At the foot of the elegant, red-carpeted staircase stood a small woman of about fifty. Her hair was pale as milk and neatly drawn back, and her skin so clear and white that Maggie gave a quick start.
“I am Mrs Thornton,” she said crisply, her pale grey eyes assessing. “We had hoped to introduce you at once to your charge, but you have arrived later than expected. Do you require rest or refreshment first?”
Maggie longed for both—a meal, a cup of tea, anything warm. Yet better to see it through.
Make a good impression, she reminded herself, and smiled.
“I should be delighted to meet Miss Hartwell,” she said brightly. “She sounds the sweetest child in the world, from your letters.”
“You may call her Miss Emma. She will be Miss Hartwell when she is grown, but for now, she is but seven. Follow me.”
Mrs Thornton turned to ascend, then paused. “I shall order tea—and perhaps cake—in the nursery. You must be hungry after such a journey.”
Maggie merely inclined her head, relief softening her fatigue, and followed.
The house was just as she had imagined—stately, echoing, faintly unfriendly. Mrs Thornton seemed kind enough, but Maggie would not relax yet. No doubt the little girl would be spoiled, the servants proud, and the duke—her guardian—mercifully distant.
“The nursery is on the third floor,” Mrs Thornton announced. “Miss Emma has a nursemaid, a local girl, Jenny Miller. You may find her of use—she is well educated and a great reader.”
“A nursemaid? A great reader?” Maggie repeated before she could stop herself.
Mrs Thornton cast her a sidelong look. “Voraciously so,” she said, with the faintest curve of amusement. Maggie sensed she had blundered.
She was grateful, then, for her choice of attire—her best remaining gown, a pale green muslin trimmed with modest lace. Her finer silks and jewels had long since been sold, but this, at least, gave her an air of neat respectability.
At last they reached the top. Mrs Thornton swept down a corridor muffled with carpet, and Maggie hurried after her.
“The nursery is here, and Miss Emma’s bedchamber adjoining. The schoolroom lies beyond.”
“I see. Am I to meet the duke afterwards?”
Mrs Thornton halted so abruptly that Maggie nearly collided with her.
“His Grace,” she said slowly, “is a fine employer. Like many great men, he has his eccentricities. He keeps odd hours and is not to be disturbed unnecessarily. Your charge, Miss Winters, isMiss Emma’s education and welfare—and, of course, your own health. None of us here may overstep our remit, not even the duke himself. You will bring any concerns to me, or to Crawford. It is best if His Grace is left alone.”
Exactly as Maggie had suspected. Mrs Thornton’s letters had made clear that the duke was not the child’s father but her uncle and guardian. His reputation in London had been formidable; it was no surprise that he wished to fulfil his obligations without personal inconvenience.
“I understand perfectly,” Maggie said, and Mrs Thornton’s shoulders eased.
“Well, we should go in, then.”
The nursery was a spacious, wedge-shaped room that faced the sun. The walls were painted in cheerful hues, lined with shelves and toyboxes, little chairs and books—a paradise for any child. A narrow bed was piled with cushions, and a table in the corner bore traces of recent use.
The abundance of toys took Maggie aback; she had never seen so many. Her own childhood had held but a few rag dolls and wooden animals.
Two figures occupied the room. One, clearly Jenny Miller, rose as they entered—tall, fair-haired, and bright-eyed. But Maggie’s attention was instantly claimed by the small girl at the easel.
Miss Emma Hartwell sat intent upon a painting—a garden scene, half finished, yet remarkably good. She was small and slight for seven, with enormous dark eyes and prominent front teeth that lent her an air of solemn charm.
“Miss Emma,” said Mrs Thornton, “this is Miss Winters, your new governess.”
For a moment, silence. Then Maggie, trusting her instinct, knelt beside the child and smiled.
“I am very glad to meet you,” she said warmly. “I hope we shall be friends. What a lovely painting this is! Have you copied it for a print?”
“She never does,” Jenny interjected. “All her drawings come from her own fancy.”
Maggie looked again, impressed. “How clever!”
