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Chapter Five
“A book may be the ruin of innocence; the prop of virtue; the comfort of the weak; the terror of the strong; the polisher of a mind; or the depraver of a heart.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Matilda paced, poked the fire, peered out the window and then paced some more whilst awaiting her employer.
Never having been one for a protracted toilette, she’d washed with the pitcher of water left by the maid, donned the brighter of her four yellow gowns – after all, it was to be dinner – and then…twiddled her thumbs to knots in this stylish drawing room.
Customarily, if worries assailed or nerves seized, she’d read a novel for distraction or a poem to still her thoughts, and although, as requested, Mr Hawkins had supplied the necessary volumes for the schoolroom, she’d found nothing further.
Plays? Sonnets? The latest scurrilous romance novel? The back of a Fortnum and Mason biscuit tin?
She’d perused the shelves – not one book.
Examined the mantelpiece and behind the tray of decanters – devoid.
Poked around the plant pots – barren.
Huffing, she tapped a lip and gazed into the gilt mirror that hung over the fireplace, the drawing in of dusk obscuring the reflected corners of the room not lit by the elegant sconces.
Without fictional fancy to settle her mind, she’d end up mad as a March hare, be found burbling insanity around Green Park in solely her petticoats.
The window seat caught her eye in the mirror, surely a prime place to read and hence discard a novel, so she glanced at the clock. Still time, and she hurried over, yanking the cushion aloft.
But nothing, and her shoulders slumped.
“You appear…dismayed, Miss Griffin.”
Matilda spun, Pomona-green cushion in hand.
Propped against the doorframe was Mr Hawkins, head tilted, that scarred eyebrow raised in query.
Composing her features to pious and patient as Miss Appleton had sourly decreed, Matilda smiled in innocence.
“No, no, I am quite content, Mr Hawkins, thank you, just…plumping.” She pulverised the cushion for good measure, as she’d seen maids do, then carefully placed it on the seat at a fashionable angle. “Chloe and I had an exceedingly productive day. She’s a delightful girl.” And to further divert attention, Matilda deployed her deepest curtsey – one more advocated for noblemen than pugilists.
Straightening from his lounged position by the door, Mr Hawkins sketched an equally profound bow and entered the room.
Matilda’s nerves heightened.
Although the door was open, with the maid dawdling in the hall, Matilda had never, not once, been so alone with a man – other than the brief encounter with her malodorous betrothed, but that did not count.
This was a…real man.
All rippling physique and glossy walnut hair, immense hands straightening a perfect cascade cravat with ruby stick pin.
A leaf-green waistcoat highlighted the flickers in his eyes, the material clinging indecently, its collar narrow with two rows of silk-covered buttons climbing his chest like an inviting ladder. Lower, his whipcord thighs – powerful and strident – were encased in a black silk which complemented his jacket.
Matilda’s gaze dipped to the rug as she recollected a book concerning male plumage: how any subsequent delight felt within a female of the species was an instinctive response and nothing at all to do with one’s own inclinations – the book had in fact been concerned with the mating habits of pelicans but surely explained the tendrils of pleasure which now coursed.
Attraction was a mere primitive and animalistic reaction to a male in prime fettle.
“And you are not concerned by my daughter’s pastime?” he enquired, crossing those burly arms.
Matilda straightened her spine. “I daresay it is…out of the ordinary, but Chloe’s manner is respectful, honest and fun. I see no harm, and it appears to give her an unusual agility and poised balance for even the most arduous of curtseys.”
