And with a wink for his ward and a nod for Amelia, he limped from the schoolroom.
Miss Thornton turned to scowl at her while Amelia scowled at Mr Cadwalader’s retreating coat-tails.
He may act the elegant dandy, may appear the epitome of a handsome gadabout with nothing more on his mind than women,à la modepantaloons and select dinner invitations, but as she’d previously supposed, there was something…dangerous beneath that golden guise.
She’dfeltit as he’d leaned near.
That elegant exterior cloaked a predatory animal. One it would be wise not to rouse.
“I’ll show you to your chamber then,” groused her charge.
It was black.
“How…restful,” Amelia murmured, peering at the gothic four-poster bed with its ebony feathers, gloomy drapery and heavy oak pilasters. “I’m sure to sleep well here.” If the nightmares abated for long enough.
“This isn’t yours. It’s mine. And it’s not restful at all.” Miss Phoebe Thornton crossed her arms, bombazine materialcrinkling. “I ordered drapery entitled ‘Deepest Night’ but Uncle Hugh mixed up the lists and ordered ‘Dusk Blue’.”
Amelia peered again – it looked black to her – before twisting to peruse her charge.
At a mere fifteen years, Phoebe Thornton had seen much loss, been left an orphan far too young in life.
In this drab room, her young face appeared pale and wan, the old-fashioned dress drowning her in heavy lace and velvet ribbon. In general, a girl ceased wearing the deepest weeds of mourning for a parent after six months, moving to a lighter half-mourning of lavender or soft grey, so why was Phoebe still wearing a black deeper than the grave? And why was it some forty years out of fashion?
Perhaps Mr Cadwalader’s luxuriant tastes had left him out of pocket where his ward was concerned?
“Well, it’s a spacious room, at least.” In fact, this bedchamber alone was nigh the size of her home in Holborn.
“I need the space for all the…” The girl cast a sly glance. “Tatting I do.”
Amelia had been placed in charge of an imp.
An evil imp.
For although Charlotte had since told her of the lace craft, by no means could she learn it overnight. Or within a week. Or a month. She cast her own sly glance. “I’m surprised you can see to do such delicate craft in here. My bedchamber is opposite, Mr Cruikshank led me to believe?”
They both stomped across the hall to where Amelia…sighed.
“Grim, isn’t it?” muttered Phoebe.
Amelia adored it.
Her mother had been so feminine and dainty, like a fluttering fay, and had wished her daughter to be the same, thus the bedroom of Amelia’s childhood had been a frothy concoction ofPompadour-pink drapes, blowsy bows and winged cherubs, all festooned with yards of white lace.
At Phoebe’s age, she’d suffered it, but with the passage of time, she missed the utter lightness, the soft embrace of pink.
This bedchamber reminded her of childhood, of home. One lost so long ago.
“I…” She swallowed down a clog of emotion. “I rather like it.” The paperhangings were a blossom-pink while the half-tester bed was draped in deep-rose silk. A trunk was positioned at the bottom. With a useful key in its lock.
A few portraits hung on the walls while a dressing-table mirror sat upon a polished chest of drawers, and on a spacious desk was a vase of blush-pink roses.
Smiling, Amelia walked over to them, placed her carpetbag on the desk’s chair and fingered the silken blooms; not a single thorn was upon their stems.
Phoebe came to stand at her side. “Uncle Hugh adores roses and as soon as they become available has them placed in every room. There are white ones in mine.” She rolled her eyes. “He thinks he’s funny. I’m going to paint them.”
Beside the desk, a large sash window overlooked the garden with the stables at the far end, and she supposed that on the next floor up, one could view the goings-on of Oxford Street.
Amelia pressed her nose to the glass.
