of her own, could easily turn Sarah’s imaginativeness into an asset.”
“Someone who feels a rapport with Sarah.”
“That’s right.”
He looked at her. “Someone like you.”
Her eyes widened, dilating in surprise—and astonishment. His hand shot out and closed over hers, stopping her before she could speak. “Please. Do not say no. Hear me out.”
Her eyes, good lord, her eyes. They were huge. And beautiful. Not that that had anything to do with it, but still ... he couldn’t let her get away.
Providence must have led him here, to this spot where he would meet her. Heaven may have forsaken Malcolm long ago, but surely, surely it watched over his little girl. He was meant to find Miss Whittaker. For Sarah.
Chapter 3
“You’re mad,” said Natalie faintly. “You know nothing about me.”
Her response was automatic. What else could she say? It was crazy for him to ask such a thing. And it was even crazier for her to feel so tempted when he did! But his ice-blue eyes held hers, their intensity overwhelming. She had never encountered such mesmerizing eyes. She felt unable to look away.
“I know you are an honest, forthright, plainspoken woman, and God knows there is nothing more valuable on earth than that.” His voice was deep and sure. And persuasive.
Persuasive? Ridiculous! Was she so hungry for approval that a few words of praise from a stranger could overcome her common sense?
But he wasn’t done. “Your intelligence is obvious,” he said. “You have the voice and manner of a lady of quality. You have a kind heart. And you like my Sarah.” Emotion quivered in his voice. “I cannot tell you what that is worth to me. Miss Whittaker, I beg of you, consider my offer. Do me the courtesy of thinking it over. Do not dismiss it out of hand.”
If he only knew. She gave a shaky little laugh. “I’m not dismissing it out of hand. That’s what worries me.” Hope flared in his eyes and she shook her head, frowning. “I don’t mean I am going to accept your offer. I cannot. The idea is preposterous.”
She moved to pull her hand out fr
om under his, but he seized it more strongly. “I haven’t yet told you what it is.”
“I assume you want me to accept a position as governess to your child. That’s flattering, I suppose —”
“Not flattering enough. There is a stigma attached to the label of governess. You may call yourself whatever you choose; companion or teacher or what-you-will. I want you to come and live with us, and your only duty will be to act as Sarah’s companion and teacher. Not only for reading and drawing and French and such things; I want you to teach her whatever skills you think a gentlewoman needs. Dancing and comportment and the art of conversation. Everything. I am prepared to pay you handsomely, Miss Whittaker. You will have a suite of rooms—”
“Stop, stop.” She felt a little dizzy. “You don’t understand. I am not a governess.”
“I beg your pardon.” His gaze flicked down her person. “What are you?”
She opened her mouth to tell him what she was: a gentlewoman. Chatelaine of Crosby Hall. Mainstay of her family. But the words wouldn’t come out.
What, in fact, was she? A nonentity, even in her own home.
She wasn’t the chatelaine of Crosby Hall, she was nothing but a spinster half-sister—and fast dwindling into an aunt. Needed by nobody. Wanted by nobody. Soon her days would be spent dancing attendance on Hector’s infant, she had no doubt. Let Natalie mind the baby. She has nothing better to do.
No wonder this stranger’s offer of employment had unexpectedly struck a chord. No wonder she longed, against all reason, to say yes. Hadn’t she spent most of the morning dreaming of escape?
She pressed one hand to her brow, trembling a little. “I—I don’t know how to answer you. I’m not alone in the world, if that’s what you think. I don’t need to earn my bread. I have a home. I have a family.”
He looked disappointed. “A gaggle of younger siblings, I suppose, who all depend on you.”
She had to smile. “Not quite. Two brothers—both younger than myself, but not by much. And as for depending on me ... alas, the shoe is on the other foot.” She sighed.