Jane Steele(47)
“Oh, I haven’t really any others,” the girl demurred, though her gaze found Mr. Thornfield’s through her winglike eyelashes.
“Blatant fibs are considered unfashionable in British chicos,* so don’t tell ’em.” The master of the house dropped a mock-gallant kiss inches above her hand, as if she were royalty. “She can ride as if she were born in the saddle—always could do, from before she could walk, and I promise you, Miss Stone, it is damned infuriating.”
As Sahjara blushed dusky rose, Mr. Singh returned. “All is in readiness, Mr. Thornfield, with your baggage packed and Falstaff saddled.”
“Thank you, Sardar. Please explain to the new governess the limits placed upon her movements within the house.”
“Of course, sir.”
Whether my hackles rose faster than my curiosity, I could not say.
What limits should be imposed upon my movements, when I am to this very manor born?
“Miss Stone, I hope you shall be happy here, though happiness is hardly typical of governesses, I take it, and we no more fashionable a household than the nearest costermonger’s—consider any hope of glimpsing society maidens at lavish balls hosted here crushed.” Draining his spirits, Mr. Thornfield offered me his hand, yet sheathed in expensive kid.
Astonished, I rose and took it, he observing my discomfiture. “You’ll pardon the necessity of my going gloved, I hope? Or are you the severe breed of Englishwoman, the sort who abhor vice and irregularity equally and shall devote your night to prayers on behalf of my immortal soul?”
Englishwoman? I thought, for what else should I have been?
I replied truthfully, “The journey was a trying one, sir, and I am fatigued—I’ve no intention of praying for you at all.”
Mr. Thornfield took half a step closer, eyes narrowing. Though he was not tall, I was diminutive, and he peered down his straight nose with one side of his mouth twitching—whether into a frown or a smile I could not tell. His manner was so rudely scrutinising, I at last extricated my hand.
“You’re oddly honest, for a schoolgirl turned domestic dependent,” he asserted.
As is so often the case at the worst possible times, I laughed. Quickly subduing myself, I amended, “Merely weary, sir—I’ve no wish to offend.”
“Possibly not,” he mused, stepping back again. “You’ll do, Miss Stone—supposing you can keep up with the wild beast in your charge. Idderao,* Sahjara.” His ward threw her arms around him. “I’ll return in a few days’ time.”
“Sooner,” she protested, half-muffled by his coat.
“Will you listen to her?” He sighed. “Is there anything else I can do for you, small tyrant? Should you like a war elephant? The moon, perhaps?”
“Sooner,” she insisted, pouting.
“If I can, darling.” He pulled away, straightening his waistcoat and glancing at the standing clock, one of the few familiar objects in this bewildering sea of opulence. When next he spoke, his soft tone had regained its bite. “Sardar, bring Falstaff round to the gate.”
“Of course, sir.”
Sweeping up a tall hat from the piano bench, he tipped it to the pair of us.
“Do not burn down the house,” he commanded sternly as he swung up an accusing index finger, lending me yet another shock.
Sahjara took my elbow. “I was reading late, and some curtains caught fire,” she whispered. “I was dreadfully sorry.”
“You were merely disappointed at the interruption; had I cut off your hands, you should have been sorry,” Charles Thornfield growled—but it was a lion’s purr, not its roar. “Until next week, then! Good riddance to the pair of you. I can tell I’ll have twice the deviltry to reckon with now.”
Too true, I thought as he disappeared; but when Sahjara turned her teeth up to flash me a grin, I confess I could not sense a scrap of wickedness—in her, at least—at all.
? ? ?
Sahjara wished to sit up late talking of riding (and of foaling, breeding, racing, and the horse species in the abstract). What ought to have been an annoyance felt a balm; I liked hearing her earnest chatter; I liked the bizarre dishes served alongside our tea—buttered sandwiches, yes, but also a curry-scented bread which drove memories of Aunt Patience’s arrogant tiered refreshments straight from my mind.
At nine o’clock, when we were both nodding, I recalled that I was a severe governess, the hired instructor of a rich man’s charge, and rang the bell. Sahjara went meekly enough with the scarred woman when I promised to take a full tour of the stables upon the morrow, and I found myself in the company of Mr. Singh, blinking exhaustedly at the indigo tapestries which had replaced the choleric portraits along the staircase.
“Your room has been made ready and your trunk brought up, but do not hesitate to ring,” Mr. Singh said as we ascended. I did not have to feign unfamiliarity with my surroundings—the bones of Highgate House remained, but its skin had been shed.
“I expect the coach shall have worn me clean through.”
“So often the way with coaches,” he intoned.
“Is Sahjara a relation of Mr. Thornfield?”
I imagined slight hesitation before Mr. Singh replied smoothly, “No. Miss Kaur is the daughter of an old friend. As I said, if you need anything, ring for Mrs. Garima Kaur—our housekeeper, whom you saw before—and she will attend you. Though she speaks little English, she will understand you if you make a request.”