Maria stared down at the rug and nodded.
Guilt pricked his conscience. He’d been hard on Mrs. Towler. Too hard. He had made judgments without knowing this bit of information.
He cleared his throat. “If you disobeyed your grandmother, then you know what you need to do. You need to make it right with her.”
Maria nodded with a little sniff. “I miss Mama.”
“I do too.” How inadequate the words seemed.
He forced cheerfulness to his voice. “But she would not want usto be sad. She would want us to start each day trying to do our best and to be happy, wouldn’t she?”
Maria nodded again.
“Have you spoken with your grandmother today?”
Maria studied her hand. “She has been up a couple times, but I think she is very upset with me.”
“I suspect you won’t start to feel better until everything is resolved. Will you?”
She shook her head. “I’m always doing the wrong thing and saying the wrong thing.”
“You do plenty right. But we all could use a change to the way things are done around here. A new start, of sorts. Don’t you agree?”
At the suspicion in her eyes, he gave a little laugh. “You do not need to look so severe. Everything will be all right. I promise. But first things first. You need to apologize to your grandmother.”
And he would need to do the same.
Chapter 22
By the time the gathering at the Kents’ arrived, Cassandra still had received no news from Mr. Longham. Or Mr. Warrington.
And her confidence was waning.
So many significant questions lurked on the horizon, fuzzy and dim, and it seemed Mr. Longham held the answers to them all. To make matters more disconcerting, her meager funds were diminishing, and she could only interpret Mr. Warrington’s silence on the governess position as a refusal.
She’d sent out a handful of inquiries about teaching and governess positions. She’d written to some of the women who had taught with her at Mrs. Denton’s school, hoping they might have leads on new employment, but as of yet she’d received no response.
Despite the anxious waiting, the week had been quiet, especially during the daytime hours when the other boarders were occupied and she was the only boarder in the house. With the exception of a few outings to assist Mrs. Pearson in delivering food to the local poor, the hours had passed slowly, allowing time for her nerves to intensify as the gathering at the Kent house drew nearer. The only real social events she’d ever attended were the picnics and dinners at the vicar’s house, but after her incident with Frederick, even those stopped.
What a sharp contrast the vicar she knew in her youth cut againstthe vicar who now was in her company. Lamby’s vicar was severe and often cross. He rarely smiled and scarcely laughed, and almost every word uttered was in condemnation.
But Mr. North was so dissimilar. Perhaps it was the variance in age, or even just the difference in their personalities. But when she was in his presence, she felt no guilt or need for pretense. He was... a friend.
One she had never expected.
Perhaps she should make more of an effort to encourage him romantically. With each day Mr. Longham’s suggestion of a possible inheritance faded, and she’d not be able to support herself forever. What was more, she did like Mr. North. He was charming, funny, and kind. He was attentive and grew more so with every interaction.
And yet Betsy’s warning rang in her mind. It was the very reason she’d avoided him this week. Betsy may be prone to exaggeration, but she would never cast a shadow over his integrity without a valid reason.
At the moment, Cassandra and Betsy were in Betsy’s bedchamber, and Betsy was fastening the small buttons on the back of the altered rose-hued gown. Once she was done with the task, she stepped back and tilted her head to the side. “There. I daresay it looks lovelier on you than it ever did on me.”
Cassandra smoothed her hand down the pale pink gown’s shimmery fabric, allowing her fingertips to linger on the embroidered flowers, admiring the newly applied lace overlay on the bodice and lace trim at the sleeves. “It’s beautiful, Betsy. Truly.”
Betsy propped her hands on her hips. “If there is one benefit to being a poor, overworked seamstress, it is that sometimes the shop’s owner lets us have the extras, lace and trims in particular. Besides, it is nice to think that you might have a chance at catching someone’s eye. Perhaps you’ll make your match tonight, and my lace will have helped you. Perhaps Mr. North?”
Cassandra raised a brow. “I thought you didn’t approve of Mr. North.”
“Why? Because I shared a doubt?” Betsy reached forward to adjust the hem on Cassandra’s elbow-length sleeve. “It’s not my opinion that matters here, is it? It should be yours and yours only.”
