“I thought to see you walk past the window earlier,” Charlotte said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin.
“Hmm, it’s so hard as a governess to find time for one’s day-to-day errands, isn’t it?” Amelia cut a thin slice of cake for herself and pushed the rest to Charlotte – her wrists were too slender. “The work is endless.”
“Most people do not realise you are at the beck and call of the parents and pupil whatever the hour.” Charlotte reached into a battered satchel at her side. “And then there are the lesson plans, of which I have two weeks’ worth for you, along with the marked essays you sent me.” And a substantial bundle of neatly tied papers was placed on the table.
“I don’t know what I would have done without you, Charlotte,” she said in all honesty.
“I have a hunch you would have thought of something, Amelia. I will not ask about your investigation but how is your employer? Hopefully you have not seen much of him?”
Overmuch of him, truth be told.
Amelia cleared her throat. “We’ve had a few meetings and he appears…” She thought of his many scars and tall tales. “Insightful, urbane and generous to his ward, but also rather scandalous.”
“Quite a combination,” mused the lady, and Amelia could only agree.
Whilst Charlotte finished the fruit cake, Amelia paid the bill and bundled the papers into her carpetbag. “I must dash, I’m afraid, as Phoebe will soon return from her dance lesson.”
“But of course.” Charlotte patted Amelia’s hand and not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have a true friend like Charlotte. Someone to meet for agreeable conversation and mutual grumbles.
They both made for the door and stepped onto busy Piccadilly where Charlotte donned her gloves. “Good luck then, Amelia. And send word if you need more lesson plans.”
“Thank you. And…” She smiled. “Perhaps when this employment is at an end, we could–”
“Ah, Miss Jones! What a coincidence.”
Amelia froze. Then slowly turned.
Mr Cadwalader was leaning with nonchalance against Hatchett’s bow window, a picture of elegance in claret waistcoat and grey greatcoat while fawn breeches were tucked into dusty top boots. Only his rapid breathing and dishevelled hair beneath a crooked beaver hat attested to his jaunt around London.
“M-Mr Cadwalader. How…delightful.” She swivelled, aware she was about to be frightfully rude and not introduce hercompanion. “Goodbye, Charlotte. So nice to have bumped into you.”
Charlotte’s lips pressed as though endeavouring not to laugh. “Until next time, Amelia.”
And after a bob of a curtsey for the gentleman, Charlotte turn–
“Oh, but wait…” Mr Cadwalader bent to the pavement and when he rose, a white piece of lace and cotton was in his gloved palm. “Is this not your handkerchief? An item of such beauty for a beautiful lady, if I may say so.”
Charlotte blushed; Amelia rolled her eyes.
“It is not mine, Sir.”
“Ah, but I’m not wrong concerning your beauty, Miss…?”
“Oh… Webster.”
Amelia now closed her eyes. This was why one should never involve civilians.
“Webster,” the pestilence murmured. “Are you, by chance, also a governess like Miss Jones here? Indeed, were you not scheduled for an interview with me?”
Amelia opened one eye. The cat was out the bag and strolling about with a purr. Would Charlotte give her away? React to the use of Amelia’s false surname?
The lady cast a beatific smile. “Yes, Sir. But I’d accepted another offer, I’m afraid. To which I must return. Good day, Sir.” And with a nod, she strolled off.
Class, thought Amelia. The lady had such class.
“Well then, Miss Jones, are you for Hanover Square?” He proffered an arm as though at Almack’s. “I could escort you back?”
She brought a hand to her mouth in mock incredulity. “But surely you do not wish to be seen in your governess’ company, Sir?”
