to instruct her.’
‘Oh dear, was she so bad?’
‘A perfect hoyden. She ran through at least a dozen governesses. Do not look so dismayed, ma’am, the Coales are renowned for being wild to a fault. Not all families will be as bad.’
‘No-o.’ Zelah was not convinced. She gave herself a little shake. ‘I have not given up hope, Major. I have already sent off more advertisements. I am sure something will turn up.’
‘Of course it will.’ He put down his cup. ‘It is growing late and I must get back.’
He rose and crossed the room to take his leave of his hostess. Zelah felt a deep sense of disappointment that he was going so soon, which was irrational, since she had avoided his company most of the evening.
Nicky was making good progress. By the end of the week he was hobbling around the garden, showing off his heavily bandaged leg to all the servants.
Zelah watched him from her bedroom window. He was in the garden, talking to the aged retainer employed to cut the lawn. She was too far away to hear what was being said, but she could imagine him recounting the tale of how he hurt his leg. The old man was leaning on his scythe and giving the boy his full attention, even though she was sure he would have heard the story several times over. She put her chin on her hands, smiling. Nicky had such a natural charm, no wonder everyone loved him. Reginald was taking him to join the vicar’s little school next week and she hoped the other boys would take to him.
There was a knock at the door.
‘If you please, miss, Major Coale is here to see you.’
‘Is my sister not available?’
The maid bobbed another curtsy. ‘He asked to speak to you, ma’am.’
‘Oh.’
She turned to the mirror and picked up her brush, then put it down again. Without removing all the pins, brushing out her curls and pinning it all back up again, which would take far too long, there was not really much improvement she could make, save to tuck an escaping tendril behind her ear.
Zelah pulled the neckline of her gown a little straighter, smoothed out her skirts and, after a final look in the mirror, made her way downstairs to the morning room.
The major was standing by the window, his back to the room and his hands clasped behind him.
‘Good morning, Major Coale.’ He turned to face her, but with his back to the light Zelah could not read his expression. She said quickly, ‘Nicky is in the garden, sir, if you wish to see—’
‘No, it is you I came to see,’ he interrupted her, his tone more clipped and curt than ever.
She sank on to a chair. He ignored her invitation to sit down and took a turn about the room. Zelah waited in silence, watching him. His right leg was dragging and he was frowning, the crease of his brow making the scar running down his face even more noticeable. Zelah clasped her hands tightly together and waited.
‘Miss Pentewan.’ His shadow enveloped her as he stopped before her chair. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he took another turn about the room, saying as he walked, ‘You may think I should have spoken first to Buckland or perhaps to your sister, to sound them out on the matter, but you are of age, and knowing how you value your independence I decided to address you directly.’
Zelah dropped her gaze. There was a slight crease in her own brow now. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs she thought it might burst free at any moment. She hoped he would not expect her to speak, for her throat felt so tight she could hardly breathe. He approached, his steps thudding a soft, uneven tattoo on the carpet and soon she was staring at the highly polished toes of his topboots, yet still she could not look up.
He cleared his throat again. ‘Miss Pentewan, I have a proposal for you.’
Zelah closed her eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning. After a few deep breaths she opened her eyes, but could not bring herself to look up into the major’s face. Instead she fixed her gaze on the rather poor landscape painting on the wall.
‘A p-proposal, sir?’ Her voice was little more than a croak.
‘Yes.’
She jumped up and went to the window, her hands on her burning cheeks. What was she to say? Could this really be happening? She kept her back to him as he began to speak again.
‘You have honoured me with your confidence and informed me that you are seeking employment as a governess. I want to ask—that is, would you consider a rather … different form of employment?’
The heat and colour fled from her cheeks as swiftly as it had come. She wheeled around, this time firmly fixing her eyes upon his face. Her heart was still hammering but there was such a confusion of thoughts in her head that she felt sick. She swallowed, hard.
‘Just what are you offering me, Major?’
He looked uncomfortable. She found herself praying.
Please do not let him say it. I cannot bear to think he would even ask …
‘Miss Pentewan, you will know I am alone at Rooks Tower.’ Her heart sank even lower. She clenched her hands together, closed her eyes and prepared her answer even as he continued. ‘I have been struggling for some weeks now but—madam, would you consider working as my archivist?’
‘Sir, thank you, but I could not possibly—what?’
He shrugged. ‘Archivist, librarian, I am not sure what title you would use, but I need someone to put my books in order. Rooks Tower has a large library and I intend to make use of it. I have had the room decorated, but have done nothing about unpacking the books I brought with me from Markham. I have collected a great number of volumes over the years and transported them all here, but they are in no particular order. It is the devil of a job and with the summer coming on I need to be supervising the work outside as much as possible. I just haven’t the time …’
She blinked at him.
‘You … you want me to, to arrange your books?’
‘Yes. Oh, I know it is not the type of work you were looking for, but from our discussions I received the impression that you were intent upon becoming a governess because that is the only respectable occupation available to a young woman.’
‘Respectable, yes, and … I know nothing about organising a library!’
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
‘You told me you knew nothing about children, but that has not stopped you advertising yourself as a governess. I need someone to sort out all those damn—dashed volumes.’
‘But surely you should employ a scholar to do this, someone who understands the value of your collection—’
Again that grimace distorted his features.
‘I
