Page 6

“Sara?”

Sara started, almost dropping the heavy iron.

Three days had passed since she’d found the little girl in tears, and Sara figured Evie had forgotten about her.

A relief, she assured herself. But at the oddest moments, she’d catch sight of the girl and wonder if she’d settled in.

She wondered about that stern father of Evie’s, too.

Had he brushed aside Evie’s worries, or would he take the time to understand his little girl?

Not that she’d try to find out. She still hadn’t recovered from the fleeting glimpse of Stephen Osgoode in the front hall. Exactly the reminder she needed to keep her distance from this little girl and stay in the servants’ quarters where she belonged.

“Could I stay here for a while?” Evie was already perched on top of a barrel, her eyes wide and pleading. “I won’t be any trouble.”

It was a risk. She finally had the promise of wages and work to fill her days and numb her mind. But she couldn’t bring herself to refuse those sad eyes. They brought back memories of another lonely little girl, a girl Sara had been trying for ten years to forget.

“Don’t you think you ought to return to the parlor for your lessons?”

“I can’t do my lessons.” Evie looked up and met Sara’s eyes, her lip curled. “It’s French . Miss Giblin says I have no ear for languages. I’m hopeless.”

“Nonsense,” Sara replied. “Tout le monde peut apprendre le francais.”

Evie’s eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

“Anyone can learn French.” Sara held up her hand when Evie opened her mouth to protest. “Repeat after me: Je parle francais. ”

“Je parle francais.”

“See, you’re speaking French.”

“Really?” Evie bounced her seat.

“Yes, really. Are you ready for more?”

As she pushed the heavy iron across the sheets, Sara taught Evie the basic greetings, surprising herself at how much she remembered. How long had it been since she’d practiced French? Ten years? Longer?

Far from being hopeless, Evie soon could introduce herself and ask after the weather.

Sara shook her head in wonder. The girl remembered everything, watching Sara with fierce concentration.

No ear for languages, indeed. She resisted the urge to march right into the parlor and give that snobby Miss Giblin a piece of her mind.

What a sight that would be. The laundress come to teach the governess a lesson.

Evie’s brow wrinkled in concentration as she repeated the French words to describe her favorite place. She spread her arms with a flourish to show Sara the breadth of the lake, only to cry in pain when her hand knocked against the rough planks of the wall.

“What is it, Evie? A splinter?” Sara set the iron on the rack.

“C’est rien.” Evie tucked her hand under her skirt.

“It can’t be nothing if it hurts that much.” Sara looked for a loose nail or a bit of rough wood, then grabbed Evie’s hand to look for a splinter. The girl jerked her hand away, but not before Sara saw the red welts along her palm.

“You’re hurt,” Sara said. “What happened?”

Evie pressed her lips shut. Sara sent a panicked glance to the irons, heating in the fire in the courtyard. “Did you burn yourself?”

Evie shook her head. “It’s nothing. I wasn’t listening, so—”

“I’ve had worse.”

Sara and Evie jumped at Henry’s voice from the doorway. He peered over Sara’s shoulder to examine Evie’s hand with a practiced eye. “Then again, I’m older than you.” He patted Evie’s shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. “Got a temper, does he? Need to learn to stay out of his way.”

Sara turned horrified eyes to Evie. “Your father did this?”

Evie’s head jerked up. “Papa? Of course not.”

Not her father. Sara felt a surge of relief. Whatever his shortcomings, she could absolve James Kinney of this crime. Still, those welts were no accident. She opened her mouth to question Evie further, but Henry jumped in before she could speak.

“You said you were going to tell me more of that story.” Henry crossed his arms with an accusing stare at Evie.

“I will, but I need to practice French first. Or I’ll be in big trouble with the Gob—” She sent a guilty look in Sara’s direction.

Henry leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms with a disgruntled snort. “Hurry up. I want to find out what happens to that Saxon fellow.”

Sara turned to Evie. “Cedric the Saxon?” A character straight out of Ivanhoe . She raised her brows, remembering the scene in the front hall. “I thought your father forbade that book.”

Evie ducked her head. “He only took it away because I disobeyed him. If I have a good report from Miss Giblin, he’ll let me have it back. That’s why I need to practice French.” She elbowed Henry. “Why don’t you learn it, too?”

Henry scoffed at the idea, but he perched on a sack of potatoes, his body tight and alert, interjecting questions and dry comments into Sara’s lesson that had them all giggling.

He had a quick mind and an uncanny ability to mimic voices.

If he weren’t stuck in a world of grinding poverty, he’d make something of himself. Perhaps she should—

Stop, Sara. You can’t save anyone. You can barely keep yourself and Granny alive.

“Henry!” Rawley’s voice bellowed across the courtyard. “You think these stalls will clean themselves?”

Henry straightened. “Better go.”

Evie reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “I’ll find you—”

Henry shook his head. “If you come to the stable now, I’ll get it for sure.”

Evie released her hold on him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to get you in trouble.”

Henry’s eyes softened, the hardness in his face disappearing for a moment. “Rawley’ll be taking his nap after lunch. You... you can come and pet the horses then if you want.” He shuffled his feet.

Evie smiled. “All right.” Her smile faded as Henry darted out the door. She avoided Sara’s eyes as though she knew what was coming next.

“Tell me what happened.” Sara moved to stand in front of Evie and crossed her arms.

“To Cedric the Saxon?” Evie studied her hands, her voice carefully neutral.

Sara narrowed her eyes. The girl was clever, she’d give her that much. “To your hand.”

Evie opened her mouth, then shut it again, and shook her head.

“Evie, no one has the right to hurt you.” Sara softened, moving closer to wrap an arm around Evie’s shoulders. “No one. You need to tell your Papa.”

“No. I can’t tell him. He’ll be so disappointed.”

Sara sighed. Fathers were so difficult to please. “He loves you. He’ll want to know.” She hoped the words were true.

Evie looked down, her lower lip wobbling. “I don’t do it on purpose. I just... can’t seem to care about stitches and parties and how to curtsy.” The words burst from her in a torrent, her voice raw and aching. “Miss Giblin gets so mad when I don’t pay attention.”

Sara tipped up Evie’s chin. “And?”

“She hits me.” Evie’s voice was thick with tears. “With the stick.”

“Oh, Evie,” Sara said, brushing the wild flyaway hair off Evie’s forehead. “Oh, my poor sweet girl.”

James glanced down at Evie as they walked to Cooper’s Inn the next morning. She skipped beside him, oblivious to the cold bite of the wind.

“What do you suppose you’ll learn about today?” he asked, only half expecting a response. These days he got little more than monosyllables in answer to his careful probing.

To his surprise, she sent him a look under her lashes so full of her old mischievous spirit that he took heart.

“Nous parlons francais. Comment ca va, Papa?”

“?a va bien, ma petite. Et toi?” he responded.

Her mouth hung open in surprise for a moment. She tugged his arm, bringing them both to a stop in the middle of the boardwalk. “You can speak French?”

“Enough to get by.”

“Why didn’t you teach me?”

“I’m not fluent. Your mama, on the other hand, was proficient.

” Amelia loved more than just the language.

She ordered furniture from Paris and carpets from Aubusson that they could ill afford.

Not that he’d stopped her, of course. In those first, heady months of marriage, he’d never thought to refuse her anything.

Evie was staring at him, her eyes wide and serious. “My mama spoke French?”

“Yes, of course. Ladies learn French and your mama was most definitely a lady.”

They resumed their progress down the street to Cooper’s Inn. Evie was quiet, her brow furrowed in thought. He’d long pushed memories of Amelia away, as if not mentioning her would protect Evie from feeling the loss of a mother. No wonder Evie was surprised when he brought her up now.

“Papa, do you know the verb être ?”

James scratched his head. “Hmmmm... je sommes, tu êtes ... Is that the one?”

Evie giggled. “No, that’s all wrong. Now, pay attention.”

Warmth spread through his chest as he listened to Evie recite her conjugations. She was happy. Excited at the chance to teach Papa instead of the other way around. His respect for the stern Miss Giblin went up a few notches.

When they arrived at the inn, he followed Evie into the parlor. She stopped at the threshold and sent him a questioning glance.

“Go ahead,” he urged. “Get ready for your lessons. I just want to have a word with Miss Giblin.”

Evie’s eyes widened. “But she likes to start promptly at eight.”

“I won’t take but a moment. Go on.”

He gave her a shove in the door and followed her into the room. She removed her bonnet and headed over to the table where the Misses Cooper sat. Evie’s eyes followed his progress into the room.

Miss Giblin rose at his appearance, her movements slow and precise.

A faint smile curved her thin mouth but didn’t reach her eyes.

When he’d first met her, he worried she would take all the joy of learning from his daughter, for she seemed singularly lacking in any humor or enthusiasm. Now, he knew better.

“Mr. Kinney,” she began. “I’m sure you’re here to discuss Evangeline.”

“Indeed, I am.” He smiled. “And to commend you on the excellent work you are doing. I can scarcely credit all that she’s learned.”

Miss Giblin opened and closed her mouth, as though he’d just pulled the rug out from under her. “Well,” she said finally, looking back at Evangeline.

“I can see you take great pains to educate your pupils,” he continued. “Evie spoke French all the way here.”

Miss Giblin’s eyes widened, and she darted a glance at Evie. “Oh, well, I’m glad she acquitted herself well.”

James smiled. “Very well.” Miss Giblin didn’t betray a flicker of warmth.

A stern woman, but what did that matter, if she knew how to inspire her students?

“Well, I’d best be on my way.” He bowed and turned to leave the parlor, glancing at his pocket watch.

Blast, he was running late, and he’d hoped to go over his arguments once more before the morning session began.

He strode into the corridor—and ran straight into a mound of linens.

White fabric splayed in all directions. His arms shot up to fight for balance, taking hold of the woman behind the linens on instinct to keep her from toppling.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” he said, releasing her arms with a hasty step back.

“I should watch where I’m walking.” He bent to pick up a handful of cloth that had fallen at his feet.

“Not at all,” she replied. “I didn’t look where I was going.”

Her voice, smooth and low, brought him up short. What kind of servant spoke like that? His eyes traveled up, over the coarse fabric of her gown to the mobcap that hid all but a few strands of curling blond hair.

The woman held herself like a lady, shoulders straight, chin high, with none of the deference he might expect from a servant. His eyes came to rest on her face, tracing the delicate line of her jaw. He averted his gaze. Now was not the time to notice that .

She stood back for him to pass, but his feet refused to obey his command. Instead, he stooped to pick up more linens. “I do apologize,” he said, stuffing the last sheet into her basket, his eyes returning to her face.

“Thank you for your help, sir.” Instead of the curtsy he might expect from a servant, she inclined her head in a graceful sweep. He found himself bowing in return.

“Permit me to introduce myself. James Kinney. My daughter takes lessons here.” Her eyes met his as he straightened, deep blue and clear. He was struck again with her calm, the way she held his gaze without deference or confusion.

“Yes. Evie is a delightful child. So curious and eager to learn.”

James couldn’t help but smile at this praise of his daughter, though her words made him even more curious about the woman before him. “You help with the young charges, do you?”

A flush spread over her cheeks and she averted her gaze. “No, no, nothing like that. I just—” She paused. “I’m just the washerwoman.” Her voice lowered until he could barely hear her words.

“O’Connor!” Mrs. Cooper’s shrill voice rang out across the entry. “What are you doing loitering about the public rooms? You’ve fetched the linens. Now get back to the laundry.” Mrs. Cooper strode forward, her hard eyes on the woman.

“Entirely my fault,” James said, battling a startling need to put himself between the woman and her irate employer. The laundress swung about without a word, ducking behind Mrs. Cooper, and scurrying across the common room.

Mrs. Cooper glided over to James, all vestiges of annoyance replaced with a serene smile. “I do apologize, Mr. Kinney. Can’t think what that woman was about to linger in the front rooms.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, his mind still on the laundress who spoke like a lady. There was a puzzle there that he wanted to solve.

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw the woman pause on her way to the kitchens. She looked back, her gaze meeting his for a fleeting moment. An expression crossed her face that James could only describe as... hurt. As though he’d betrayed her somehow.

He realized his absent response to Mrs. Cooper made it sound like he agreed with the woman.

He took a half step forward to—what? Explain himself?

Defend her? What was the matter with him?

The watch in his hand told him there was no time for a delay, for he was expected in the courtroom in half an hour. Besides, he knew nothing about her.

He turned to catch a final glimpse of the woman and realized his explanations would have been futile in any case, for she was gone.