For she would not return to her father’s house. She straightened her back a smidgen more.
At last he held up the liquor decanter in his hand, venturing, “Gin?”
“No, thank you,” she responded, taken slightly aback.
“Ah, you don’t partake?” he added with a little cough, replacing the stopper and turning back to browse the drinks cabinet some more. “A Methodist?”
“Er, no sir.” Susanna blinked, wondering what her parents might say tothat.
“A teetotaler, then?”
Her last two interviews for a position had not started off nearly so oddly, and for a moment she wondered if those had been the anomalies, rather than this one. The wealthy did have their strange habits and predilections, after all. Although the Pritchards had appeared as nothing more than a normal, albeit comfortable, family, and the de Vauvilles, well… she bit her lip at the thought of her current employer, then dipped her head and stared down at her hands, which were folded primly in her lap.
“No, it’s not that,” she started, then paused before deciding against further explanation, leaving her words to hang uncomfortably between them, uncoupled from the rest of the thought. She took a steadying breath. This wasn’t going well.
Mr. Sedley sighed and turned back around to face her, swirling a highball of some amber colored liquid. He stared at his drink rather than her. Pointedly not looking at her, in fact. “I beg your pardon, I’m not…” He reached up, fiercely rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. “I’m a bit out of sorts at the moment. My niece, Miss Sedley—I do believe she told me your name but, ah…” He chuckled and looked at her, smiling now. A sheepish, pleasant enough smile. “I do believe I’ve forgotten, if you’d be so kind as to illuminate me?”
“Miss Abbotts, sir,” Susanna stuttered, disarmed by the sudden change in his demeanor.
When she’d first been ushered into the study, she had immediately felt small and out of place. The space exuded a harsh standoffishness, to the extent that a room could. Done up in arresting hues of red and gold, its decor comprised a clash of wildly disparate objects; in one corner alone, a sizable brass urn spilled over with peacock feathers, sitting next to a massive black walnut sideboard carved with hunting hounds in pursuit of game, and above that hung the icon of some gilded medieval saint, the figure boxy and clutching what appeared to be a club. She glanced away from it hurriedly, slightly embarrassedat her inability to recognize it. And from every other possible space on the walls hung framed sketches with no discernable commonality—some were in ink, some in charcoal, some of buildings, some of nudes.
And the study’s occupant—the tall, lanky creature now grinning at her as if she were the drollest person in the world—had at first appeared nothing more than your average decent-looking, aloof, middle-aged man. She’d marked his dark hair, graying at the temples, and his neat mustache along with the furrows on his brow. But he hadn’t struck her as anyone but the man holding the keys to her escape, the deciding factor in whether her tenuous self-sufficiency would continue.
But now? Now he was positively charming. Now she noticed the piercing blue of his eyes, saw the way they danced with a more youthful humor. Now he seemed… much more masculine, in a way. The thought unsettled her. She eyed him warily as he lazily lowered himself into the puce velvet chair across the desk from her, the liquid in his glass sloshing precariously close to the rim.
“Tell me about yourself, Miss Abbott. Who am I to be bringing into my home?” He lifted his eyebrows as he took a sip.
“It’s Abbotts, actually.”
He made a guttural sound and waved his hand, motioning for her to continue.
How strange. The man had yet to say a single word about her prospective charge, who she knew to be his daughter, Charlotte Sedley, aged fifteen. Perhaps this was just his way.
“My family lives in Dorset,” she said, wishing she possessed enough cheek to lie. But she would never. The excruciatingly dull truth was all Susanna was capable of offering. Remembering that she must attain this position, she attempted to hold herself in a stoic, dignified fashion. And prayed that she came across as such.
“And?”
She blinked. “And what, sir?”
Mr. Sedley laughed, setting his glass down. “That is hardly sufficient. Why, I know more about the matchstick boy several streets away.” Once more he smiled that warm, intimate grin. “Jeb. Likes to whistle.”
She took a deep breath. “My father’s a parson in Deverill Green—” she started, only to be interrupted by Mr. Sedley once more.
“Ah, so the parson’s an Abbott?” His lips quirked to the side in a half-smile.
“Er, Abbotts, sir.”
“Right, right. If I hire you, shall we change your surname to Teach, then?” He leaned back in his chair, considering the notion with a hand on his chin. “Like Blackbeard.” His blue eyes sparkled, and he looked back at her, considering. “Or perhaps Read would be more fitting?”
“I—I’m sorry?”
“Which is more fitting, Read or Teach?” His tone then lowered along with his gaze. “Or perhaps your talents lie outside of the position thrust upon you.” Something about the way he spoke made her wonder if he was still referring to her.
Susanna suddenly felt she was playing a game in which no one had been kind enough to inform her of the rules. It was not a new feeling; in fact, it had become a common occurrence since she’d first arrived in London a year ago for her new position as Lady Matilda de Vauville’s governess. But it was unwelcome all the same. People here spoke in riddles, knew all the rules, all the secrets. Her whole life, she’d thought everything worth knowing was contained in books, and that a well-stocked library could provide all the learning anyone could hope for. And indeed, there were scores of books regarding the practice of all levels of etiquette, several of which she had read as she adjusted to lifein the employ of the aristocracy. But even so, Susanna found herself one apart, her plain gold cross her only adornment, her words carrying no meaning beyond what the dictionary said they did. It had become bothersome, though she refused to feel shame for it. Earnestness was all she knew. She dared not even attempt to walk that delicate tightrope between charm and impropriety, for she would undoubtedly fall. Shehadfallen, quite disastrously in fact, which was why she was here, with Ajax Sedley her only remaining option.
She decided to press on. “Nothing has been thrust upon me, sir,” she said, coloring slightly with her lashes fluttering, as if “thrust” were an indecent word. “When I turned nineteen I took my first position with Mr. Alfred Pritchard and his wife in Somerset. I instructed their two daughters in French, music, literature, and mathematics until they were of age. I have a written recommendation from Mrs. Pritchard, if you wish to see.” She procured a folded letter from her pocket and held it out.
Mr. Sedley waved it off, then leaned back in his chair. He studied her, hand still against his chin, one long finger tapping at his cheek. The silence stretched out a moment too long.
