Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(10)

Tasia paused to examine a pastoral scene by Boucher. It was one of many modern French works in the gallery, all of them chosen with a good eye for light and color. She dragged her attention from the painting as she replied. “I was staying with your friends, the Ashbournes. They kindly recommended me to your father.”

“I didn't like the last governess. She was very strict. She never wanted to talk about interesting things. Only books, books, books.”

“But books are very interesting.”

“I don't think so.” They continued to walk along the gallery at a slow pace. Emma stared at her openly now, her blue eyes quizzical. “None of my friends has a governess like you.”

“Oh?”

“You're young, and you have a strange way of talking. And you're very pretty.”

“So are you,” Tasia said softly.

Emma made a comical face. “Me? I'm a big, carrot-topped girl.”

Tasia smiled. “I always wished to be tall, so that when I walked into a room, everyone would think I was a queen. Only women with your height can be truly elegant.”

The girl blushed. “I've never heard that before.”

“And your hair is lovely,” Tasia continued. “Did you know that Cleopatra and the ladies of her court used to dye their hair with henna to make it red? It's quite a fortunate thing to have it naturally.”

Emma made a skeptical sound as they turned a corner. The next hallway was lined with glass windows that provided views of the gold and white ballroom. “Are you going to teach me how to behave like a lady?” she asked suddenly.

Tasia smiled, thinking that Emma had inherited her father's habit of springing blunt questions right in one's face. “It was mentioned to me that you required some advice on the subject,” she admitted.

“I don't see why anyone should have to be a lady. All those blasted rules and manners…I shan't be any good at it.” She screwed up her face comically.

Sternly Tasia willed herself not to laugh. It was the first time in months that something had tickled her sense of humor. “It's not difficult. It's almost like a game. I think you'll do very well at it.”

“I can't do anything well if I don't see a reason for it. Why does it matter if I eat with the wrong fork, as long as I am fed?”

“Do you want the philosophical reason, or the practical one?”

“Both.”

“Most people believe that without proper etiquette, all civilization would crumble. First go the manners, then morality, and then we should come to an end just as the decadent Romans did. More importantly, if you make an obvious faux pas after you've come out in society, it will embarrass you and your father, and make it very difficult for you to attract the attentions of honorable young men.”

“Oh.” Emma stared at her with increasing interest. “Were the Romans really decadent? I thought all they did was have wars and build roads and make long speeches about government.”

“Horrifyingly decadent,” Tasia assured her. “We'll read about them tomorrow, if you like.”

“All right.” Emma flashed her a smile. “Let's go to the kitchen. I want you to meet Mrs. Plunkett, the cook. She's my favorite person in the house, after Papa.”

They went through a narrow pantry with shelves of dry goods, and a pastry room outfitted with a marble table and every conceivable size of rolling pin. Emma took Tasia's arm and pulled her past several kitchen maids who regarded them curiously. “This is my new governess, and her name is Miss Billings,” Emma announced without stopping.

The kitchen was very large and filled with servants busily preparing supper. There was a long wooden table at the center of the room, overshadowed by low-hanging pots, pans, and copper molds. A stout woman stood there wielding a large knife, showing one of the cook maids how to chop carrots properly. “Mind you don't cut them too thick—” She stopped and smiled broadly as she caught sight of Emma. “Ah, here's my Emma, and she's brought one of her little friends to visit.”

“Mrs. Plunkett, this is Miss Billings,” Emma said, propping a leg on the seat of a wooden chair. “She's my new governess.”

“Bless my eyes,” the cook exclaimed. “It's time we had a new face around here, and such a pretty one at that. But look at you—no wider than a broomstick.” She reached for a platter heaped with pastries and pulled back the cloth that covered them. “Try one of these apple tarts, lamb, and tell me if the crust is too thick.”

As she looked at her, Tasia understood Emma's affection for the cook. Mrs. Plunkett had applecolored cheeks, merry brown eyes, and a warm, motherly presence. “Try it,” the cook encouraged, and Tasia reached for a tart.

Emma followed suit, choosing the largest one on the platter. She bit deeply into the pastry. “Splendid,” she said with her mouth full. She grinned at Tasia's reproving glance. “Oh, I know. It's not polite to talk while I'm eating. But I can do it so none of the food shows.” She shoved it to the side of her cheek. “See?”

Tasia was about to explain why it still wasn't proper when she saw Emma wink at Mrs. Plunkett. She couldn't help laughing, in spite of her efforts to maintain an air of dignity. “Emma, I fear there may come a day when you accidentally spray crumbs over some important guest.”