The Game and the Governess (19 page)

She eyed the tart, willing her stomach not to betray her audibly.

“I thought you might like it,” he continued.

“I should hate to take your whole dessert . . .” Although she was thinking the exact opposite.

“Well, perhaps we can split it,” he replied. “Do you have a knife, or . . . ?”

She nodded. “I think I have a penknife. Just a moment.”

She turned and took the few short steps to her small writing desk. The piece was a relic from a different Widcoate of Puffington Arms, and had been in the attic since the present Lady Widcoate’s interior renovations began. It was sturdy and useful—two aspects Lady Widcoate had apparently despised—and had deep drawers, in which Phoebe now rifled through for her old penknife. When she finally located it, she spun around to move back toward the door—

Only to bang—for the second time in two days—directly into the chest of Mr. Turner.

The broad chest, it must be said. One she had very nearly accidentally stabbed. Granted, the room was
small, and he had taken barely more than a step inside it, but still—

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Turner! You . . . you should not be—”

But she was rendered silent by the look of wonder on his face.

“These are wonderful,” he breathed, his eyes fixed on the walls.

The two candles only gave the dimmest impression of what she had transformed her rooms into but, combined with the moonlight from the small window, it was enough to see the framed pictures she had hung in a precise line on the wall.

There were rivers and waterfalls cutting through mountains. A city at night in another. The one that Mr. Turner was staring at placed the viewer deep in a forest, looking up through the trees, the branches forming a circle, its own frame of a swirling, beautiful night sky. A comforting canopy, a place of imagination and welcome.

Everything blended together. Each picture in the line took the occupants of the ordinary third-floor room and transported them to somewhere new, different, and amazing.

She could be herself here.

But . . . now
he
was here. In her private sanctuary.

She wanted to curl in on herself. It was as if he had tripped his way into this inner sanctum with no thought to how vulnerable it made her—and she was not speaking of her reputation. No . . . it exposed
her
. The inside of this room was like the inside of her mind. And he was an intruder.

But was he an unwelcome one?

“Did you do this?” His eyes still on the picture of the night sky through trees.

“Yes,” she replied defensively.

“The Widcoates have a painting master under their roof.”

“They don’t know. No one does,” Phoebe admitted. “No one comes up here.”

“Not even servants?”

She tried to think of a judicious way to explain. “Lady Widcoate—can be short with the maids. The staff often changes from one month to the next. To make their lives easier, I carry up firewood and wash water myself. I would wager half of them think I live in the nursery.”

“I am amazed you have survived the Widcoates this long,” he mumbled, likely not thinking that he could be heard.

“Luckily, my purview is the children’s education. Indeed, I can go days, sometimes weeks, without seeing my employers.” To his unasked question, she supplied, “The Questionings are more frequent when there are visitors to be impressed.”

He nodded in understanding and, drawn like a moth to the proverbial flame, went back to examining the paintings.

And she had little to do but examine him.

He had barged his way in here—although, at the moment, she could not feel that was the right word. Followed where he should not have? As inappropriate as it was to have him in her rooms, he was not
acting
as if he was going to ravage her.

Indeed, the way he crouched in the small space, peering close at the wall, was almost comical.

He was a man of height. He made the painted forest and town and rivers recede into the background, an imposing figure that took up all the space in the little room. For a hundred different reasons, Phoebe knew she should be feeling wary of him.

And yet . . . she didn’t.

“You are remarkably talented.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

“No modesty?” he asked, his head coming up.

“None false,” Phoebe remarked dryly.

His mouth quirked up into that half smile—which sent a flutter through her insides to match the flickering candlelight.

Oh, dear. Perhaps she did have cause to be wary.

“I, ah . . . I studied art in my youth, and had a talent for it.”

“I would imagine it is a good skill for a governess to have,” he remarked, now letting his attention rove over the rest of the room. “What is this one?”

“Oh. That.” She blushed. “It’s a ship.”

“I can tell,” he observed. “It is rendered quite fine. But I know of very few lady painters interested in nautical art. Especially those landlocked in Leicestershire.”

“Well . . .” she offered, feeling bolder than she should. “It is a special ship.”

“The—” He peered at the name on the transom. “
Blooming Daisy
? How so?”

“It is the ship that is going to take me to America. I will not be landlocked forever.”

His head and eyebrow came up in swift succession.

“I have some cousins there—on my father’s side. In Connecticut. In two years’ time, Rose will be sent off to school and Henry will be given over to tutors. And I will have saved up enough money to travel.”

She looked at him for some reaction to her revelation that the governess had aspirations for a life beyond her charges. It was not in her nature to simply tell people about her dreams, her goals. After all, they had been dashed before, and she’d felt people’s pity and disdain in equal measure. She had closed herself off, long ago. But there was something about Mr. Turner, standing in the middle of her room, of her world, that made her feel like talking.

But he simply nodded and said, “I see.” Then, “May I?” He gestured to her desk chair. She waved a hand, allowing him to seat himself.

“Er, your penknife, Miss Baker?” He held out his hand. Oh, right. The tart.

She handed him the knife and took a seat in her other chair, the soft one that she had also rescued from the attic—where she did most of her reading.

“You have a very comfortable room here,” he said as he cut into the tart, releasing a delicious tangy aroma of blackberries and summer. “More comfortable, I daresay, than the rest of the house.”

She could not help but smile at that. “Oh, I can forgive Lady Widcoate her enthusiasm for ornate decoration. Why, without it, I would not have any of the furniture in this room.”

“How do you mean?” He finished cutting the tart and gestured for her to join him at the small desk. She did, scooting her soft chair forward to be within arm’s reach.

“Nothing,” she replied. It was one thing to commiserate and share a tart with a man, but she should not speak ill of her employers. “Lady Widcoate is not all bad.”

“You are the one who warned me to watch out for her today.” He handed the penknife back to her. “There are no forks, so, by all means, you go first.”

She moved the plate closer to her and picked up her half of the tart, taking the smallest of bites.

It was
delicious
.

She made a small, throaty sound, a sigh of appreciation. Her eyes closed, and she let the blackberry juices fill the inside of her mouth, savoring.

When she opened her eyes, Mr. Turner was giving her the most curious look, his own mouth hanging open.

And he didn’t stop staring.

A self-conscious hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, did I . . . am I a mess?” she asked.

“No!” he cried. “Not at all,” he remarked with a smile, one so wide it reminded Phoebe of a few short hours ago, when he had thought he had something stuck in his teeth. “I am pleased to see you enjoying the tart. It really must be exceptional.”

She dropped her hand, relieved. “I missed my supper. And I am not often given treats.”

“Given treats?” He blinked several times. “They don’t feed you?”

“Of course they feed me,” she replied hastily. Not as much as the family, of course, but she was fed sufficiently. Over the past five years of being a governess, she had become used to making do with less. Although her
previous family in Portsmouth had been much more generous than Lady Widcoate.

Still, when she was young, she used to have weight to her body. Substance. Now she was reedy—like everyone expected a governess to be.

“I simply do not often have sweets,” she elaborated. “Only on special occasions.”

“Then by all means, have more.” He nudged the plate toward her and watched as she took another bite, more full this time, more of the sweetness and the crust and the ripe fullness of the summer blackberries bursting in her mouth.

She could feel her cheeks pinking under his gaze. Which, in the light of two candles, was warm and intense.

It sent another strange thrill down her spine.

Perhaps too intense.

“There is a dictum that states that two people sharing a blackberry tart should be at least able to hold a conversation,” she said, after swallowing. Having him in here would be a great deal more comfortable if he was talking. Instead of just . . . staring.

“I suppose that’s a fair—if overly specific—rule of tart consumption,” he agreed. “So, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“Me?” she replied, a flight of panic going through her breast. “Why . . . why would you want to know anything about me?”

After all, he already knew more about her than she would wish.

“You told me you went to Mrs. Beveridge’s School. What was that like?”

Was
he fishing for something? Oh, dear—was he here under orders from the earl?

No—no, she squashed that fear down. No one thought of her. Least of all the Earl of Ashby. While at one time in her life she would have raged against him, and written scathing letters, now she only wanted to remain anonymous, unnoticed. Her anger had been so useless.

But the fact that the earl’s existence still irked her, that his presence here could upset her to the point of paranoia . . . that was what was truly upsetting her.

Ned must have seen something in her reaction to his inquiry, in the space she took to answer, because before she could, he waved a hand, dismissing it entirely. “You’re right, who wants to talk about school?”

“No,” she offered, trying to sound unconcerned. “It was fine.” She took another bite.

“Were you . . . forgive me, were you a charity student? You must have been exceptionally clever, if that’s the case. Mrs. Beveridge’s is a very competitive environment. Er . . . so I hear.”

“You are familiar with girls’ schools?” she asked him warily.

“Not through any diligence.” He smiled at her, but offered no more explanation.

“I was not a charity student. My circumstances changed when my father died, and I left Beveridge’s shortly thereafter.”

“I am sorry,” he said automatically. “For the loss of your father, I mean. Not that you had to leave school. Although I expect that wasn’t a good day either.”

“No.” She took another mouthful of tart. “It wasn’t.
But Mrs. Beveridge’s was never very keen on charity. Or cleverness, for that matter.” No, the school thrived on status.

“What happened to your father?” he asked suddenly.

Maybe he
was
fishing for something.

“He drowned,” was all she was willing to offer.

“Ah.” Silence reigned for a few moments.

He looked away from her then, his voice someplace very far away. “My father died when I was very young. I don’t even remember him.”

Her heart, practical as it was, could not help but go out to him. After all, at least she had the memories of her father. His lessons. The good times. There was a bright side—macabre as it may seem.

But Mr. Turner was not sad for long. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of droplets of sorrow, letting them fly off and dry up. Then he looked up at her with that full smile that she had at first thought might be overly toothy but was beginning to grow on her.

“But a night with a blackberry tart is not one for pitiful ruminations! Let’s talk about something more jolly!”

“All right,” she allowed. “What do you have?”

“What do I have?”

“In your boundless reserves of jollity? I find it very useful to call upon something fun or fanciful to make yourself smile when you need to.” She hesitated a moment. “It’s my own form of rebellion.”

He shook his head, still not understanding. Thus, she explained, “I have found that people expect a governess to be stern and miserable. So, secretly, I refuse.”

It had been that philosophy that had ultimately saved
her sanity five years ago. And given her the temerity to plan for America. Her old teacher Miss Earhart had been right about that. She would find joy again, if not in the same places as before. She had managed to piece herself back together.

But Mr. Turner was looking at her queerly, so she cleared her throat.

“So—I always remember to enjoy the little things. Like . . . what was the silliest thing that happened to you yesterday?”

He put his chin in his hand, rubbing thoughtfully.

“I took a bath in water so dirty, it might as well have been piss.”

She nearly choked on a bite of tart.

“No, it was!” he continued. “I was the last one to use it—after your charges, mind—and I have no doubt that the scampering fleas and ticks that survived their drowning from the other bodies they came off of have now found a new house somewhere on my person.” He gave a little shiver. “I want to bathe again just thinking about it.”

She shook her head, trying to ward off the bark of laughter that threatened to escape. “I take it you are not used to such practices? You are a well-pampered secretary, then.”

He shrugged, and she could tell he blushed a little in the light. “My time in the army was different, but since then I have lived alone. And enjoyed my bathwater to be mine. But I have discovered that the pond is suitable for my bathing needs from here on out.”