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Matilda blinked. She’d no wish to insult anyone and end the day by being disemployed but… “Generally, a lady is not exposed to the…sport, so our opinion is not qualified or taken note of.”
“Hmm.” And her charge nodded.
Content with her diplomatic response and with the likelihood of disemployment lessened, Matilda continued, “Indeed, from the little I know, it appears most gruelling and with my small stature and paltry strength, I doubt I would be capable.”
“‘Our doubts are traitors…’” murmured Mr Hawkins.
Matilda frowned. ‘…And make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.’ She slid her confused gaze across the table, noted those rough fingers caress a fragile glass stem with care and serenity. Those words of Shakespeare spoke her very thoughts at times: fear for her future struggles as governess and the treacherous doubts that crept in when alone in her bed.
But where had he learned these quotes?
“Did you attend school, Mr Hawkins?” She didn’t mean to be rude but…
Chloe filled her mouth with meringue.
“Only on Saturdays at the local charity school. My father was a coal heaver and I followed in his footsteps. No time for learning.”
“No, of course.” And she supposed a man whose profession involved pugilism would not have need of reading material – walloping and thumping being learned through experience.
“Do you…” She bit her lip. “Do you know if a circulating library happens to be nearby?”
Mr Hawkins leaned back with levelled eyes that could pierce diamond. “Are we lacking in something, Miss Griffin? Do you require more books for the schoolroom?”
What could she say? It was just that she missed them, by her bed and in her palm, like dear friends surrounding her, the touch of smooth paper, the smell of bound leather. When she’d awoken at night, afraid and alone in the nursery, a book had soothed her, tales of the tropical Molucca Islands and its native birds lulling her back to sleep. One day, she’d travel there…
Mathematics and grammar were all very well, but rather dry.
Oh, why had she not filched just one book of poetry from her bedside table?
Pride, she thought dejectedly. Not wanting to take anything from Astwood.
However, now she led a working life and could not expect possessions of her own. Perchance when she’d saved some wages, she could dash to Hatchards and buy a small volume, just for herself.
Never should she have brought up the subject, as surely it appeared ungrateful – she had wonderful food, a warm bed and agreeable plumage to look upon.
“No, ’tis fine. Please forget I mentioned it, Mr Hawkins.” And Matilda endeavoured a smile.
Her employer frowned, a puckering that appeared foreign to his brow, then dropped his serviette to the table. “I shall expect you in my study at the hour of ten on the morrow, Miss Griffin. We will discuss it then.”
Oh botheration.
