Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(11)

Emma's grin broadened. “That's it! I'll spit food all over Lady Harcourt the next time she comes to visit. Then we'll finally be rid of her. Can you imagine Papa's face?” Seeing Tasia's confusion, she explained. “Lady Harcourt is one of the women who want to marry Papa.”

“One of them?” Tasia asked. “How many are there?”

“Oh, practically everyone wants him. During our weekend parties, I eavesdrop on some of the ladies. You would scarcely believe the things they say! Usually I don't understand half of it, but—”

“Thank the Lord for that,” Mrs. Plunkett said heartily. “You know you shouldn't eavesdrop, Emma.”

“Well, he's my father. I have a right to know who's scheming to catch him. And Lady Harcourt is trying very hard. Before you know it they'll be married and I'll be on my way to boarding school.”

Mrs. Plunkett chuckled. “If your father were going to marry anyone, he'd have done it by now. There was no one for him but your mother, and I don't believe there ever will be.”

Emma frowned thoughtfully. “I wish I remembered more about her. Miss Billings, would you like to see my mother's portrait? It's in one of the upstairs parlors. She used to take her tea there.”

“Yes, I would like that,” Tasia said, taking a bite of apple tart. She wasn't hungry, but she forced herself to eat.

“You'll be very happy here,” the cook told her. “Lord Stokehurst provides a large housekeeping allowance, so nothing is rationed. We have all the butter we want, and ham every Sunday. And we've plenty of soap, eggs, and good tallow candles for our own use. When visitors come, we hear such stories from their servants. Some never have an egg in their lives! You're a lucky girl to be hired by Lord Stokehurst. But I expect you know that.”

Tasia nodded automatically. She couldn't help wondering how her own servants in Russia had been treated. A wave of guilt came over her as she realized that she had never given a thought to the quality of their food or asked if they had enough to eat. Surely her mother was generous with them—but there was a possibility that Marie might be too self-absorbed to see to their needs. None of them would ever dare ask for anything.

All at once she realized that Emma and Mrs. Plunkett were looking at her strangely.

“Your hand is shaking,” Emma said frankly. “Aren't you feeling well, Miss Billings?”

“You're very pale,” the cook added, her plump face concerned.

Carefully Tasia set down her tart. “I am a little tired,” she admitted.

“I'm sure your room is ready by now,” Emma said. “If you'd like, I'll take you there. We can finish our tour tomorrow.”

The cook wrapped the tart in a napkin and pressed it in Tasia's hands. “Take this, poor lamb. Later we'll send up a supper tray for you.”

“How kind you are.” Tasia smiled into her soft brown eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Plunkett.”

The cook stared after the young woman as she left with Emma. There was silence in the kitchen until the doors closed. All the kitchen maids began to talk eagerly.

“Did you see her eyes? They're just like a cat's.”

“She's all bones. That dress was hanging off her.”

“And the way she talks…some of the words are all fuzzy-like.”

“I wish I talked like that,” one of them said wistfully. “It sounds pretty.”

Mrs. Plunkett chuckled and motioned for them to return to work. “Time for gossip later. Hannah, finish those carrots. And Polly, mind you keep stirring that sauce, or it will be nothing but lumps.”

Luke and Emma sat alone at the linen-covered dining table. The blaze in the marble fireplace cast a warm glow over the Flemish tapestries and the marble carvings on the walls. A servant came to fill Emma's glass with water and Luke's with French wine. The butler uncovered dishes at the sideboard and ladled a fragrant broth with truffles into shallow bowls.

Luke regarded his daughter with a smile. “It always worries me when you look so pleased, Emma. I hope you're not planning to torment the new governess as you did the last one.”

“Oh, not at all. She's much better than Miss Cawley.”

“Well,” he said casually, “I suppose anyone would be preferable to Miss Cawley.”

Emma giggled. “That's true. But I like Miss Billings.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You don't think she's too serious?”

“Oh, no. I can tell that underneath she wants to laugh.”

Luke thought of Miss Billings's implacable face. “Somehow I didn't have that impression of her,” he muttered.

“Miss Billings is going to teach me all about etiquette and propriety, and everything. She says we don't always have to study in the schoolroom upstairs. I can learn just as well if we take our books outside and read under a tree. We're going to read about the ancient Romans tomorrow, and after that we're to speak nothing but French until supper. I'm just warning you, Papa, because if you ask me something after four o'clock tomorrow, I shall be compelled to reply in a language you don't understand.”

He gave her a sardonic glance. “I speak French.”

“Used to,” Emma countered triumphantly. “Miss Billings says if a language isn't practiced frequently, one loses it in no time at all.”