morning and Charles listened, his lips trembling with amusement. “Excellent, excellent!” he said when she was finished and, to her amazement, started to chuckle. “Go ahead and disrupt Jason’s life, my dear. That is
exactly
what he needs. On the surface he may appear cold and hard, but that is only a shell—a thick one, I’ll admit, but the right woman could get past that and discover the gentleness inside him. When she does bring out that gentleness, Jason will make her a very happy woman. Among other things, he is an extremely generous man. . . .” He raised his brows, letting the sentence hang, and Victoria stirred uneasily beneath his intent gaze, wondering if Charles could possibly be harboring the hope that she was that woman.
Not for a moment did she believe there was any gentleness inside Jason Fielding and, moreover, she wanted as little to do with him as possible. Rather than tell that to Uncle Charles, she tactfully changed the subject. “I should receive word from Andrew in the next few weeks.”
“Ah, yes—Andrew,” he said, his eyes darkening.
Chapter Seven
Charles took her for a carriage ride to the neighboring village the next day, and although the outing filled her with nostalgic homesickness for her former home, she enjoyed herself immensely. Flowers bloomed everywhere—in flower boxes and gardens where loving care was lavished upon them, and wild on the hills and in the meadows, tended only by mother nature. The village with its neat cottages and cobbled streets was utterly charming and Victoria fell in love with it.
Each time they emerged from one of the little shops along the street, the villagers who saw them stopped and stared and doffed their hats. They called Charles “your grace,” and although Victoria could tell that he was usually at a loss for their names, he treated them with unaffected pleasantness, regardless of their station in life.
By the time they returned to Wakefield Park that afternoon, Victoria felt much more optimistic about her new life and was hoping for the opportunity to know the villagers better.
To avoid causing any more trouble for herself, she limited the rest of her day’s activities to reading in her own room and two more forays to the compost pile, where she tried unsuccessfully to coax Willie to come closer to her for his food.
She lay down before supper and fell asleep, lulled by the notion that further dissension between herself and Jason Fielding could be avoided if she simply stayed out of his way, as she had thus far today.
She was wrong. When she awakened, Ruth was placing an armful of pastel frocks in the armoire. “Those aren’t mine, Ruth,” Victoria said sleepily, frowning in the candlelight as she climbed out of bed.
“Yes, miss, they are!” Ruth said enthusiastically. “His lordship sent to London for them.”
“Please inform him that I won’t wear them,” Victoria said with firm politeness.
Ruth’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, no, miss, I couldn’t do that. Really I couldn’t!”
“Well, I can!” Victoria said, already heading to the other armoire in search of her own clothes.
“They’re gone,” Ruth said miserably. “I—I carried them out. His lordship’s orders—”
“I understand,” Victoria said gently, but within her she felt a temper she didn’t know she possessed come to a simmering boil.
The little maid wrung her hands, her pale eyes hopeful. “Miss, his lordship said I may have the position of your personal maid, if I’m able to do it properly.”
“I don’t need a maid, Ruth.”
The girl’s shoulders sagged. “It would be so much nicer than what I do now. . ..”
Victoria wasn’t proof against that pleading expression on her face. “Very well, then,” she sighed, trying to force a smile to her lips. “What does a ‘personal maid’ do?”
“Well, I help you dress and make certain-sure your gowns are always clean and pressed. And I fix your hair, too. May I? Fix your hair, I
exactly
what he needs. On the surface he may appear cold and hard, but that is only a shell—a thick one, I’ll admit, but the right woman could get past that and discover the gentleness inside him. When she does bring out that gentleness, Jason will make her a very happy woman. Among other things, he is an extremely generous man. . . .” He raised his brows, letting the sentence hang, and Victoria stirred uneasily beneath his intent gaze, wondering if Charles could possibly be harboring the hope that she was that woman.
Not for a moment did she believe there was any gentleness inside Jason Fielding and, moreover, she wanted as little to do with him as possible. Rather than tell that to Uncle Charles, she tactfully changed the subject. “I should receive word from Andrew in the next few weeks.”
“Ah, yes—Andrew,” he said, his eyes darkening.
Chapter Seven
Charles took her for a carriage ride to the neighboring village the next day, and although the outing filled her with nostalgic homesickness for her former home, she enjoyed herself immensely. Flowers bloomed everywhere—in flower boxes and gardens where loving care was lavished upon them, and wild on the hills and in the meadows, tended only by mother nature. The village with its neat cottages and cobbled streets was utterly charming and Victoria fell in love with it.
Each time they emerged from one of the little shops along the street, the villagers who saw them stopped and stared and doffed their hats. They called Charles “your grace,” and although Victoria could tell that he was usually at a loss for their names, he treated them with unaffected pleasantness, regardless of their station in life.
By the time they returned to Wakefield Park that afternoon, Victoria felt much more optimistic about her new life and was hoping for the opportunity to know the villagers better.
To avoid causing any more trouble for herself, she limited the rest of her day’s activities to reading in her own room and two more forays to the compost pile, where she tried unsuccessfully to coax Willie to come closer to her for his food.
She lay down before supper and fell asleep, lulled by the notion that further dissension between herself and Jason Fielding could be avoided if she simply stayed out of his way, as she had thus far today.
She was wrong. When she awakened, Ruth was placing an armful of pastel frocks in the armoire. “Those aren’t mine, Ruth,” Victoria said sleepily, frowning in the candlelight as she climbed out of bed.
“Yes, miss, they are!” Ruth said enthusiastically. “His lordship sent to London for them.”
“Please inform him that I won’t wear them,” Victoria said with firm politeness.
Ruth’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, no, miss, I couldn’t do that. Really I couldn’t!”
“Well, I can!” Victoria said, already heading to the other armoire in search of her own clothes.
“They’re gone,” Ruth said miserably. “I—I carried them out. His lordship’s orders—”
“I understand,” Victoria said gently, but within her she felt a temper she didn’t know she possessed come to a simmering boil.
The little maid wrung her hands, her pale eyes hopeful. “Miss, his lordship said I may have the position of your personal maid, if I’m able to do it properly.”
“I don’t need a maid, Ruth.”
The girl’s shoulders sagged. “It would be so much nicer than what I do now. . ..”
Victoria wasn’t proof against that pleading expression on her face. “Very well, then,” she sighed, trying to force a smile to her lips. “What does a ‘personal maid’ do?”
“Well, I help you dress and make certain-sure your gowns are always clean and pressed. And I fix your hair, too. May I? Fix your hair, I
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