“This is Miss Jane Stone, I hope,” said he. “Charles Thornfield, at your service, supposing ever I can be. I’ve so looked forward to greeting young Sahjara’s governess, I can hardly express my enthusiasm.”
My rival’s voice was a baritone with all the complexity and smoke of a good whiskey; yet it was not sombre—the sardonic edge I had seen in his bow likewise seasoned his greeting, and I fought an inappropriate smile.
If I were to kill this very intriguing man, I wonder how difficult he would make the task?
“Is my charge’s name Sahjara, then? I am pleased to meet you, and shall be still more pleased to meet your daughter.”
“You shan’t, actually.” Mr. Thornfield corrected. “Sahjara is her name and you may even be pleased to meet her, nothing is impossible, but the sprite is my ward. Frankly, there were irregularities about your application which drew me to you.”
My heart gave several futile thumps as I took the glass of wine from Mr. Singh.
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
“You see, I could not recognise any of the references you gave, though all returned my correspondence with the highest praises. My hope was that you worked in other . . . eccentric households. Capital, here she is! Sahjara, this is your new governess, Miss Jane Stone.”
A honey-skinned, poised little girl entered the room, led by a woman of an age and complexion close to Mr. Singh’s; this matron wore a drab dress after the manner of housekeepers, and thus might have been unremarkable—save for a white scar which blazed across her brow like a line dashed through text. At the sight of her, my crackling nerves settled a little. This seemed an entirely new household to the previous—and if they had retained any of my aunt’s staff, they were highly unlikely to be people who had ever paid me the slightest attention.
My charge, meanwhile, was attired in ivory muslin perfectly suited to her own golden complexion, wherein I divined the reason for Mr. Thornfield’s choosing me: she must have been half-born of foreign parentage. Sahjara’s eyes were black and darting, and her thick black hair had been braided into a queue—upon closer inspection, I thought her closer to eight than ten. I felt immediate relief that I should not have to manage anyone who fit more neatly into society than I did.
“I am Miss Stone,” I introduced myself, rising.
“Sahjara Kaur,” said she, curtseying.
“Miss Stone, may I present the Young Marvel,” said Mr. Thornfield dryly, pouring himself a whiskey. To my surprise, he did not remove his close-fitting gloves, an egregious breach of etiquette.
“What sort of horse do you ride?” Sahjara asked next.
“Actually,” I replied, stopping there.
“Behold the first spectacular feat of the Young Marvel!” Charles Thornfield leant against the sideboard. “She can take any topic—or no topic whatsoever, working from merest air—and shift the conversation to horses.”
“Because you see,” the child continued doggedly, “I’ve nearly outgrown my pony, and Charles says that if I’m very cautious, I might try a small mare.”
“Brava!” Mr. Thornfield set his drink down to clap neatly gloved hands. “A pitch-perfect performance, and unasked for, as all the best are.” Though he was clearly the most sardonic creature alive, perversely his gaze twinkled with affection.
I sat, taking her hands; I had thought long over whom I should model myself after, and tried to say as warmly as Miss Lilyvale would have, “I’ve never owned a horse, though I love them and used to visit the stables at Lowan Bridge School whenever I could.”
And the ones just off your own east wing, come to that.
Sahjara’s jaw plummeted in horror. “No! But how horrid. Don’t you ride, then? You can have one of our horses, save Charles’s stallion.”
Mr. Thornfield chuckled. “In astonishing succession, Miss Stone, with such dexterity the mind reels, you have just witnessed the second remarkable facility of the Young Marvel.”
“Which is?”
“Giving away my property to whomever she pleases, whenever she pleases.”
Sahjara tossed her head; I noted with fascination another ornamental silver comb, this one flowery and delicate, and as she set a hand to her hip in a most un-English gesture I found delightful, a silver bracelet flashed in the firelight.
“Tedious bhisti,”* she accused her guardian, but there was no heat, merely warmth.
“Tiresome changeling,” Mr. Thornfield returned, winking at her.
This harmless exchange so perversely reminded me of being spitefully called vermin and scavenger in the same room that a small knot rose in my throat; I hastened to change the subject.