her, but hardly inclined to welcome her into their group. And she was too far beneath Lord Stokehurst and his highborn guests, socially speaking, to merit their attention. She existed in an in-between world.
Not only was Tasia's position isolated, but she was unable to let down her extreme reserve with anyone except Emma. Perhaps spending three months in prison had given her this sense of being an outcast, of being separate from everyone. It was impossible for her to trust anyone, when she couldn't even trust herself. She was afraid of her own feelings, and most of all she was afraid to remember what she had done the night of Mikhail Angelovsky's death.
She experienced frequent nightmares about Mikhail, in which she had visions of blood and knives, and her ears rang with his taunting voice. Worse, there were odd moments in the day when she would have frightening flashes of memory. In the space of a second, she would see Mikhail's face, his hands, a glimpse of the room where he was killed…and then with a hard blink, she would make the vision vanish. It made her as nervous as a cat, never knowing when something would trigger another image of her dead cousin.
Thank God for Emma, who was eager for all her time and attention. It was good to have someone to think about besides herself, someone whose problems and needs were more immediate than her own. The child was extremely isolated. Tasia felt that Emma needed the companionship of other girls, but there were no local landowners with children of a similar age.
Tasia and Emma spent six hours a day on lessons, everything from the theories of Homer to the proper use of a nail brush. Daily prayers were not overlooked, for Emma's faith had been learned in a scattered fashion from her father and the servants. Emma soaked up the varied curriculum with surprising quickness. She had an intuitive understanding of language, and a perceptiveness that surprised Tasia. There was little that escaped Emma. She had a boundless curiosity that drove her to investigate everyone and everything around her. Each bit of gossip on the estate was carefully ferreted out to be pondered and analyzed.
It was all Emma knew of the world, the circle of eighty people who spent their lives working like the parts of a great clock to keep the estate running. Forty were indoor servants, while the rest were employed in the stables, gardens, and mill house. Two were hired full-time just to clean windows. Most of the servants had been employed by the Stokehursts for years, and they rarely left. As Mrs. Plunkett had told Tasia, the staff at Southgate Hall was treated well. Even if they hadn't been, it would be difficult to find a new position. Work was scarce, and life very uncertain.
“Something's wrong with Nan,” Emma told Tasia one day. They were sitting in the garden with a pile of books, drinking tall goblets of lemonade. “Have you noticed how strange she looks lately? Mrs. Knaggs says it's only that Nan has a touch of spring sickness, but I don't believe that. I think she's in love with Johnny.”
“Who is Johnny?”
“One of the footmen. The tall one with the crooked nose. Every time she sees him, Nan sneaks off to a corner with him. Sometimes they talk and kiss, but most of the time she cries. I hope I never fall in love. No one ever seems happy when they're in love.”
“Emma you mustn't spy on the servants. Everyone is entitled to their privacy.”
“I don't spy,” Emma said indignantly. “I just can't help noticing things. Anyway, you shouldn't defend Nan. Everyone knows she's horrid to you. She's the one who took that Mary picture from your room.”
“Icon,” Tasia murmured, her expression shuttered. “And there's no proof that she did it.”
A few days before, Tasia had discovered that her treasured icon was missing. She was miserable over the loss. The icon had no value other than the sentiment she attached to it. It was part of her past. Whoever had taken it couldn't know how
Not only was Tasia's position isolated, but she was unable to let down her extreme reserve with anyone except Emma. Perhaps spending three months in prison had given her this sense of being an outcast, of being separate from everyone. It was impossible for her to trust anyone, when she couldn't even trust herself. She was afraid of her own feelings, and most of all she was afraid to remember what she had done the night of Mikhail Angelovsky's death.
She experienced frequent nightmares about Mikhail, in which she had visions of blood and knives, and her ears rang with his taunting voice. Worse, there were odd moments in the day when she would have frightening flashes of memory. In the space of a second, she would see Mikhail's face, his hands, a glimpse of the room where he was killed…and then with a hard blink, she would make the vision vanish. It made her as nervous as a cat, never knowing when something would trigger another image of her dead cousin.
Thank God for Emma, who was eager for all her time and attention. It was good to have someone to think about besides herself, someone whose problems and needs were more immediate than her own. The child was extremely isolated. Tasia felt that Emma needed the companionship of other girls, but there were no local landowners with children of a similar age.
Tasia and Emma spent six hours a day on lessons, everything from the theories of Homer to the proper use of a nail brush. Daily prayers were not overlooked, for Emma's faith had been learned in a scattered fashion from her father and the servants. Emma soaked up the varied curriculum with surprising quickness. She had an intuitive understanding of language, and a perceptiveness that surprised Tasia. There was little that escaped Emma. She had a boundless curiosity that drove her to investigate everyone and everything around her. Each bit of gossip on the estate was carefully ferreted out to be pondered and analyzed.
It was all Emma knew of the world, the circle of eighty people who spent their lives working like the parts of a great clock to keep the estate running. Forty were indoor servants, while the rest were employed in the stables, gardens, and mill house. Two were hired full-time just to clean windows. Most of the servants had been employed by the Stokehursts for years, and they rarely left. As Mrs. Plunkett had told Tasia, the staff at Southgate Hall was treated well. Even if they hadn't been, it would be difficult to find a new position. Work was scarce, and life very uncertain.
“Something's wrong with Nan,” Emma told Tasia one day. They were sitting in the garden with a pile of books, drinking tall goblets of lemonade. “Have you noticed how strange she looks lately? Mrs. Knaggs says it's only that Nan has a touch of spring sickness, but I don't believe that. I think she's in love with Johnny.”
“Who is Johnny?”
“One of the footmen. The tall one with the crooked nose. Every time she sees him, Nan sneaks off to a corner with him. Sometimes they talk and kiss, but most of the time she cries. I hope I never fall in love. No one ever seems happy when they're in love.”
“Emma you mustn't spy on the servants. Everyone is entitled to their privacy.”
“I don't spy,” Emma said indignantly. “I just can't help noticing things. Anyway, you shouldn't defend Nan. Everyone knows she's horrid to you. She's the one who took that Mary picture from your room.”
“Icon,” Tasia murmured, her expression shuttered. “And there's no proof that she did it.”
A few days before, Tasia had discovered that her treasured icon was missing. She was miserable over the loss. The icon had no value other than the sentiment she attached to it. It was part of her past. Whoever had taken it couldn't know how
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