In the dusk light, she could make out Mr Cadwalader, dressed to the nines and following the flagstone path to the stables where doubtless a smart green carriage awaited.
So not suchan ageto dress himself then.
Black breeches clad his long legs, the artful tails of his green evening coat fluttering. His beaver hat sat at a jaunty angle and a cane tapped confidently with each stride.
What secrets did he hide? Was he a turncoat, as had been suggested? She’d seen the most steadfast of men have their heads turned by pretty women or even prettier guineas.
“I’ll be leaving you to unpack then.”
Goodness, she’d all but forgotten her charge, and twisted. “Thank you, Phoebe. We will begin our lessons on the morrow.”
“I don’t need lessons.” The girl folded her arms, lips a straight line of nothing. “Mother taught me all I needed to know. Then Father. I will have Uncle Hugh send you away as soon as I can.”
The first challenge to her authority.
This was completely normal, apparently, and a professional governess ought to nip it in the bud, take a firm hand, just as Miss Appleton – well, Charlotte – advised, yet…
Amelia was no governess and she understood the pain this girl felt. A mere two years older and Amelia herself had been the one frightened of an uncertain future, the one who had wished to hide away in murky mourning clothes and never look upon the light of day.
Behind Phoebe’s challenge lay grief and hurt, and Amelia vowed to treat her with all kindness.
“I agree. Nobody can teach us in the same manner as our parents do, for they know us so very well – our likes and dislikes. My own mother imparted a wealth of knowledge before I lost her when I was seventeen. But for me, there was more I wanted to learn.” She cocked her head. “Is there not more you want to learn?”
“Some matters.” She fiddled with the gloomy lace and then glared up. “But I wager you won’t teach me them. Good night, Miss Jones. Sleep well. Although…” She paused at the doorway. “‘In that sleep of death what dreams may come.’” And with a flick of shadowy skirts, she closed the door with a thud.
Amelia puffed her cheeks, opened her carpetbag and, with reverent care, lifted out Miss Appleton’s book, placing it on the desk beside the roses.
And shoved hands to hips.
Maybe she should have followed Mama in her chosen profession as assuredly one didn’t have to deal with stubborn young ladies or snail syrup.
Nevertheless, she delved once more into her carpetbag and seized two squares of paper and a pencil. One was a note for Charlotte.
Miss Phoebe Thornton.
Rebellious & shrewd.
Grieving. Lost.
Appears to know Shakespeare well.
Have you any tatting samples?
And on the other…
Mr Hugh Cadwalader.
Wily & perceptive – gunpowder, indeed!
Confident. Devious.
Appears to tell embellished and droll tales to cover the truth of his activities.
Why does he need the entire second floor to himself?
She paused, lead to paper.
It would behove her to tread warily in this household, but also to make haste in completing her report as, Amelia felt, her time here would be short.
Her charge was nimble-witted.
Cadwalader did not suffer fools.
And then there was that anomalous flare of flame which his presence induced.
She must tread with care.
The scent of roses wafted from the vase beside her, spicy yet delicate, and she eyed their pink perfection before scribbling a last note.
Mr Hugh Cadwalader is dangerous.
