Amelia peered around for the black cat.
“Ah, Miss Jones!” enthused Mr Cadwalader. “How splendid of you to accept the position. May I introduce my vibrant ward, Miss Phoebe Thornton.”
The girl scrunched her nose, lips slammed together.
“Good evening, Miss Thornton.”
The girl glared.
Mr Cadwalader nudged.
“Evening,” she all but mumbled.
“Well, how delightful,” said Mr Cadwalader with a wide grin. “I’ll let Phoebe show you to your room and allow the two of you to become better acquainted. We’ll talk further on the morrow, Miss Jones, but do you have any pressing questions for me now?”
Amelia recalled the question Charlotte had considered acceptable for a first day. “Will we all be dining together, Sir, as a rule? Or do Phoebe and I dine in this schoolroom?”
The ward received an affectionate pat on the shoulder before Mr Cadwalader approached with a slight limp, breeches as fitted as bark upon a tree. “For myself, I rarely dine at home, Miss Jones, but this schoolroom is not large and Phoebe has all of fifteen years now, so I insist you both use the dining room.”
“Very well, Sir.”
“Uncle Hugh, you’re limping.” The girl frowned. “What happened this time?”
“Just an old wound, Phoebe. You don’t wish to know the tale.”
The girl’s lip vaguely twitched. “Oh, I think I do, Uncle.”
He smiled at Amelia – all white teeth and convivial eyes. “Well, truth be told, I found myself in Saint Petersburg several years ago when… I hope you are not easily put to blush, Miss Jones?”
“Governesses rarely blush, Mr Cadwalader. All the books we read.”
“Good, good. Well, to cut a long story short, the then Tsar considered the fashionable new gentleman’s attire of ankle-length pantaloons such a radical departure from the norm that he issued a decree forbidding them and had his troops halt carriages in order to inspect any gentlemen’s leg garb.”
The young girl gasped. “Were you caught, Uncle?”
“Indeed, in a pair of my finest fawn pantaloons from Ede & Ravenscroft. I was thrown to the carriage floor, would you believe, by a most bearded fellow who then cut them off at the knee with a sabre! The careless blackguard got a little carried away in his enthusiasm and the leg’s never been the same in damp weather.”
Phoebe Thornton sniggered, hand at mouth. “Oh, what a clanker! As if the Tsar would decree that.”
Amelia turned to her employer, now stood close at her side, and narrowed her eyes. “I believe that decree was true, was it not?”
His smile lingered. “Been to Russia, have you?”
“Of course not, Sir, but as I said, governesses read so much. Books, pamphlets and…more books.”
He tipped forward. “Just so, Miss Jo–” His nostrils broadened in proximity to her hair, a frown cleaving his brow. “Can I smell roses mingled with…gunpowder?”
Amelia swallowed.
That anomalous flare of flame rekindled within her.
“I wear rosewater, Sir, but as for gunpowder… I couldn’t even say what it smells like.”
“Wet coal and eggs.”
Amelia looked him dead in the eye and fibbed for all she was worth. “Well, I partook of boiled eggs in front of the coal fire before I came. Perhaps the scents have clung to my hair?”
“Of course.” He leaned back with a sudden indolent smile. “What was I thinking?” And turned. “Well, Phoebe, my blackbird, I shall leave you in the capable hands of Miss Jones. Give her a tour and so forth. I am attending the Heywood’s dinner and ball tonight, so better get some togs on. It takes me an age to dress this finely.”
