Amelia narrowed her eyes. Surely any governess should not be expected to put up with such…irritation.
She sniffed, ignored him and twisted to her charge. “I believe you are to visit your great-aunt Rebecca this afternoon? Has she recovered from the ague?”
A nose was scrunched. “Yes, almost.”
“If your great-aunt can wait till tomorrow, my blackbird,” said Mr Cadwalader with a frown, “I will accompany you. I don’t like you going so far on your own.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “I’m fifteen, Uncle, and it’s only a mile. I’d rather go today. And my maid is to come with me. And a footman. And a coachman.”
The frown remained but he nodded.
Massaging her forehead, Amelia speculated whether she could meet with Charlotte in order to hand over some essays for correction. “I wondered, Sir,” she simpered, “since Phoebe is occupied this afternoon, if I may have an hour to myself in order to purchase some paper?”
Mr Cadwalader’s lips twisted to a Cheshire cat grin. “Did I fail to mention? You have a class this afternoon, Miss Jones.”
“A c-class?”
“Hmm. Mrs Dawkins wishes to learn tatting.”
Amelia blinked. “She does?”
“Indeed.” Mr Cadwalader dabbed his sinful lips with a napkin and rose to his polished Hessians. “I hope to see your finished works in a few days.”
You can see my departing backside in a few days.
“Of course, Sir.”
With a salute to them both, he strode out and Amelia brought one hand back to her throbbing head.
Her end in this house was nigh.
And for some reason, that thought made her headache worse.
The rosesin Amelia’s bedchamber this afternoon were a deep blood red, the buds yet to open, and vicious thorns peeked from amongst the foliage.
Curious how the roses kept changing colour.
She returned her attention to the notes she’d amassed thus far on Mr Cadwalader because a coded message had arrived this morning from her superior, Lord Rainham.
Send all you have by tomorrow eve.
R
So here she was, embarking upon her report: the documents found in the master’s desk drawers, how the staff viewed him, his relationship with his ward.
And her own personal assessment.
Lord Rainham encouraged his officers to express their instincts. He trusted them.
So leaving aside other emotions, she nibbled the end of her quill, deliberated, put nib to paper and–
Placed the quill down, gathered up all the papers and popped them in a wooden box, twisted the key in her unpickable lock and popped it in the trunk.
And locked that as well.
She would do the report tomorrow.
Closing her eyes, she rubbed her still aching forehead. Surely Mrs Dawkins would have some simple willow bark for a headache?
