cheap gown when he saw one. And that look in her eyes, as if she were braced against something—as if she faced a firing squad—ripped at him.
‘Sit down, Miss Woodrowe,’ he said. Even if she didn’t need to sit, he did.
Those bright eyes narrowed slightly and her mouth, soft pink, tightened. He cursed himself mentally. What was wrong with him that he could not even couch an invitation politely? Nevertheless, she sat. He sat down facing her.
‘Miss Woodrowe...’ he began. And stopped. Dash it! This was impossible! How did you ask a young lady what had happened to her fortune?
She saved him the trouble.
‘Mr Bascombe, the son of my father’s oldest friend, got into debt gambling and used my fortune to try to repair his losses.’ She said this flatly, as though it had lost the power to upset her. ‘He lost everything. His own money as well as mine. Then he took what everyone considered the honourable way out.’
Alex’s jaw tensed. To his mind there was nothing honourable about committing suicide to avoid the consequences of your selfishness. ‘When was this?’ he asked quietly.
‘More than two years ago.’
That explained why he hadn’t heard. A little over two years ago he’d taken a sabbatical and gone to the Continent for a few months. It also explained the shabby gown and cloak, but— ‘And you only came to your uncle’s home two weeks ago?’
Her face froze. ‘I took a position as a governess.’
Pride. He could understand that, but nevertheless... ‘Do you not think it might have been better to come to your uncle immediately?’ he asked gently. ‘Is he your guardian now?’
Her face blanked. ‘I’m one and twenty, sir.’
Of age now, but she had gone out into the world alone at nineteen? His jaw clenched. ‘And do you not think it better to remain in his care anyway?’ The idea of her fending for herself as a governess! What on earth was Sir Nathan thinking to be permitting it?
‘No.’
He cleared his throat, hoping he wasn’t going to sound stuffy. ‘Miss Woodrowe, even if I thought it proper to remove you from the protection of your relatives, it would not answer.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘I have had experience teaching—two boys as well as a girl—and it was not for incompetence that I was dismissed—’ She broke off, biting her lip.
‘I need a schoolmaster,’ he said, tactfully ignoring her slip. ‘Not a schoolmistress.’ What on earth had she been dismissed for?
She scowled. ‘Why? I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would. And I can teach the girls sewing and other household skills, such as brewing simples, that would help fit them for service, and—’
‘You can’t live here!’ he said.
‘Here?’
‘In the rectory,’ he said. ‘The schoolmaster is to lodge here.’
‘But the cottage you are going to use has two rooms,’ she said. ‘I assumed that—’
‘No. He will live here,’ said Alex firmly. What use was a curate stuck away in the schoolhouse? And why make the poor fellow hire someone to cook and clean for him when the rectory was full of unused bedchambers and an unused chess set?
Miss Woodrowe’s brow knotted. ‘But, sir, will you not consider—?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Woodrowe, the schoolmaster is also to be my curate, you see.’
‘Oh. I see.’ All the bright determination ebbed and her eyes fell. ‘I...I did not realise that.’
Her hands twisted in her lap and his own clenched to fists at what he had seen in her face. She had, he realised, wanted the position. Desperately. Shaken, he said, ‘My dear, surely you don’t really need such a position? You have a family to care for you, and—’
She rose swiftly, reached for her cloak and swung it around her shoulders, even as he scrambled to his feet. ‘I apologise for disturbing you, sir.’ Her gaze met his again, shuttered, the soft mouth set firmly. ‘Please do not concern yourself any further. Good day to you.’
Alex blinked. He rather thought he had just been dismissed in his own library. Pride goeth before a fall, of course, but this girl had already taken the fall... ‘Miss Woodrowe—’
She was halfway to the door and he leapt to reach it first and open it.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said politely.
Dignity, he realised. Not pride. A scrap of memory floated to the surface; it had been known that Miss Woodrowe was intended for Sir Nathan and Lady Eliot’s eldest son, Tom, from the time they were children. Lady Eliot, he recalled, had mentioned it once. Or twice. She had viewed the match as a settled thing.
‘Miss Woodrowe—what about your cousin?’
She turned back, one small hand in its worn glove on the door frame. ‘My cousin? Which one?’
The coolness held a warning, but he ignored it. ‘Your cousin—Mr Tom Eliot. Was there not...’ he hesitated ‘...some understanding between you?’ Tom was a pleasant enough fellow, a little foolish, easily swayed by his mother, but surely a better choice for Miss Woodrowe than working as a governess?
Her eyes chilled. ‘Yes. There was an understanding. But it involved my fortune. Not me.’ She turned away, chin elevated a notch.
‘Miss Woodrowe!’ Surely she had not turned her back on her cousin out of pride! ‘If you have refused a good man out of wilful pride—’
She stared at him, something odd in her expression. ‘Refused my cousin, Mr Martindale?’ Bitterness rimed her voice and that mouth, which he remembered as made for smiles and laughter, curved into a travesty of a smile. ‘There would have to be something to refuse first. Tom never actually offered for me. Good day to you, sir. Thank you for your time.’
Alex drew a deep breath and realised that interrogating Miss Woodrowe on the clearly painful subject of her non-existent betrothal to Tom Eliot was not a good idea. Instead he saw her out politely, and went immediately in search of enlightenment.
Mrs Judd put him right at once. ‘Miss Woodrowe, sir? Oh aye. It was well known that she was to marry Master Tom. Lady Eliot had it all worked out from the time they was little. When old Mr Woodrowe died, she was that determined little Miss Polly should come to them, but Mrs Woodrowe refused and Sir Nathan didn’t push on it.’
Alex waited. There was never any need to probe with Mrs Judd. Once she was away on village gossip, there was no stopping her. He usually took care not to start her, feeling that, as rector, it ought to be beneath him to listen to gossip. Unless, as in this case, he needed information. Then she was a godsend and he did his very best not to view it as entertainment. In this case, as her daughter was cook to the Eliots, she was the best source he could hope for.
‘Course
