“I think the weather will hold now the snow has stopped—don’t you?”
Mr. Thornfield chuckled. He wore a swallowtail coat and a thick rust-coloured cravat—which I thought hardly fair, since my best governess disguise was a drab thing of dove-grey satin striped with a cream pattern and topped with a high lace collar, and it is beastly to be seated across from a bluntly handsome fellow when one looks about as captivating as gravel. Had we been in London, and I my nefarious self, I would have found a secondhand dress of rose silk and filled my hair with tiny yellow tea roses.
“Though of course, your estate is charming covered in white—it looks like a fairyland.”
When again Mr. Thornfield said nothing, I smiled, my heart shivering in my chest; was he wary, even angry? He returned the amiable look, however, and I reached for a second helping of the blistered bread Mr. Singh had left.
“I imagined that you would be more talkative since you seemed eager to speak with me, sir.”
“Good Lord, no—that would be dreadful strategy.” Mr. Thornfield poured me more claret. “I’ve a knack for silence. I’ll remain quite closemouthed and simply await developments.”
“May I ask why?”
“Well, I’ve two topics on my mind—but if you truly would rather pretend all governesses carry knives, then I admit England would be the livelier for it. And if you won’t mention the fact that priggish Company executives aren’t often driven out of breakfast rooms with the same weapon, then I choose the topic of soup over snow.”
I wished that I could have been Jane Steele and laughed, and flirted; since I was Jane Stone, however, I chose my words with care. “I cannot explain the latter, but I will certainly explain why I carry a knife.”
Charles Thornfield’s sun-burnished face gave me the sly look of encouragement I have seen many rogues attempt, all having failed miserably by comparison.
I sat forward. “Mr. Thornfield, I am here under false pretences.”
The master of the house angled his bullish chin at me and took a generous sip of wine.
Lies, honest reader, are organic—they can shift from outright falsehoods into half-truths and even truths, generally when you like the person to whom you are lying, in the way wormlike creatures become butterflies out of sudden inspiration. I was inspired on that evening by knives and tiny paintings and the fond glances Sahjara and Mr. Thornfield and Mr. Singh all cast at one another.
“To boot, I am probably not fit to be a governess.”
Mr. Thornfield snorted sceptically.
“My initial letter to you was correct in every salient particular, of course—I attended a school called Lowan Bridge.” My heart beat a hornet’s-wing tattoo. “But I did not mention that, when I was young, I was accosted in an ungentlemanly manner by my cousin. I think his presumptuousness and later our headmaster’s cruelty may have endowed me with a certain fear of men. I go armed due to these experiences. I have been called many things, Mr. Thornfield—pigheaded, wayward, brazen—and yet, no one feels the grievousness of my shortcomings more keenly than I.” Unexpectedly raw-voiced, I stopped.
It was hardly a thorough confession; it was a gift, however, a small piece of my saga. If gaining his regard meant I turned over my entire history, I could never oblige the gentleman—but I could proffer a biography with neither shadows nor colours, a vague outline of the person I wanted him to know but did not dare to reveal. Should I expose all, he would surely hate me, and then where would I find myself?
If Mr. Thornfield was mortified, I never saw it; instead, he shifted with a thoughtful finger edging his temple.
“You’ll want to know about the swearing as well?” I asked timidly.
Mr. Thornfield laughed—the laugh of a soldier who has brushed the sands of the Sutlej from his trousers, told jokes which should have made any woman blush. “Of course I want to know about the swearing—it was damned expertly done.”
My pulse tingled in the tips of my fingers. “When I left school, I went to London because I’d no family who would take me. Have you any experience with distant relations yourself, Mr. Thornfield?” I added slyly, gesturing at our surroundings.
“This place was empty when we took possession, and we should not be here had it been otherwise, Miss Stone.” He shrugged, watching his wine swirl gently. “At the risk of sounding a deuced ingrate, it was a stroke of luck not to have made their acquaintance, if y’ follow.”
“Of course,” I hastened to assure him, fearful of pressing. “I quite understand and meant only that penury requires one to live among coarse people, which is the other reason I carry a knife, and the reason I have an atrocious vocabulary—if you worry that I might endanger your ward, Mr. Thornfield, having already endangered your person, I cannot blame you; but I can admit I am not a typical governess and hope that my present candour brings you some mollification.”