Her voice trailed off, her glance flicking towards her husband.
Charlotte’s instincts sharpened.
Something here was amiss.
Mr Wilberforce stepped in at once.
‘You will meet him tomorrow. For now, rest—and do let us know if you need anything.’
He all but ushered her towards the door.
Charlotte hesitated.
‘Just one more question, Mr Wilberforce. How many governesses have... preceded me?’
A pause fell—heavy and expectant.
Husband and wife exchanged a glance.
Then, after a moment, Mr Wilberforce replied—
‘Five.’
Chapter 10
Charlotte woke the next morning and, for a moment, forgot where she was—the unfamiliar plaster ceiling, the faint chill of damp stone, the distant creak of floorboards.
Then it all came rushing back: her borrowed name, her borrowed life.
Eagerness and anxiety warred within her as she dressed quickly, fastening the plain black gown Anne had chosen before their escape. It hung loose on her now-slighter frame, and she threw a shawl over her shoulders to disguise it. It was sturdy, serviceable, and as unremarkable as porridge—the sort of gown no one would ever recall.
The schoolroom was only a few doors down the hallway.
Charlotte heard him before she saw him—the scrape of a chair, the muffled thud of something being thrown. She braced herself before stepping inside.
A small, slight boy stood at the centre of the room, unruly black curls falling into his eyes, his chin set in stubborn defiance. His stockings sagged about his ankles, and a streak of charcoal marked one cheek.
He turned.
Charlotte noticed his eyes at once—large, blue, and intensely expressive. Not soft, but keen and watchful, full of wary intelligence and mischief. The eyes of a child determined to trust no one.
He regarded her as though she were an especially dull arithmetic problem.
Mrs Wilberforce stood nearby, composed as ever.
‘Now, Tom, what did we just discuss?’ she said curtly. ‘I do not want you frightening this governess off.’
Charlotte frowned slightly. Frightening? He looked as though a strong gust might carry him away.
‘I am sure Master Tom and I shall be great friends, Mrs Wilberforce,’ she said kindly, dipping a curtsey.
Tom pulled a face behind his mother’s skirts—an elaborate grimace of disgust.
Charlotte ignored it.
Mrs Wilberforce, whether accustomed to such behaviour or simply unwilling to notice it, did not so much as turn her head.
Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘Perhaps you might tell me what he has been taught thus far?’
