Three months ago, she had been the daughter of a viscount. A disgraced lady, certainly, after her father’s arrest, but still a lady with a name and a history. Now, she was Miss Norton, governess to the Duke of Oakhart’s sister, with nothing to her name but the clothes on her back and a pouch of coins hidden in her pocket.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of her supper tray, which bore a covered dish of stew, a basket of bread, a small pot of butter, and a plate of apple tart, all arranged with careful precision.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite, the rich flavor of the lamb, the warmth of the bread, the sweet-tart balance of the apples. It had been years since she’d had a meal she hadn’t prepared herself, and longer still since she’d eaten anything that tasted of care rather than necessity. Her life with the vicar had been beyond humble.
When she had finished, she set the tray outside her door as Mrs. Beale had instructed, then returned to preparing for bed. She washed her face and hands in the basin of water, now gone cool, and brushed out her hair with the silver-backed brush that hadbeen laid out for her use. The nightgown slipped over her head with a sigh, settling around her ankles in a pool of pale pink.
Her hand clenched around the necklace she wore, and she closed her eyes, thoughts of what her apparent savior would want in return haunting her until she gave way to exhaustion.
Chapter Six
The morning room was already bright with the summer sun by the time Augusta arrived.
Hudson sat at the head of the table, the morning paper held like a shield, though his coffee cup had not yet been touched. He gave no sign of noticing her entrance, but she felt the shift in the air.
“Good morning, Miss Norton!” Cassie’s voice carried complete disregard for propriety. “I saved you the seat by the window. It’s the warmest. And you can see the garden if you squint.”
She demonstrated screwing up her face until her nose wrinkled.
“Thank you, Cassie.” Augusta took her place, smoothing her skirt and folding her hands in her lap.
She ignored the pointed glance Hudson cast at her over the top of theTimes.
“Mrs. Beale will assist with taking your measurements. I will order a few dresses from the modiste,” he announced without looking up from the paper. He set it down after what felt like forever. “She makes all of Cassie’s clothing, and I trust that the dresses will be ready shortly.”
“Your Grace, that’s not necessary, truly,” Augusta responded instantly. “I could buy some dresses myself with the advance you gave me.”
Hudson shook his head.
Cassie tugged at her arm. “Hudson will have lovely dresses made for you. The modiste makes mine too,” she said. “We will look like sisters.”
There was nothing Augusta could do but nod mutely.
Hudson picked up his paper once more, and she turned to Cassie, racking her brain for a different topic.
“Did you sleep well?”
“I dreamed about Pippin,” Cassie replied. “He was chasing a squirrel, only the squirrel was the size of a sheep and kept turning invisible. If you like, I can draw it for you after breakfast.”
“That would be delightful,” Augusta said with perfect sincerity.
She reached for the teapot, but Cassie was already pouring. The stream arced wildly, missing the cup by a half-inch and puddling onto the saucer. Augusta took the pot quickly.
“Careful, or the tea will be all over the tablecloth,” she said. Then, catching Cassie’s guilty flush, she added, “You’re very strong for your age. That’s a good thing. My father always said women should have hands capable of breaking a wild pony to halter.”
That earned her a barely audible cough from behind the newspaper.
Cassie frowned at the thought for a second, though her mind did not remain there for very long.
“When will I be allowed to see Pippin? He hasn’t been out of the kennels since Monday. He’ll be absolutely mad with loneliness, and it’s not fair to make him wait until after dinner.”
Augusta stirred her tea, considering. “The schedule, as I understand it, is breakfast, then lessons, then Pippin.”
Cassie’s lower lip assumed its world-famous quiver. “He’ll think I’ve abandoned him.”
“I am assured the servants are keeping him quite busy,” Augusta said. “Possibly busier than you.”
“But he only listens to me,” Cassie said, with the desperation of someone who had tried every other argument. “And if he’s lonely, he gets restless. And if he’s restless?—”
