by Syrie James
The heart, however, did not always listen to the head.
Alexandra couldn’t forget the rush of feelings that had come over her that first day in this studio. Or how she’d felt—how she still felt—every time she looked at him. Sometimes, she had to remind herself to breathe. What would it be like, being around him every day in his house in the country?
But then, how often would she actually be around him? Governesses spent all of their time with their pupils, didn’t they? And he wouldn’t be staying in Cornwall, anyway; he was just going to escort her there, then return to London. By the time he came to Cornwall for good, she’d probably be leaving.
“I’m interested in the position,” Alexandra announced, her eyes flicking up to meet Mr. Carlyle’s expectant glance.
“Wonderful,” he responded with a relieved smile.
“But I should be honest with you.” If she couldn’t be honest about everything, this was the least she could do. “I can take the job for a limited time, only three months. My object is to earn enough money to sail home to New York.”
His smile fled. “I see.”
“If you prefer to offer the job to someone else, who can commit to a longer term of employment, I’d understand. It might be better for your sisters.”
After a moment’s reflection, he shook his head. “I understand your circumstances. Three months will have to do. This solves my immediate dilemma, and gives me plenty of time to find your replacement.”
“All right, then. Now, we must discuss the problem of clothes.”
“Clothes?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, everything I had in the world has been left behind or stolen.”
He appeared confounded. “A servant’s wardrobe is her own affair. I have never provided clothing for a governess.”
Alexandra didn’t realize that’s the way these things worked. Thinking fast, she continued, “I would have been happy to provide for myself, if things were different. But as things stand, if I’m to take the job, I can’t be expected to wear this one dress every single day.”
His brows furrowed. “What would you need, exactly?”
“One full change of clothing at the very least: a new dress, undergarments, stockings, a nightgown, hat, shawl. I’ll need a handbag, handkerchiefs, another pair of shoes—”
“I get the picture,” he interrupted, holding up his hands. After a brief deliberation, he added, “Your shoes will have to do. I am sure we can find you a handbag, handkerchiefs, nightdress, and a hat at my house. As for the rest, I can purchase fabric. I presume you sew?”
The question threw her for a loop. She groped for a reply, then said slowly, “I am competent at needlework, of course, but I was never taught anything beyond basic embroidery, having had dressmakers until . . . recently.”
“I see.” He considered, frowning. “Well, there is a woman down the street who makes gowns for my sisters. You may have one dress made up and whatever . . . undergarments you require. I will arrange to have them delivered. You may also purchase a shawl and stockings. May I suggest that you choose nothing too fancy, as the cost will be docked from your salary.”
“Docked from my salary?” Alexandra stared at him. “That’s hardly fair.”
“From where I stand, it is perfectly fair, if not generous. You are a governess without references. I have no idea if your services will suit. Should you decide to bolt after a day or a fortnight, your clothing will surely go with you. I am offering to pay for it in advance, in the hopes that our arrangement will work out.”
Alexandra hesitated. If her salary was docked for new clothing, it would take even longer to earn shipboard passage. Still, she needed clothes. And the job. She did a few mental calculations. “All right. I’ll take the job. But for a salary of fifty pounds per year.”
His mouth dropped open. “Fifty pounds? That is out of the question. The salary I offered is generous and non-negotiable.”
“Every business deal is negotiable, Mr. Carlyle. And this is business, don’t you agree? You need a governess, and fast. You’re asking me to travel to a place I’ve never been, to care for two young ladies I’ve never met. I have no idea if the job will suit. If I want to leave, it’s a long way from Cornwall to London. The way I see it, I’m taking a big risk in accepting your offer.”
He returned her stare, saying nothing for several seconds. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It was the first time Alexandra had heard him laugh. The hearty, delightful sound came from deep within his chest, and she couldn’t help laughing in return.
Holding out his hand, he said, “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Watson.”
She shook his hand, an action which caused a tingle to run up the length of her arm. “I might say the same about you, Mr. Carlyle.”
After the final sitting that afternoon, Mr. Carlyle sent Alexandra off with a note to the dressmaker’s, where she was fitted for a new dress and undergarments.
As summer was approaching, she ordered a dress of high-quality cotton in a pretty shade of pale blue, in a style the seamstress assured her was appropriate for a governess. It was the plainest garment Alexandra had ever bought, but at least the color would be more cheerful than the black dress she was wearing. She also stopped in at a shop and, with money Mr. Carlyle had given her as an advance on her salary, purchased stockings and an inexpensive shawl of light wool.
Mrs. Gill was delighted to learn of Alexandra’s employment opportunity. She lent her a small black bonnet for her journey, which Mr. Carlyle agreed to bring back on his return to town. Alexandra warily checked the London newspapers, relieved to discover no more articles about her. She began to feel an obligation, however, to let her parents know something of her circumstances.
On the morning of their departure, Alexandra dashed into the post office and sent the following telegram to her father:
TO: MR. COLIS P. ATHERTON
650 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK CITY
NOT ABOARD MARITIME. CANNOT MARRY SHREWSBURY. AM SAFE. DON’T WORRY. FORGIVE ME. ALL MY LOVE TO MADDIE AND KATHRYN.
ALEXANDRA
Alexandra also posted a letter to be delivered to Brown’s Hotel:
Dear Mother,
Forgive me if my abrupt departure caused you worry. Unfortunately, I was unable to achieve my aim to board the Maritime—but I didn’t dare return to you, knowing your grand ambitions for me.
I’ve tried hard to do everything you wanted. But as I tried so desperately to explain, I cannot and will not marry Shrewsbury. It is criminal to ask me to throw my life away on a union that would be a disaster, just to buy a title. There are far better uses for Father’s money. Let us find one.
I pray that you and Father will come to understand my point of view. By the time you receive this, I will have left London. Don’t worry, I’m perfectly safe, and will be well cared for. Please give my deepest love to Father, Maddie, and Kathryn when you see them. I remain,
Your daughter,
Alexandra
When Alexandra and Mr. Carlyle boarded their first-class carriage on the train, they found it occupied by two prim-looking elderly ladies. Alexandra sat down on the opposite velvet-upholstered bench. Mr. Carlyle sat beside her, placing his hat on the seat between them.
The journey, he told her, would take about nine hours—seven by train to Bolton, a small station some ways beyond Plymouth, where they would disembark and travel another two hours by coach to Longford.
“Longford?” she asked. “Is that the name of your nearest town?”
“It’s more of a village. I live just beyond it.”
A few minutes later, a shrill whistle blew, and the train lurched forward. Mr. Carlyle took out a book from his valise and began to read. Alexandra always brought a book or two with her when she traveled, and it felt odd sitting there without something of her own to read.
The rhythmic sounds and movement of the train were a lulling staccato as they made their way out of the city. She was happy to say good-bye to London, but also apprehensive. She wa
s off to an entirely new life, with no precise idea where she was going or what she’d be doing there. She told herself it was an adventure—the kind of adventure she used to long for as a child—and prayed she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.
Alexandra’s gaze shifted to the man seated beside her. Sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the highlights in his golden hair. One long, lean leg was crossed above the other, and his wide shoulders and upper arms strained against the seams of his charcoal gray coat, the same rather shabby garment he always wore.
Her gaze came to rest on Mr. Carlyle’s hands, which held the book he was reading. She recalled the way those hands had made her tingle just by grazing against her in his studio, a memory that made butterflies dance in her stomach.
Stop it, Alexandra. Mr. Carlyle had always behaved in the most upright manner where she was concerned. He was now her employer. He didn’t have any feelings for her beyond that which were proper and respectable, and for that, she was grateful. She was on her way to Cornwall to do a job, which she would do to the best of her ability. When she’d earned the money she required, she’d leave and never see him again.
It was to be a long train ride, however, and it would seem even longer if they didn’t converse with each other. Since he didn’t seem to have any plans in that direction, she decided to take the bull by the horns.
Glancing at his book, Alexandra commented, “Great Expectations. An excellent choice.”
He glanced up. “You’ve read it?”
“Several times. It might not be considered Dickens’s defining novel, but I think it’s his best.”
“I agree.” He closed the volume, removed his eyeglasses, and placed them in his coat pocket. “I’ve read it several times myself.”
He smiled, something she’d so rarely seen him do. It took her by surprise. She’d thought him a handsome man before, but when he smiled, it lit up his face in a most arresting way, prompting her to smile in return.
A lively discussion followed in which they dissected the novel in detail, a conversation which he seemed to enjoy as much as she did.
“I feel bad now that I did not bring you something to read,” he said eventually, offering her his book. “You are welcome to this, if you do not mind yet another perusal.”
Alexandra laughed. “Thank you. But this is a part of England I’ve never seen. I’ll be happy to just take in the view.”
He nodded, and after a moment went back to reading.
The elderly ladies sitting opposite were gently dozing. As the train rumbled along, Alexandra took in the beauty and tranquility of the landscape. The sky was cornflower blue, embellished by puffy white clouds. Wide green meadows spread as far as the eye could see, dotted with grazing sheep. They passed village after village with rows of quaint houses, many topped by thatched roofs and fronted by neat, colorful gardens. In the distance, Alexandra glimpsed the rooftops of small towns and ancient church spires. And the trees! They passed trees more enormous than any she’d ever seen, some of which she guessed to be over a thousand years old.
Alexandra had traveled a great deal with her family. She had seen untamed, expansive vistas in the American West, and the galleries and monuments of Europe. But nothing had filled her with quite as deep a sense of pleasure as the pastoral views outside her window. Maybe it was all the British literature she’d been reading since she was a child. Somehow, this countryside felt comforting and familiar, like a page out of a beloved storybook.
Even though this train was hurtling down the track, transporting her to a place she had never been.
With a man she hardly knew.
Chapter Seven
The ladies sitting across from them exited the train at Salisbury, and were replaced by two gentlemen who immediately became immersed in their newspapers. Halfway through the trip, Alexandra and Mr. Carlyle ate the ham-and-cheese sandwiches Mrs. Gill had sent along.
Alexandra spent part of the time thinking about Madeleine and Kathryn. It was months now since she’d seen her sisters, and she missed them dreadfully. They had rarely been separated before. She wondered what they would think when they learned of her decision to flee the London Season. Would they chastise her or congratulate her?
She wondered, too, about Mr. Carlyle’s sisters: what they were they like, and whether or not they would welcome the arrival of a new governess. When they passed Exeter, Alexandra, growing sleepy from the motion of the train and hoping that renewed conversation would keep her awake, decided to broach the subject.
“Mr. Carlyle, I wonder if you could give me a little information about what to expect when we reach Cornwall.”
His lips suddenly pressed together, and he darted a glance at the gentlemen sharing the carriage. “What to expect?”
“Yes. Can you tell me something about your sisters?”
“They are typical girls, I suppose,” was his oblique reply.
“What do you mean, typical?”
He shrugged slightly. “Julia, the eldest, is never satisfied with anything. Lillie is quiet. She keeps to herself.”
That wasn’t much to go on. “What are their interests and pursuits?”
“I have no idea. You will find out soon enough.”
She frowned. Did he really know so little about his sisters, or was he being deliberately evasive? “What about your parents?”
“As I believe I said, they are no longer with us.”
“I know, but . . . what did your father do?”
“Do?” Mr. Carlyle frowned and said bitterly, “My father never did much except drink, gamble, spend money like water, and chase after women. Not surprisingly, my mother was a very unhappy woman. She passed away when I was sixteen, giving birth to Lillie.” As soon as the words escaped his mouth, his forehead creased with obvious regret and he glanced away. “Forgive me, I should not have said that.”
“I’m glad you told me.” Alexandra’s heart went out to him and his sisters. “It helps me to know something of the family I’m working for. I’m just so sorry. That’s far too young to lose one’s mother.”
“I believe any age is too young to lose one’s mother. At least I knew her. Julia and Lillie have no memory of her at all.”
Alexandra thought about her own mother. They hadn’t gotten along in years, but she had pleasant memories from early childhood, before her mother was overtaken by social ambition. She wondered what it would be like to grow up with no memory of one’s mother at all. “When did your father die? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“Three years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“You and Julia would be alone in that sentiment,” was his curt reply, before returning to his book.
The subject was clearly closed.
The carriage and driver were waiting for them when they stepped off the train at Bolton.
Thomas was embarrassed, as always, by the condition of the brougham, particularly by the shabbiness of its interior. When he ushered Miss Watson inside, however, she appeared to be too weary to notice.
“How long did you say, until we reach our destination?” she inquired.
“About two hours.”
She sank down onto the single cushioned bench and gazed out the window. “It’s so beautiful here.”
Thomas sat next to her. “There is nothing remarkable in the scenery at Bolton.”
“Oh but there is! The meadows seem to go on forever. And it’s so green.” She laid her head back against the seat, causing the small black flowered hat that sheltered the coils of her sienna hair to go slightly askew. “I want to see everything,” she murmured sleepily, “but we got up so early, and it’s so warm. If I nod off, I hope you’ll forgive me?”
“I will.” Thomas tapped the roof. The vehicle lurched forward, slowly leaving the tiny railway station and making its way down the dusty road. He sat tensely, his hands resting on his knees.
Two hours.
It had been easy enough to keep a certain distance bet
ween himself and Miss Watson on the train. But in the confines of the small brougham carriage, it was impossible. By necessity, she was seated immediately beside him, so near that their shoulders were almost touching. So near, that with every inhalation he could smell the pleasant, light fragrance of her hair and skin.
Two hours. How was a man supposed to stand it?
This was, he realized, the worst idea he’d ever had. What had he been thinking, bringing her to Cornwall, where the very sight of her would be a daily exercise in frustration?
She wasn’t just beautiful, this woman. She wasn’t just smart—a woman who understood art and could match him, detail for detail, in a discussion about literature, challenging him with thought-provoking ideas that didn’t simply agree with his own. She was also clever. She’d gotten him to increase her salary, before even proving herself capable in the position for which she had been hired. In effect, with that raise, she had gotten him to pay for the new clothes he had insisted she pay for herself.
Clever.
If only she could have been the nervous, quiet, withdrawn type, like the two previous governesses. Or an aging, self-involved battle-ax, like the two before that. There had been no danger of him being attracted to any of those women.
This woman had far too many qualities that he liked.
He had no business liking the governess. Or being attracted to the governess.
His friends at Oxford had often joked about it. Tupping the serving staff was a common thing, to be expected. They had all done it. Certainly Thomas’s father had had no compunctions about taking his pleasure whenever and with whomever he saw fit, often causing the end of that young lady’s career in service, and in one case Thomas knew of, her life.
Thomas had vowed to never so indulge himself. He had developed a code of ethics, and he had stuck with it. Even during his two years in Italy, he had stuck to his principles. There had been plenty of other women who were willing and available yet experienced enough not only to take care of themselves, but also to teach him a thing or two. It had been quite an education.