“But it isn’t true. I know it isn’t. He would never have done…” The tears massed again, and Amelia held her tight.
No wonder Phoebe was so hurt by life.
And she recalled the appointment book in Mr Cadwalader’s desk drawer last night – the rapacious-eyed bird ripping at Ross Thornton, the words of Shakespeare,If you poison us… Shall we not revenge…
But Phoebe needed her.
She drew back a touch. “You must forget your great-aunt’s cruel words. Close your eyes and remember your father asyouknew him…” She brought the girl’s hand to her black-clad chest. “In here.”
Phoebe did indeed close her eyes. “H-he always had time for me, despite his work. He cared deeply and hated wrongdoing. He was daring and funny. And he taught me how to write things. Mama used to call me Papa’s girl as I would sit quietly in his library while he studied papers.”
“The best of fathers then.” Amelia frowned. Not one who would have left his daughter alone in the world had he a choice.
A nod. “And yours?”
“I… I never saw him much. As I said, he did not live with us and was a busy man. He died soon after my mother.”
“Did…did they love one another? My parents did, ever so much.”
Amelia closed her eyes. “Once, yes.” She recalled her father visiting, Mama dashing around in silks, plumping cushions and straightening the bed. She opened her eyes. “But it didn’t last and he…he let her go.”
Phoebe reached up and brushed away a stray tear that had trundled down Amelia’s own cheek.
Silly to be so affected after all this time and she cast her charge a thankful smile. “It was a lifetime ago.”
“And do you…” Phoebe chewed her lip. “Do you think you will marry one day?”
“Me? Oh…” Amelia swallowed.
Leaving aside her illicit birth, she had always thought marriage not compatible with her life, for trust and love could not be so easily found or held onto. A spy’s path was a lonely one, but sometimes she wished…she wished someone might walk at her side, to share her life and accept her just as she was and for all that she was.
“I am content, Phoebe, with my employment.” Amelia wiped her charge’s cheeks with her thumbs. “And as far as your great-aunt goes, in a few years’ time, you will look back to now and feel sorry for the old bat… I mean Great-Aunt.”
Phoebe gave a watery giggle and they just sat quiet for a while until her charge clambered from the bed, scampered to the drawer and drew out something white.
“Here, Miss Jones, this is for you. It’s my best tatting work. Tell Uncle and Lady Kemble it’s yours as I know you don’t know how to do it.”
“Oh, Phoebe.” Tears smarted as she took the exquisite…
Well, it was akin to lacemaking or crochet, delicate intricate strands woven and knotted together to create a…a butterfly.
Such a piece reminded her of Mama, and she raised her gaze to Phoebe, this sullen girl in crepe black who could create such delicate beauty. She felt guilt weigh so heavily upon her shoulders like the world must have felt to Atlas, and yet all she could reveal to Phoebe of her true self was her shortcomings.
“I pretend to be a good governess, Phoebe, but I fear I am a terrible one.”
“I know.” Phoebe tutted and folded her arms. “Not once have you made me write letters or learn verbs.” Amelia grimaced. “But we can’t be good at everything and you are a kind person. Now I can solve mathematical conundrums, open locks with my hairpins and you let me read your copy of Mary Wollstonecraft.” She glanced up sheepishly. “Although I’ve yet to write the essay.”
Amelia smoothed the beautiful tatting. “Then…then, thank you.”
“And everyone pretends to be something to an extent,” grumped Phoebe, sitting on the bed with a bounce. “I think most people pretend in order to get through life’s challenges, but… I don’t believe someone can pretend kindness if it is foreign to their nature.” She chewed her thumb. “Mrs Dawkins, who was driven out of Wales for being a witch, you know, says kindness is not something that can be easily feigned. I think people see through it too easily.” She twisted. “Don’t you agree?”
Amelia pondered. She had met many people pretending at traits foreign to them. But could one pretend kindness?
Perhaps not. Perhaps callous eyes would forever give them away.
A blue gaze floated to the fore – deadly or droll – but never unkind.
“Uncle is the same,” continued Phoebe. “He may gad around, as Mrs Dawkins says, but ultimately, he is kind and generous and honourable.”
Honourable.
Amelia thought of her report. She ought not be influenced by a fifteen-year-old girl but…
Out of the mouths of babes came truths that adults oft failed to see – blinded by cynicism and suspicion.
And she knew what her report would say.
