“Would you like a drink, Miss Prim? I usually have one around this time. How about a glass of port?”
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t drink.”
“Do you mind if I have one?”
“Absolutely not, you’re in your own home.”
He turned and looked at her inquiringly, trying to gauge if there was sarcasm behind her words. Then he took a sip of his drink and set the glass directly on the tabletop, prompting an involuntary, barely perceptible expression of reproof to pass across her usually serene face.
“The truth is, I have rather particular views on formal education. But if you do decide to stay and work here, all you need to know is that I’m schooling my nephews and nieces myself because I’m determined they should have the best education possible. I don’t have the romantic reasons you attribute to me, Miss Prim. I’m not wounded, I’m not depressed, I wouldn’t even say I feel lonely. My only aim is that the children should one day become all that modern schooling is incapable of producing.”
“Producing?”
“That’s the apposite word, in my opinion,” he replied, a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
She said nothing. Was this house really the right place for a woman like her? She couldn’t say that the man was unpleasant. He wasn’t rude, or insulting, nor was there any sign of the lingering gaze she’d had to endure for years from her previous employer; but there was no delicacy in the way he spoke to the children, or sensitivity in the frank, if courteous, tone with which he addressed her. Miss Prim had to admit that in her heart a little resentment persisted over the clumsy insinuation about her motives only half an hour earlier. But there was something else: a troubling, hidden energy in his face, something indefinable that evoked hunting trophies, ancient battles, and heroic deeds.
“So, your mind is made up to leave?” he asked, drawing her abruptly from her thoughts.
“No, it isn’t. I wanted an explanation and I got one. I can’t say I share your gloomy view of the education system, but I understand your fear that the brutality of the modern world might crush the children’s spirits. If I could, however, speak candidly...”
“Please, go ahead.”
“Your approach seems a little extreme, but I believe you’re guided by your convictions and that’s more than enough for me.”
“So you think I’m going too far?”
“Yes, I do.”
The man went to the shelves and ran his hand over several books before stopping at a thick, ancient leather-bound volume and carefully withdrawing it.
“Do you know what this is?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“De Trinitate.”
“St. Augustine?”
“I see you live up to your CV. Or do you perhaps have some, shall we say, spiritual concerns?”
Feeling awkward, she began playing with the amethyst ring on her right hand.
“That’s a private matter, so if you wouldn’t mind I’d rather not answer. I consider I have the right not to.”
“A private matter,” he repeated quietly, staring at the book. “Of course, you’re right. Again, I apologize.”
Miss Prim bit her lip before adding: “I hope there’ll be no problem concerning my personal beliefs, because if there is it seems to me that for both our sakes you should tell me now.”
“Absolutely none. You haven’t been hired to give lessons in theology.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“I’m sure you are,” he said with a smile.
There was a lengthy silence in the room, broken only by the distant laughter of children in the garden.
“I have to say I was very surprised that the children are named after numbers,” she said at last, in an attempt to navigate into less controversial waters.
