Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(12)

Luke set down his spoon, wondering what kind of an act the governess was putting on for his daughter. Perhaps she was trying to befriend Emma so that when it came time to leave, she could use his daughter's feelings as a weapon against him. He didn't like it. Karen Billings had better watch her step carefully, or he would make her rue the day she was born. Only a month, he reminded himself, keeping his temper under tight rein. “Emma, don't become too attached to Miss Billings. She may not be with us for very long.”

“Why not?”

“Any number of things could happen. She may not do an adequate job of teaching you. Or she may decide to accept another position.” He took a sip of wine. “Just keep it in mind.”

“But if I want her to stay, she will,” Emma said stubbornly.

Luke didn't reply, only picked up his spoon and dipped it in his soup. After a minute, he changed the subject and began to tell her about a thoroughbred horse he was thinking of buying. Emma followed his lead, carefully avoiding any mention of the governess for the rest of the meal.

Tasia wandered about her room, a third-floor chamber with a charming round window. She was pleased by the thought that the sun would wake her each morning. The narrow bed was covered with fresh white linen and a simple quilted blanket. There was a mahogany washstand in the corner, with a chipped porcelain basin decorated in a flowered blackberry pattern. Near the window were a chair and table, and on the opposite wall a battered armoire with an oval mirror on the door. The room was small, but clean and private.

Her valise had been set by the bed. Carefully Tasia unpacked the hairbrush and the cakes of rose-scented soap that Alicia had given her. It was also because of Alicia that she owned two dresses: the gray one that she was wearing and a black muslin that she hung in the armoire. She wore her grandmother's gold cross under her clothes at all times. The ring from her father was knotted in a handkerchief and hidden at the back of the armoire beneath her personal linens.

Finally Tasia moved the wooden chair to the corner of the room. She stood her icon against the chair back, so that she could look at it when she was in bed. Lovingly her fingers traced the Madonna's tender face. This was her krasnyi ugolok, her “beautiful corner.” All those of Russian Orthodox faith had such a place in their homes, where they could find peace at the beginning and end of each day.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the door. Opening it, Tasia came face to face with a housemaid a few years older than she. The girl wore a starched apron and a cap that covered most of her flaxen hair. Her features were attractive, but there was a hard look about her eyes. Her lips were compressed into a thin line. “I'm Nan,” the girl said, handing her a cloth-covered tray. “Here's your supper. Set it outside the door when you're done. I'll come to collect it in a bit.”

“Thank you,” Tasia murmured, confused by the girl's attitude. She seemed angry about something, though Tasia had no idea why.

Enlightenment was soon in coming. “Mrs. Knaggs says I'm the one who must attend you when you want something. I didn't need the extra work. My knees already ache from going up and down the stairs all day. Now I'm to carry your kindling and cans of bathwater and your supper tray.”

“I'm sorry. I won't require very much.”

Nan sniffed contemptuously and turned on her heel, trudging back down the stairs.

Tasia brought the tray to her table, giving the icon a wry glance as she passed by it. “See what these English are like?” she murmured. The Madonna's face remained placid and long-suffering.

Gingerly Tasia lifted the cloth to see what was beneath. There were slices of duck, a dab of brown sauce, a white roll, and boiled vegetables. All of it was carefully arranged and garnished with violets. There was also a little glass cup filled with pasty white pudding. The same thing had been served at the Ashbournes' home. Blancmange, Alicia had called it. The English seemed fond of food with no flavor. Tasia picked up one of the violets and draped the cloth back over the dinner tray. She wasn't hungry. But if she were…

Oh, if only she could have a slice of dark Russian bread with butter, or salted mushrooms sopped in cream. Or some blinis, the delicate pancakes dripping with honey. Some familiar smell or taste, anything to remind her of the world from which she had come. The last few months of her life were a confusing whirl in her head. Everything had fallen through her fingers like sand. Now she had nothing to hold on to.

“I have myself,” she said aloud, but her voice sounded strained. Absently she wandered across the room and stopped in front of the mirrored armoire. It had been a long time since she had looked at herself, other than taking swift glances to make certain her hair was neat and all her buttons were fastened.

Her face was very thin. The bones of her cheeks looked sharp and delicate. The roundness had gone from her neck, leaving lavender hollows to emerge from beneath her high collar. There was no color in her skin. Unconsciously Tasia clenched her fingers around the violet until its rich perfume spilled into the air. She didn't like seeing the fragile woman in the mirror, a stranger with all the confidence of a lost child. She wouldn't let herself be fragile. She would do whatever was necessary to regain her strength. Discarding the bruised flower, she strode to the table.

Picking up the dinner roll, she bit into it and began to chew. It nearly choked her, but she swallowed and forced herself to eat more. She would finish her supper. She would sleep all night without waking or dreaming…and in the morning she would begin to make a new life for herself.