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It took only a moment for her to realize her mistake. She sent up a silent plea, hoping he’d miss it.
He didn’t. “Why can they not work for the same employer?”
Damn! “Because girls who have known each other for a long time like to talk, and it would be better if their fellows and employers did not learn certain details concerning their former lives. My primary objective in teaching them these skills is to ensure they are able to earn a living. Placing them in the same house together when they leave here poses a threat to that end. It would be a disservice to them.”
“You don’t think you can trust them to keep their own secrets?” Though a faint smile curved his mouth, his brow furrowed with disapproval. “I think you doubt them wrongly.”
“Perhaps,” she said, bristling. Who was he to judge her methods and find them lacking? “But they are children, and children make mistakes. They don’t always comprehend the long-term consequences of their immediate actions, not even after being repeatedly warned against foolishness. Just one pair of loose lips could bring disaster down on us all.”
His smile had faded, and his manner now became sharp. “How could one girl’s indiscretion have such a large impact?”
Inwardly, she quailed. I’ve made so many mistakes today! Outwardly, she tried to project an air of confident disdain. “How would prospective employers react if they learned that not all of my girls are from ‘decent’ families? Do you think they would hire any more of my pupils or neglect to tell their friends of their discovery?”
The anger that had billowed her sails drained away. “I’m responsible for all the young ladies here,” she said, feeling the weight of that responsibility even more than usual. “As such, I must do everything I can to protect the integrity of this school and its reputation.” She passed her hands over her face and repressed a groan. “Please try to understand that, in my position, the demands of logic must outweigh the desires of the heart. No matter how much I want to keep them together, I cannot take the risk.”
On opening her eyes, she saw a strange look of consternation cross his features before he spoke. “My apologies. I misspoke out of ignorance.”
She nodded, bewildered by his sudden turn. “Thank you, monsieur.”
In the act of reaching across her desk to retrieve her missive to Mr. Sharpton, Jacqueline noticed her cuff had ridden up and the lace had bunched, exposing her scarred wrist. Snatching the parchment, she set it down before her and then lowered her hands to open the drawer beneath in pretense of searching for something. Tugging the sleeve back down, she glanced at Mr. Woodson’s face.
Did he see? No. Or at least, she didn’t think so. His eyes were busy roaming about the room, no doubt cataloguing the general disorder. She rummaged in the drawer and withdrew a new stick of sealing wax. I must be more careful.
…
Will barely stopped himself from exclaiming in shock at the sight of the pale, puckered scar circling Trouvère’s wrist. He looked away before she could catch him staring at it.
Now he knew why instead of the tight elbow-length sleeves currently in fashion, hers went all the way to her wrists before ending in a froth of lace.
My God… Had she done it to herself? He risked another glance.
No. It wasn’t the sort of mark left by a blade; it was the sort
of scarring left by rope rubbing and cutting into flesh. Horror warred with curiosity. How had she come by such a terrible wound?
Did she have a matching one on the other wrist? He’d seen such marks before in his line of work, and they usually came in pairs. Those who bore them had almost always been held prisoner at some point and struggled against their bonds. From the layered look of the scar, she’d done so for an extended period of time.
Thoughts tumbled over one another in a melee of suspicion, accusation, and speculation. She was French. Had she fled incarceration in France and settled in England to escape justice? Was Trouvère really her name? What was a woman with scars like that doing running a school?
She has suffered. The thought evoked a queer sensation of heaviness inside him, as if a weight had settled on his chest. Whatever the origin of that scar, she’d endured great pain in the making of it.
Who put it there? He longed to ask, but the way she snatched her hands back and drew them down out of sight behind her desk made him suspect she wouldn’t want to discuss it. One after another, questions popped up in his mind like mushrooms after a rain.
Who is she, really?
“Monsieur?”
Will started and realized he’d been staring off into oblivion. She was holding out a sealed letter. Cloth and lace now covered her hand all the way to the knuckles. He took the missive. “Thank you. I’ll see he gets it right away.”
“Monsieur Woodson, are you unwell?”
Looking into her eyes, he saw fear in them. “Not at all. Just tired. I did not sleep much last night.”
Pink suffused her cheeks, mystifying him. “Missing your old home, no doubt,” she said with a shaky little laugh.
“Yes, it takes time to become accustomed to a new place,” he answered awkwardly. “It’s not as quiet as where I used to live. The neighbor keeps a dog chained out by his back door, and I’m afraid it—”
“Bays at odd hours?” she finished for him.
