What Happens in Piccadilly - Chasity Bowlin Page 0,24
place to belong, to feel safe and sheltered from all the wicked things in this world,” Miss St. James said softly. “I owe her my gratitude, and my unwavering loyalty and support.”
“You speak of debts, Miss St. James. What of softer feelings? What of the heart?” he asked. It was dangerous territory, to discuss such things with her.
“I love Effie. I could not love her more if we shared a blood kinship. But loyalty and support are a way of showing that affection for her, of demonstrating the depth of my feelings on the matter.” Her answer was decisive and firm. She viewed Euphemia Darrow as her family, that much was obvious.
“And what of the woman who birthed you? Do you owe her anything?” Winn challenged. He needed to know what she knew. Did she have any suspicions of her origins that would dispel his own sweeping theories? He fervently hoped so. Heaven knew it would simplify matters greatly.
“I neither know nor care. She is likely long dead and, if so, knowing her fate will not bring her back nor will it engender some feeling in me for a person who is naught but a stranger,” Miss St. James said.
“And if she were not dead?”
The pretty governess shrugged, but her hardened expression was in clear opposition to her casual posture. “If she were not dead, then her abandonment of me smacks of the kind of selfishness I have just decried. And I am better for not knowing her.”
“You could have other family out there. You could be an heiress,” he suggested. “There’s been a run of lost heirs turning up these past few years.”
Miss St. James laughed at that. “Your imagination runs away with you as much as William’s does! An heiress… I was deposited on the doorstep of a workhouse as an infant. Left in a basket in the freezing cold. That is not what becomes of heiresses, my lord.”
“Which workhouse?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” she snapped. “Is not one workhouse equally horrific to the next?”
“No, they are not.” It was a sad truth and they both knew it.
“Then it is the one whose name I bear. The St. James Workhouse. The very worst of the worst,” she said. “It is where I was deposited as an infant, and where I was returned years later, when my foster parents died.”
“How long were you there?” he asked.
“I was there for just over three years. I was eight when the vicar took me there and dropped me off. I was nearly twelve when Effie saw me through the slats of the gate and demanded that I be given to her care. I think I weighed less when she took me from that place than when I had gone in,” she said flatly. “When you are too small to fight to keep your food, it is quickly taken from you.”
Winn said nothing. What could he say to such a thing? The very idea that the beautiful, articulate, and impossibly bright woman before him might have died of starvation in childhood at one of the very institutions that was intended to prevent such a fate was something he dared not contemplate. It was too devastating to consider. But he meant to get to the truth and now he had a place to start.
“Eat your supper, Miss St. James, and I’ll have the carriage brought round to see you home.”
“I can walk,” she protested.
“It would be very unwise. The fog is growing thick out there and it will be dark. Far too dangerous.”
“Will you not dine with me?” she asked. “We have much to discuss about the children.”
“Tomorrow night, Miss St. James. I find with all these revelations, my time might be better spent sitting in the breakfast room with them while they throw food at one another like wild animals. That is rather the point of your lessons, isn’t it? To put me in the position of being a part of their lives rather than a disinterested observer?”
She ducked her head. “You are a good student, my lord.”
“Apparently, I have a good teacher,” he said. “Enjoy your meal. I shall see you on the morrow.”
Chapter Six
“I don’t know why I have to go shopping. I don’t like shopping!” William groused as he bounced on the opposite seat of the carriage and kicked his legs.
“Do you like trousers that are too short and coats that are too tight?” Callie asked him pointedly. They’d spent the morning at lessons and the afternoon, by mutual agreement