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Authors: Erica Ridley
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find humor in his attempt to conceal what was clearly an unprecedented moment of utter bafflement, Violet’s insides once again gave a sharp turn.
She had won the skirmish with her young charge, but in doing so, had she drawn battle lines with her employer? The unfeigned astonishment in his face indicated he’d been aching to hear those words, but the immense relief in his eyes could not disguise the flicker of hurt to discover that a mere governess had gained more headway in one hour than he had in years.
Violet’s stomach chose that moment to growl its complaint.
“It is late. Of course you are starved,” he said, once again sounding perilously close to compassionate. “I should have seen you fed first. And Lillian, you shall have art supplies as soon as you master the alphabet. When you can do sums, I shall consider the pianoforte.” He narrowed his eyes at his daughter as if he still couldn’t quite fathom why his world was so off-kilter. “I will take Miss Smythe to the library in the morning so that she may select a few volumes for tomorrow’s lessons. For now, I owe her a meal and an opportunity to rest. Please bid her goodnight.”
Lillian grinned triumphantly. “Good night, Miss Smythe.”
“Good night, Miss Waldegrave,” Violet returned, as pleased to have been addressed directly as she was horrified that the child hadn’t taken her leave from her father as well. If he did not already regret hiring a governess, by now he would be well on his way to resenting her. She couldn’t help but glance up at him, but his face was unreadable. “We’ll begin tomorrow?”
He nodded his agreement before sending a last longing gaze at his child. “Good night, daughter. Sweet dreams.”
The resulting silence was thick enough to suffocate them all.
Without wasting another word, Mr. Waldegrave fairly swept Violet into the tunnel. The door latched and locked in quick succession. Holding his candle aloft, he strode past Violet and into the gloom.
More grateful than ever for the flickering taper clutched between her hands, she followed him into the darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
Violet sank into a chair at one end of a long, elegant dining table. She felt shabbier by the second. Although Waldegrave Abbey had stood for centuries—and the silver serving dishes presumably handed down for just as long—every utensil was so shiny, every porcelain bowl so fragile, that she could not even bring herself to lift a hand to the table linen for fear of marring the silk with her mere touch.
Having the handsome Mr. Waldegrave seated across from her did little to calm her nerves. How could it? Nothing in her past had prepared her for a situation such as this.
First, he hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Lillian’s chamber. As a father who by all signs was devoted to the wellbeing of his child, his daughter’s quick acceptance of a governess had to be both gratifying and galling.
Second—and far more unsettling than anything her employer might be thinking—were the confusing thoughts in her own head. From childhood, she had quickly learned to trust no man. All they brought was pain . . . and worse. The first and only man who had ever treated her like a real person, like a fellow human with thoughts and feelings and dreams of her own, was Old Man Livingstone. For that, Violet had loved him like . . . like a grandfather, she supposed. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to family.
Mr. Waldegrave, on the other hand, was no aging philanthropist seeking to provide the public with the use of a country manor. He was young. Handsome. A gentleman. Finely boned and finely tailored, even if he appeared plucked from a portrait of yesteryear. He was intelligent. Loving. Determined. And from the first, he had treated Violet with respect.
Was that the source of her discomfort? That she mistrusted his polite behavior and expected him to become a violent, lecherous monster at any moment, thus proving himself to be
She had won the skirmish with her young charge, but in doing so, had she drawn battle lines with her employer? The unfeigned astonishment in his face indicated he’d been aching to hear those words, but the immense relief in his eyes could not disguise the flicker of hurt to discover that a mere governess had gained more headway in one hour than he had in years.
Violet’s stomach chose that moment to growl its complaint.
“It is late. Of course you are starved,” he said, once again sounding perilously close to compassionate. “I should have seen you fed first. And Lillian, you shall have art supplies as soon as you master the alphabet. When you can do sums, I shall consider the pianoforte.” He narrowed his eyes at his daughter as if he still couldn’t quite fathom why his world was so off-kilter. “I will take Miss Smythe to the library in the morning so that she may select a few volumes for tomorrow’s lessons. For now, I owe her a meal and an opportunity to rest. Please bid her goodnight.”
Lillian grinned triumphantly. “Good night, Miss Smythe.”
“Good night, Miss Waldegrave,” Violet returned, as pleased to have been addressed directly as she was horrified that the child hadn’t taken her leave from her father as well. If he did not already regret hiring a governess, by now he would be well on his way to resenting her. She couldn’t help but glance up at him, but his face was unreadable. “We’ll begin tomorrow?”
He nodded his agreement before sending a last longing gaze at his child. “Good night, daughter. Sweet dreams.”
The resulting silence was thick enough to suffocate them all.
Without wasting another word, Mr. Waldegrave fairly swept Violet into the tunnel. The door latched and locked in quick succession. Holding his candle aloft, he strode past Violet and into the gloom.
More grateful than ever for the flickering taper clutched between her hands, she followed him into the darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
Violet sank into a chair at one end of a long, elegant dining table. She felt shabbier by the second. Although Waldegrave Abbey had stood for centuries—and the silver serving dishes presumably handed down for just as long—every utensil was so shiny, every porcelain bowl so fragile, that she could not even bring herself to lift a hand to the table linen for fear of marring the silk with her mere touch.
Having the handsome Mr. Waldegrave seated across from her did little to calm her nerves. How could it? Nothing in her past had prepared her for a situation such as this.
First, he hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Lillian’s chamber. As a father who by all signs was devoted to the wellbeing of his child, his daughter’s quick acceptance of a governess had to be both gratifying and galling.
Second—and far more unsettling than anything her employer might be thinking—were the confusing thoughts in her own head. From childhood, she had quickly learned to trust no man. All they brought was pain . . . and worse. The first and only man who had ever treated her like a real person, like a fellow human with thoughts and feelings and dreams of her own, was Old Man Livingstone. For that, Violet had loved him like . . . like a grandfather, she supposed. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to family.
Mr. Waldegrave, on the other hand, was no aging philanthropist seeking to provide the public with the use of a country manor. He was young. Handsome. A gentleman. Finely boned and finely tailored, even if he appeared plucked from a portrait of yesteryear. He was intelligent. Loving. Determined. And from the first, he had treated Violet with respect.
Was that the source of her discomfort? That she mistrusted his polite behavior and expected him to become a violent, lecherous monster at any moment, thus proving himself to be
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