No wonder he built layers of defiance around himself. He was testing whether anyone would stay.
Perhaps she had been going about this entirely the wrong way.
Perhaps he did not need a governess.
‘Perhaps he needs a friend,’ Charlotte said quietly.
Lucy nodded slowly, as though she had reached the same conclusion herself. Then she added shyly, ‘I was wondering if...’ but turned beetroot before she could finish.
Charlotte tilted her head, intrigued by her sudden reserve. ‘Go on, Lucy.’
‘Well... I have been teaching myself to read and write. I wished to write letters... to my beau. But—well—I wondered if you might instruct me? I shall not be any trouble, I promise. I only require a little guidance.’
‘Of course. We might spare half an hour when you come up with the tray.’ Charlotte smiled, pleased by Lucy’s eagerness to improve, even if it was only for the sake of writing love letters. ‘I may as well teach you instead. It is clear Master Tom is not interested in my instruction,’ she added with a self-deprecating laugh.
‘Oh, thank you, Miss Lucas,’ Lucy replied excitedly.
Charlotte decided to put her new plan into action immediately and strode into the schoolroom after breakfast.
Tom sat at his table, hunched over his paper, entirely absorbed.
Charlotte approached with the caution one might use when handling gunpowder.
She pulled up a stool beside him. ‘Oh, Tom, what an—interesting drawing. Is it a map?’
He shot her a suspicious look. ‘It is a secret,’ he said, snatching the paper away.
Charlotte smiled. ‘Very well. Perhaps you could teach me how to draw like you? I am dreadful.’
He eyed her warily.
At last, he handed her a crayon. ‘Just draw lines,’ he grumbled.
Charlotte took it—half expecting a trap—but he merely resumed his work.
A moment later, inspiration struck. ‘Would you let me draw your portrait? I need practice—and I cannot very well draw myself.’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘I promise, you may draw mine afterwards,’ she added conspiratorially.
He sighed dramatically and slumped into place.
Charlotte hid a smile as she began.
The result was dreadful—a lopsided, squashed creature bearing more resemblance to a startled primate than a small boy.
Tom leaned over, studied it, and smirked.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Looks like a monkey.’
Charlotte clutched her chest. ‘You wound me, sir!’
Tom laughed—a quick, bright sound that startled her.
And at that precise moment, Mrs Wilberforce swept into the room.
