Irritation has my jaw clenching. If he wanted me on my knees, he could have just said the word. And maybe that’s what I find most frightening. Clearing my throat, I adjust my neckline, pull back my shoulders, and arrange my legs to their best advantage.
But he keeps writing.
Silence stretches, along with my last nerves. He remains so preoccupied with his work that my skin prickles. I fidget on the uncomfortable seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs. My molars grind. If he was so busy, why did he summon me to his office? Was it because I chased after that groundskeeper? Or snooped around the cottage? Or ventured back to the cliff? It can’t be because I tried talking to that little girl. He would have said something earlier.
“Mr. Rochester?—”
“One moment,” he says.
I force back a huff, hating myself for speaking first. This time, I wait as if I don’t give a damn. The man sitting in front of me is completely different from the one who told me to make myself at home.
Minutes pass, and I clench my fists to stop my fingers from drumming with impatience. Finally, without looking up, he speaks.
“Are you settling in well?” His voice is completely detached. Like he’s asking about the weather. “How are you finding your new position?”
I lean forward, letting my voice drop to my bedroom register. “It’s lovely, though I have to admit, I’ve been feeling a bit isolated.”
“Mmm.” He makes a note in the margin of whatever he’s writing.
“Mrs. Fairfax mentioned there were only two of us working in the estate. But I saw a man?—”
“How long have you been here? Two weeks?” he asks.
“Three,” I reply, hoping he isn’t about to say I’m no longer needed. Anxiety flutters in my gut as I imagine what might happen if he decides he no longer wants a nanny. In my most playful voice, I ask, “Edward, is this the part where you decide if I’m worth keeping around?”
He sets down his pen and finally meets my gaze. Those dark eyes sweep over my face with a cold, clinical assessment. A chill skitters down my spine as I wait for his reply.
“You were hired for the child, not for me.”
The words hit like a slap. My confidence, already shaky, takes a nosedive. So much for breaking the ice with flirtyhumor.
I pivot to safer ground. “When do I meet Adele? Is she getting better?”
Mr. Rochester folds his hands, studying me like I’m a specimen under glass. “These things take time.”
“I see her at the window,” I say, fishing for information. “But she never waves back. Does she know I’m here for her?”
“Difficult to say.” His tone is thoughtful, almost philosophical. Like we’re discussing the meaning of life instead of his sick child.
I push harder. “Has she been seen by a doctor? I mean, isn’t typhus fever serious? It’s been nearly a month, and?—”
“Mrs. Fairfax takes care of her needs.” The dismissal in his voice is absolute.
Silence falls between us like a curtain, broken by the thud of my heartbeat, and the distant tick of a grandfather clock. I would ask why he brought me here when he knew the girl was sick, but if he orders me to leave, I’m beyond screwed.
Still, something about this situation is fishy. Nobody hires a nanny for a child too sick and contagious for company. And I’ve seen no sign of a doctor, let alone medicine.
Mr. Rochester’s gaze drifts down, quick as a snake strike, to my cleavage. It’s not salacious, just another cool, clinical observation, like he’s cataloging my assets.
Breath hitching, I sit straighter, unable to tell if this is a good or bad sign.
He rises from his seat. “Thank you. That will be all.”
My stomach dips. Wait. That’s it? I rock forward in my seat. “What about the other staff? Who was thatman? And where does Mrs. Fairfax go during the day? I haven’t seen her around since?—”
“Miss Burlington.” His voice cuts through my questions like a blade. “You are dismissed.”
The words sting more than they should. Since leaving home, I’ve had all kinds of shitty encounters with men: I’ve been ghosted, dumped, coerced into murder. But never ordered out like a servant.
