by Syrie James
Mrs. Farthing looked at her again. “Do I take it that you’ve never actually served as a governess?”
“No. But I’ll be good at it.”
“You said you attended college?”
“Yes.”
“That is most unusual. Do you have a certificate or transcripts to authenticate your education?”
“Not with me.”
The woman gave her a doubtful look. Alexandra began to feel a ripple of discomfort creep up her spine.
“Do you have references of any kind that you can offer?”
“References? No.”
Mrs. Farthing put down her pen, her mouth tight as she pointed to a stack of paperwork on her desk. “Miss Watson. I’m sorry. While I respect your desire for employment, I have dozens of experienced young ladies seeking these positions whose references are impeccable. I’m afraid you will have no chance of competing with them.”
Alexandra’s heart sank. “But I need a job, Mrs. Farthing. I’m out of money, and in two days, I’ll have nowhere to live. What am I supposed to do?”
Folding her hands, Mrs. Farthing leaned across the desk, saying gently, “You seem like a decent young lady. If you need employment that urgently, you might check in the shops in the neighborhood to see if anyone is hiring. Shopkeepers might not care so much about references and experience.”
Alexandra, downhearted, raced the three blocks back to Mrs. Gill’s boardinghouse, where she blew into Mr. Carlyle’s studio and apologized for being ten minutes late.
“Is everything all right?” Mr. Carlyle asked, as he set up his paints and brushes.
“Fine, I was just out looking for a job.”
She’d hoped that today, she’d be able to be in the same room with him without a repeat of that earlier, heart-skittering attraction. But the moment she saw him, she felt the same jolt to her senses. Something, however, seemed different about him today, although she couldn’t put her finger on what.
As she moved behind the screen and changed into the white gown, she told him about her job-seeking venture. “Unfortunately, it was a waste of time.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” His sympathy sounded genuine.
“I’m not giving up. I’m going to check in the shops this afternoon.”
“I hope you have better luck.”
“Thank you.” When she’d finished changing and came out to stand before the backdrop, she asked, “What happened to the sash? I didn’t see it back there.”
“I do not need you to wear the sash today. I found another way to reconstruct it.” Mr. Carlyle gestured toward a table, where he’d recreated the billowing sash in the portrait by mounting it on a small, temporary scaffold of what looked like bottles, books, sticks, and other pieces of wood.
“How creative.” Alexandra hadn’t realized until this moment that she’d been looking forward to him pinning her into the sash again, and was sorry it wouldn’t be repeated. At the same time, she wondered if he came up with this new arrangement specifically to avoid another such encounter.
She resumed her stance. The portrait session began. Mr. Carlyle was concentrating so hard that for ten long minutes he didn’t say a word. When she could stand the quiet no longer, Alexandra cleared her throat and said brightly, “Mr. Carlyle. Mrs. Gill tells me you’re from Cornwall?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard Cornwall is beautiful.”
“It is.”
“It must be a wonderful place to paint.”
“For some, I imagine it can be.” He didn’t smile as he said it.
She wondered why. “Do your parents live in Cornwall?”
“My parents passed away some years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” That was all he offered. He didn’t seem to want to talk about his parents any more than she wished to discuss hers. Another few minutes ticked by. Finally, he said, “Tell me about your family.”
She hesitated. How much could she say without giving herself away? “I have two younger sisters.”
“So do I.” He frowned, as if he hadn’t meant to share that. “Do your sisters live in New York?”
“They do.”
He dipped his brush, continued painting. “What are they like?”
Alexandra couldn’t hold back a smile. “How much time do you have?”
“I am all ears, Miss Watson.”
Surely, she could talk about her sisters without mentioning their real identities or financial status. “Well. They’re both beautiful and smart. Sometimes they frustrate and infuriate me, but at the same time, I adore them. We’re as close as sisters can be. I haven’t seen them in ages and I miss them terribly.”
“Oh? How long have you been away? I had the impression you arrived overseas a short while ago, with your former employers.”
Alexandra bit her lip. Why had she said that? How to answer without lying? She paused, flustered. “I’ve actually been away from home for some time. We were in France for a while before coming here.”
“I see.”
She was struggling for something else to say, determined to direct the conversation away from herself, when her gaze came to rest on his face. She suddenly realized what was different about him today. “Mr. Carlyle. You’re not wearing your eyeglasses.”
His hand froze. A blush rose to his cheeks. He set down his brush, retrieved his spectacles, put them on, and resumed his position by the easel. “No wonder you looked a bit fuzzy this morning,” he commented with a tight smile. “I tend to be absentminded when I work. Thankfully, my prescription is slight.”
It was a reasonable enough explanation, but he now seemed preoccupied and a bit uncomfortable. After that, Alexandra’s every attempt to engage him in conversation was met with brief and often monosyllabic replies. The session dragged on, as he worked and Alexandra tried not to fidget. At one thirty, Mr. Carlyle declared them finished for the day.
“You did well, thank you,” he said when she emerged from behind the screen, dressed again in her own clothes.
A glance at the portrait revealed that he’d made great progress. Alexandra felt a tingle of wonder and satisfaction as she noted the new parts he’d added to Mrs. Norton’s arms and hands, knowing that they were actually based on herself.
They agreed to meet the next morning at the same time. At which point Alexandra left the house in search of employment.
She called into every shop and lunchroom that looked the least bit promising, whether or not there was a Help Wanted sign in the window. At each stop, she was met with a smile until her American accent was discovered. Confusion followed. Why, everyone wanted to know, did an American woman want to work in a London shop? Wasn’t she in town on holiday? All the Americans they’d ever met were customers with plenty of money to spend.
Having failed so miserably at her attempt to land a governess position by telling the truth, Alexandra resorted to brief, mostly fictitious explanations of her circumstances: she’d come overseas on vacation but had run out of money. She was a lady’s maid who’d lost her job. She’d worked in a dress shop or bakery or greengrocer in New York but had always dreamed of living in London. She even tried the tale Mrs. Gill had inferred, about being a governess who’d been let go. But no one offered her a job. They were polite, they were sorry, but they didn’t have any openings just now.
After four hours, Alexandra’s spirits were completely deflated. She was heading back to the lodging house when she came upon a stationery stop, and decided to give it one more try.
She was approaching the door when, through the window, she noticed two well-dressed young women inside, completing a purchase. As they turned for the door, Alexandra froze with shock. She recognized the women. They were debutantes Alexandra had met during the Season. One of them was Lady Minnie Dewsbury, in Alexandra’s estimation, one of the most pompous, disagreeable, and indiscreet young women in England.
Shielding her face with one hand, Alexandra rushed away. If Lady Dewsbury recognized he
r, she’d surely inform Alexandra’s mother, if not the whole of London society, that Alexandra was still in town.
She ran almost the entire five blocks back to Mrs. Gill’s, cursing the corset that made it so difficult to breathe. What a fool she’d been to walk about so cavalierly, looking for a job! It had never occurred to her that she might encounter anyone she knew. But the truth was, she’d met hundreds of people during her brief involvement in the London Season. As an American heiress with a fortune, she’d been a visible presence at every single affair. Even dressed as she was, someone might recognize her. And what if it had been her mother coming out of that shop!
Alexandra arrived at the boardinghouse with a painful stitch in her side. She sank down on her bed, utterly discouraged. As if it wasn’t bad enough that no one would hire her, now it seemed unsafe to even go out looking.
What on earth was she going to do?
That night, Alexandra dreamt that she was trudging down a London street, looking in shop windows for Help Wanted signs, when her mother and Lord Shrewsbury suddenly appeared before her.
“Grab her!” cried her mother, the feathers in her hat dancing as she and the viscount forced Alexandra into a waiting carriage. The vehicle immediately took off at a rapid pace.
“Where are we going?” Alexandra cried frantically.
“To church of course,” replied Lord Shrewsbury with a sardonic smile. “It is our wedding day.”
“No!” Alexandra tried desperately to reach past her mother for the door handle. “Let me out! Let me out!”
Alexandra awoke in a panic, perspiring profusely. The nightmare still lingered, weighing heavily on her mind, when she appeared at Mr. Carlyle’s studio at the appointed hour.
His door was open. She went in and crossed the room, preoccupied. This was her last sitting. Tomorrow, she’d be out on the street. She’d have no alternative but to go back to her mother. She was halfway to the rack of clothing at the back of the studio, when she noticed Mr. Carlyle pacing back and forth, looking as anxious and distraught as she felt. Pausing, Alexandra asked, “Is something wrong?”
“You might say that.” His tone was bitter.
She noticed an open letter in his hand. “What happened?”
He waved the letter as he paced. “I have just returned from the post office, and received some bad news.”
“Is there any way I can help?”
“What?” he muttered distractedly.
“I just asked if I can help.”
“You?” He uttered the single word in disbelief, as if she’d just suggested that she might be the next queen of England.
Insulted by his tone, she replied in a huff, “Excuse me. I was just trying to be polite.”
He stopped in his tracks and stared at her sharply, as if an idea was just occurring to him. After a long moment, during which a range of conflicting expressions crossed his face, he said tentatively, “You are looking for work, are you not, Miss Watson?”
Whatever she’d been expecting him to say next, it wasn’t that. “Yes I am. Why?”
“Well then. Perhaps there is a way you can help me. A way in which we can, once again, help each other.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”
“I would like to offer you a position, Miss Watson. As governess to my sisters in Cornwall.”
Chapter Six
Miss Watson stared at him. “You want me to be your sisters’ governess?”
Thomas nodded, waving the letter in his hand. “My housekeeper writes to say that the governess has quit and the girls are running wild. She begs me to return to Cornwall at once with a replacement.”
It was an inconvenience that could not have come at a worse time. He needed to stay in London another couple of months, to finish his current works and drum up more commissions. But he had to remedy this situation before it got truly out of hand.
When he’d first read the letter, he had been all at sixes and sevens. A qualified governess was difficult to find and even harder to keep, especially where he lived. He’d never had much luck with the employment agencies in London, and it would take weeks to advertise and locate someone on his own.
The answer to his dilemma, however, was staring him in the face. In the brief time in which they’d been acquainted, Miss Watson had proven herself to be intelligent and reliable. He no longer flinched every time she spoke. She had a lively personality and was extremely well educated. She had attended college, for God’s sake. She had younger sisters of her own.
What more could he ask for in a governess?
What you could ask for, a small voice insisted in the back of his head, is a woman who doesn’t make you want to shag her every time you look at her.
The past two days, it had been an exercise in frustration and restraint to be cooped up with her in this studio, painting her perfect flesh. Knowing exactly what she looked like beneath that all-too-revealing white satin gown. Wishing, with every passing second, that he had the nerve and the right to stride across the room, take her into his arms, and kiss her until they were both breathless.
To take her home to Polperran House? It would be madness.
It will not be a problem, he countered silently. He would simply keep his distance from her. He had never spent any time with the previous governesses, after all. What did he have to lose by trying her out?
“Normally, I would ask for references,” he informed Miss Watson, “but it would take far too long to write and hear back from America. And I don’t suppose there is any point in speaking to your previous employers, after what occurred?”
“No.” She colored at that. In fact, she seemed to be taken aback by the whole idea.
“Forgive me. I realize that you know next to nothing about me, which may affect your ability to make a decision. Feel free to ask any questions you might have. I will do my best to answer.”
She glanced at him. “Why did the last governess leave?”
“My housekeeper did not say.”
“How old are your sisters?”
“Fifteen and twelve.”
“What are their names?”
“Julia and Lillie.”
“Are they difficult?”
“Not at all.” That wasn’t exactly true, but would the truth persuade her to take the job? “They just need a firm hand, someone to harness their energy in the proper direction.”
“Couldn’t they attend a local school?”
Perhaps she was unfamiliar with the English education system. “The local school only takes boys and girls up to age twelve.”
She paused, taking that in. “Where do you live in Cornwall?”
“About thirty miles south of Plymouth.”
That seemed to mean nothing to her. “Do you live in a town, or the country?”
“The country.”
“Would I have my own room?”
An absurd question. But then, he reminded himself, she must think him to be an impoverished artist, the part he had worked so hard to play. The impoverished part was certainly close enough to the truth, but as to the rest . . . well. It was a misconception he was not about to rectify while under Mrs. Gill’s roof. “Yes. You will have your own room.”
If she accepted the post, he owed her a more complete explanation as to who he was. He just hoped she wouldn’t pry too deeply into the matter until they’d left town.
“How much does the position pay?”
“I am sorry, I should have said. The post comes with a salary of forty pounds per annum. Naturally, room and board are provided.”
Miss Watson seemed to process that, as if the number were important. “Would we leave for Cornwall at once?”
“The day after tomorrow. I have to finish Mrs. Norton’s portrait, fill in the background and such. While it dries, I can escort you to Cornwall, but I will be obliged to return to London soon after.”
“I see.” She appeared undecided.
“Do you have any further questions?” he persisted, feeling anxious now
. “Do you need more time? Or can you tell me now whether or not you will accept?”
This turn of events was so unexpected, Alexandra hardly knew what to think.
The idea that Mr. Carlyle was offering her such a position came as a shock. He’d said his parents were both dead. Apparently, he was obliged to take care of his sisters. But from what she’d gleaned about him from Mrs. Gill, he was a man so poor, he could barely afford the rooms he rented several months a year while in town, plying his trade. How could he afford to employ a governess?
On the one hand, Alexandra realized, the offer was a lifesaver. She needed a place to go, the farther away from London, the better. There’d be no chance of her mother or anyone else she knew stumbling upon her in faraway Cornwall. It would give her the opportunity to see more of the English countryside, which she’d so admired on previous trips. And with the salary Mr. Carlyle was offering—if she saved every penny—in three months, Alexandra could afford a second class ticket on a steamship to New York.
What other means did she have to acquire that money? None.
She’d already convinced herself that, despite her lack of specific experience, she could do a reasonable job as a governess. But should she do it?
Accepting this position would mean going somewhere completely unknown with a man of only very recent acquaintance. What did she know about Mr. Carlyle, other than that he was a brilliant painter? Well, she knew he was a man of modest means, who no doubt lived in a modest house. According to Mrs. Gill, he was also a quiet, responsible, hardworking man who kept to himself. All admirable qualities. Not everything about him was admirable, of course. For some reason, he had a chip on his shoulder about Americans. Did she really want to work for a man who seemed to dislike people of her nationality?
Did she have any choice?
There was another, more critical, stumbling block: Alexandra found Mr. Carlyle extremely attractive. Too attractive for her own good. If he was going to be her employer, there could be no relationship of any kind between them, beyond polite civility. Not that she wanted any other kind of relationship! Certainly not. She had no desire, she reminded herself fiercely, to get involved with him or any other man. She just wanted to go home.