“Do you have any employment suitable for me, ma’am?” she asked Miss Fleming, her voice quiet, her eyes steady and calm—she had trained herself through a difficult childhood and girlhood never to show any of the pain or degradation she might be feeling.
Miss Fleming looked up at her impatiently and seemed about to make the usual retort. But her eyes sharpened and she frowned. Then she adjusted her spectacles on her nose and smiled condescendingly. “Well, there is a gentleman in the next room, Miss Hamilton, conducting interviews for the post of governess to his employer’s daughter. Perhaps he will be willing to ask you a few questions, even though you are a young lady who has no letters of recommendation and who knows no one with any influence. Wait here, if you please.”
Fleur found herself clasping her hands painfully together, her nails digging into her palms. She felt breathless, as if she had run for a whole mile. A governess. Oh, no. She must not even begin to hope. The man would probably not consent even to see her.
“Step this way, if you please, Miss Hamilton,” Miss Fleming said briskly from the doorway of the adjoining room. “Mr. Houghton will see you.”
Fleur was very aware of her wrinkled silk dress and drab cloak and the absence of a bonnet. She was dressed in the clothes she had been wearing more than a month before when she had run away. She was aware of the plain style of her hair, of the shadows below her eyes, of her cracked lips. She swallowed and stepped through the door. Miss Fleming closed it quietly behind her, remaining on the other side of it.
“Miss Fleur Hamilton?” The man who was seated behind a large table examined her slowly and keenly from head to foot.
Fleur stood still and looked back. He was young, bald-headed, thin. If her appearance was unacceptable, then let him tell her so now before her hopes soared despite herself.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
He gestured to a chair, and she sat, her back straight, her chin high.
“I am interviewing for the post of governess,” he said. “My employer is Mr. Kent of Dorsetshire. His daughter is five years old. Do you consider yourself in any way qualified for the job?”
“Yes,” she said. “I was educated at home until I was eleven and then at Broadridge School in Oxfordshire. I was proficient in all my lessons. I speak French and Italian tolerably well, I play the pianoforte and have some skill with watercolors. I have always been particularly interested in literature and history and the classics. I have some skill with a needle.”
She answered his questions as clearly and as honestly as she could, the blood hammering through her temples, her hands clasped into fists in her lap, the fingers of both hands crossed out of his sight.
Please, God, she prayed silently.Oh, please, dear God.
“If I were to communicate with your former school, the headmistress would confirm what you have told me?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I am sure of it.”But please don’t. They would not recognize the name. They would deny that I was ever there.
“Would you tell me something of your family and background, Miss Hamilton?” Mr. Houghton asked her at last.
She stared at him and swallowed. “My father was a gentleman,” she said. “He died in debt. I was forced to come to London in search of employment.”
Forgive me, Papa, she begged her dead father silently.
“What?” she said.
“How long ago?” he repeated. “How long ago did you come to London?”
“A little over a month ago,” she said.
“What employment have you had since?” he asked.
She was silent for a while, staring at him. “I had enough money to last until now,” she said.
She sat still while his eyes moved over the unsuitable silk dress beneath her cloak. He knew. He must know. How could she have lived through all the pain and degradation of the past week and keep it all invisible to the eyes of strangers? He must know that she lied. He must know that she was a whore.
“Recommendations?” he asked. “Do you have any letters with you?”
She had known it was cruel, this hope. She had not really hoped at all. “I have none, sir,” she said. “I have never been employed. I have lived as a gentleman’s daughter.” And she waited quietly for dismissal.
But hope had been cruelly kindled.Please, God, she prayed.Please, dear God. Oh, please.
And she wished she had not come. She wished there had not been this illusory hope.
“What?” she said again.
“The post is yours if you wish for it,” he repeated.
