Kitabı oku: «The Regency Bestsellers Collection», sayfa 5
Chapter Seven
Seducing you would never even cross my mind.
What a perfectly timed reminder. Really, the man had a way of withering Alexandra’s pride to a dried-up husk. One moment, he was listening to her babble away about comets, hanging on her words, and complimenting her earlobe, and the next, he left her with a few parting words to remind her that she was a fool.
Embroidery wasn’t her favorite hobby, but Alex planned to stitch those words on a sampler and hang it above her bed:
Seducing you would never even cross my mind.
—Mr. Charles Reynaud, 1817
She no longer wondered at his popularity with women. Devilish charm simply radiated from him, like one of nature’s essential forces. Gravity, magnetism, electricity . . . Chase Reynaud’s masculine appeal.
His every lopsided grin or low, teasing word sent a frisson of excitement rushing along her skin. That alone wouldn’t be a problem. But then her brain caught up all those sensations, rolled them into a ball, and set it on a shelf. As if that quivering mass of feminine reaction was something that deserved to take up space. As if it needed a name.
Well, Alexandra would label it, right this moment.
I-D-I-O-C-Y.
She heard the creak of a door down at street level, and she gave in to the temptation to peer over her windowsill. There he stood, waiting on the pavement in that immaculately tailored black topcoat. He gave his cuffs a smart tug and ran a hand through his tawny brown hair. A pair of matched bays pulled a fashionable blue-lacquered phaeton around from the mews, and the groom handed him the reins.
Off he went to spend his evening enjoying the company of others. And here Alex was left mooning over him like a fool.
She readied herself for bed and put out the candle. And then she lay awake far too long listening for the sounds of a returning phaeton, or the creak of a door. Not that it was any of her concern what time he returned home, or whether he returned at all.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she woke to the sensation of someone poking her in the arm.
Repeatedly.
She opened her eyes halfway. “Rosamund? Is that you?”
“She’s dead.”
Now Alex was awake. She sat bolt upright in bed. “Dead?”
“Millicent. The consumption took her overnight.”
The doll. She meant the doll.
“You gave me a fright.” Alex pressed a hand to her chest. Perhaps her heart would stop racing in a day or two.
“The funeral is prepared. We’ll be waiting on you in the nursery.”
Funeral?
Rosamund was gone before Alex could inquire further. She rose from bed and hastily dressed. Given her disorientation in a new room and the abrupt way she’d been roused from sleep, she didn’t do a very good job of it. After two attempts, she decided she could live with misaligned buttons for the moment, and three passes of the hairbrush would have to be enough. Clenching a few hairpins in her teeth, she made her way into the corridor, winding her hair into a knot as she went.
Alex hoped the standard of attire at this funeral wasn’t overly formal. She’d just jabbed the second pin into her haphazard chignon when she entered the nursery. Millicent lay in the center of the bed, staring up blankly from the swaddling of her shroud. The girls stood on either side. Daisy wore a scrap of black lace netting draped over her head as a veil.
Alex struggled, mightily, not to burst out laughing. If for no other reason than that doing so would launch the remaining hairpins in her mouth like missiles.
She completed her upsweep, composed herself, and approached the bed. To Rosamund, she whispered, “What happens now?”
“We’re waiting on—”
A male voice breezed into the room. “Such a tragedy. Deepest sympathies. A grievous loss.”
Mr. Reynaud had joined the group.
Alex slid a cautious glance in his direction. He wore the same black coat and boots he’d been wearing the night previous. His cuffs were undone, however, and his cravat was missing.
Probably draped over an antler prong somewhere.
He walked toward Daisy and made a deep bow of condolences before holding out his arm so that she could pin something around it.
A black armband.
She recalled his words from a few days ago. Millicent is Daisy’s doll. She kills the thing at least once a day.
So this was why he’d been wearing the black armband a few mornings past, when they’d conducted that farce of an interview in his not-at-all-a-gentleman’s retreat. He hadn’t been in mourning. Not for a human being, at any rate. Perhaps she shouldn’t have judged him quite so harshly.
He bent to place a kiss on Millicent’s painted forehead. “Bless her soul. She looks just as though she’s sleeping. Or awake. Or doing anything else, really.”
Alex’s mouth twitched at the corners, but she bowed her head and tried to appear bereaved.
“Let us begin,” Daisy said solemnly.
They formed a semicircle at the foot of the bed. Rosamund went to Daisy’s right side. Mr. Reynaud assumed what was clearly his usual place at Daisy’s left—which put him next to Alexandra.
She didn’t want to think about where he’d been since she saw him last, but her senses gave her no choice in the matter. When she inhaled, she smelled brandy and sandalwood, and the suggestion that he’d walked through a cloud of cheroot smoke. She didn’t detect any hint of a lady’s perfume, however. That should not have come as a relief, but it did.
She stared at the bedpost and set her mind on tragedy.
“Mr. Reynaud, would you kindly say a few words?” Daisy asked.
“But of course.” He clasped his hands together and intoned in a low, grave voice, “Almighty Father, we are gathered here today to commend to your keeping the soul of Millicent Fairfax.”
Daisy nudged him with her elbow.
“Millicent Annabelle Chrysanthemum Genevieve Fairfax,” he corrected.
Alexandra bit the inside of her cheek. How could the man keep a straight face through all this?
“She will be remembered for her faithful companionship. A truer friend never lived. Not once did she stray from Daisy’s side—save for the few occasions when she rolled off the bed.”
Oh, help. Alex was going to laugh. She knew it. Biting her tongue clean through wouldn’t help.
Perhaps she could disguise a burst of laughter as a cough. After all, consumption was catching.
“Let Millicent’s composure in the face of certain death be a model for us all. Her eyes remained fixed on heaven—and not merely because she lacked any eyelids to close.”
She cast a pleading glance at him, only to catch him glancing back with devilish amusement. He wanted her to laugh, the terrible man. And then, just as she thought she was lost, he took her hand in his, lacing their fingers into a tight knot.
Alex no longer worried she might laugh.
Instead, her heart squeezed.
On Mr. Reynaud’s other side, Daisy clasped her guardian’s hand tight. Then she offered her free hand to Rosamund. The four of them had formed an unbroken chain, and Alex realized the truth. Here were three people who desperately needed each other—perhaps even loved each other—and they would all rather contract consumption than admit it.
Daisy bowed her veiled head. “Let us pray.”
Alex fumbled her way through the Lord’s Prayer, quietly reeling. His grip was so warm and firm. His signet ring pressed against her third and fourth fingers. The moment felt intimate. The way they stood holding hands, heads bowed in prayer, it felt less like a funeral, and more like . . .
More like a wedding.
No, no, no.
What was wrong with her? Had she learned nothing from those months of foolish imaginings? All those silly fantasies had popped like a soap bubble when it became clear he’d forgotten her completely. Chase Reynaud was not the man of her dreams. By his own declaration, he would never even think of seducing her.
She really needed to start on that sampler.
“Lead us not into temptation,” Alex prayed fervently, “but deliver us from evil.”
When the prayer was done, Daisy placed the deceased doll reverently in a toy-chest “grave.”
Mr. Reynaud kept Alexandra’s hand in his. “Well, then, Miss Mountbatten. Now that’s over with, I shall leave you to your pupils.” He gave her hand a light squeeze before releasing it. “Let the education begin.”
Chapter Eight
The education was on hold. Before any lessons could take place, Alexandra had a ten-year-old girl to conquer.
After breakfast, the Rosamund Rebellion commenced.
Silence was her first strategy, and she’d marshaled Daisy into the campaign. Neither of them would speak a word to Alex. Indeed, once the funeral was over, neither of them even acknowledged her presence. Rosamund read her book, Daisy exhumed Millicent, and all three treated Alex as if she didn’t exist.
Very well. Both sides could play at this game.
The next day, Alex didn’t even try to start conversation. Instead, she brought a novel and a packet of biscuits—Nicola had sent her off with a full hamper of them—and she sat in the rocking chair to read. She laughed aloud at the funny bits—really, pigeons?—gasped at the revelations, and loudly chewed her way through a dozen biscuits. At one point, she was certain she felt Daisy gazing at her from across the room. However, she didn’t dare look up to confirm it.
It became a habit. Every day, Alex brought with her a novel, and every day, a different variety of Nicola’s biscuits. Lemon, almond, chocolate, toffee. And every day, as she sat eating and reading, the girls ignored her existence.
Until the morning a foul odor permeated the nursery. A sharp scent that even fresh-baked biscuits had no hope to overpower. As the day grew warmer, the ripe, pungent smell became nauseating. The girls offered no clue as to its origin, and Alexandra would not give Rosamund the satisfaction of asking. Instead she sniffed and searched until she found the source. A bit of clammy, shrunken Stilton buried in her bottom-most desk drawer.
Well, then. It would seem the tactics were escalating. She could rise to the challenge.
Alex had exhausted her supply of biscuits. She brought in a new box of watercolors, bright as jewels in a treasure chest, placing them in easy reach.
The girls dusted her chair with soot.
Alex brought in a litter of kittens Mrs. Greeley was evicting from the cellar. No one could resist fluffy, mewling kittens. And Daisy almost didn’t, until Rosamund yanked her away with a stern word.
That evening, a rotting plum mysteriously appeared in Alex’s slipper—and unfortunately, her bare toes found it.
Rosamund seemed to be daring her to shout or rage, or go complaining to Mr. Reynaud. However, Alex refused to surrender. Instead, she smiled. She allowed the girls to do as they pleased. And she waited.
When they were ready to learn, they would tell her so. Until then, she would only be wasting her effort.
At last, her patience was rewarded. She found her opening.
Rosamund fell asleep on a particularly warm afternoon, dozing off with her book propped on her knees and her head tilted against the window glazing. Alex motioned Daisy closer and laid out a row of wrapped sweetmeats on the table, one by one.
“How many are there?” she whispered. “Count them out for me, and you may have them for yourself.”
Daisy sent a cautious glance toward her sister.
“She’s sleeping. She’ll never know.”
With a small, uncertain finger, Daisy touched each sweet as she counted aloud. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”
“And in this group?”
Daisy’s lips moved as she counted them quietly to herself. “Six.”
“Well done, you. Now how many in both groups together? Together, five and six are . . . ?”
“Daisy,” Rosamund snapped.
Startled, Daisy snatched her hand behind her back. “Yes?”
“Millicent’s vomiting up her innards. You’d better see to her.”
As her sister obediently retreated, Rosamund approached Alexandra. “I know what you’re doing.”
“I never imagined otherwise.”
“You won’t win.”
“Win? I’m not certain what you mean.”
“We will not cooperate. We are not going away to school.”
Alex softened her demeanor. “Why don’t you want to go to school?”
“Because the school won’t want us. We’ve been sent down from three schools already, you know.”
“Don’t say you’d rather remain here with Mr. Reynaud. If it were up to him, you’d have only dry toast at every meal.”
“We’re not wanted by Mr. Reynaud, either. No one wants us. Anywhere. And we don’t want them.”
Alexandra recognized the defiance and mistrust in the girl’s eyes. A dozen years ago, those eyes could have mirrored her own.
A tender part of her wanted to clutch the girl close. Of course you’re wanted. Of course you’re loved. Your guardian cares for you so very much. But to lie would be taking the coward’s way out, and Rosamund wouldn’t be fooled. What the girl needed wasn’t false reassurance—it was for someone to tell her the honest, unflinching truth.
“Very well.” Alex folded her hands on the desk and faced her young charge. “You’re right. You’ve been passed around from relation to relation, sent down from three schools, and Mr. Reynaud wishes to rid himself of you at the first opportunity. You’re unwanted. So what you must decide is this: What do you want?”
Rosamund gave her a suspicious look.
“I was orphaned, too. A bit older than you are now, but I was utterly alone in the world, save for a few distant relations who paid for my schooling—on the condition that they would never have me in their sight. It wasn’t fair. It was lonely, and my schoolmates were cruel, and I cried myself to sleep more evenings than not. But in time, I realized I had an advantage over the other girls. They had to worry about catching a husband to help their families. I was indebted to no one, I answered to no one, and I needn’t meet anyone’s expectations of what a young lady should or shouldn’t be. My life was my own. I could follow any dream, if I was prepared to work hard for it. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
Rosamund gave no acknowledgment, but Alex could tell the girl was listening. Intently.
“So what is it you truly want? If you could have any life you wished, what would it be?”
“I want to escape. Not just this house, but England.”
“Where do you mean to go?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere. I’d take Daisy with me. We’d travel the world, wearing trousers and smoking cheroots and doing as we pleased.”
Alexandra had been hoping to hear “I want to be a painter.” Or a French-trained chef, or an architect. Whatever pursuit Rosamund named, Alex could build lessons on its foundation. But she was quite certain Mr. Reynaud would not approve of lessons in cheroot-smoking. Alex wouldn’t have known how to give them, anyway.
“That sounds like a grand life indeed,” she said, “but how will you support yourselves?”
“I’m perfectly capable of looking after us both.” Rosamund cast a glance at the table. “So you can clear away your nine sweets and leave us alone.”
“You know very well there are eleven sweetmeats.”
“Are there?”
Alex looked. Sure as could be, two sweetmeats were missing. The girl had managed to steal them, right from under her nose, and one of the two was already across the room in Daisy’s hands. Alex could hear the paper crinkling as the younger girl unwrapped it.
“Rosamund, may I tell you something? You will find yourself reluctant to believe it, but it’s the truth.”
The girl gave a lackadaisical shrug. The warmest gesture she’d made toward Alex so far.
“I like you,” Alexandra said. “I like you very much indeed.”
Chapter Nine
Alex woke to darkness.
Disorientation wrapped her brain like a fog. She sat up and shook her head, trying to clear it. Her heart pounded. Perspiration glued her shift to her chest. Worst of all, her stomach pitched and rolled. As if she were at sea.
Dread rose within her, quickly transforming—thanks to Nature’s least helpful of alchemies—into panic.
She fumbled blindly, finding nothing familiar. Her hands grasped bedclothes of the softest flannel. Definitely not her own. Her feet found a solid floor, but as she stood, the floorboards didn’t creak beneath her weight.
Then her knee collided with a chest of drawers. Ouch.
The pain gave her racing thoughts a jolt. Calm yourself, Alexandra. She pressed one hand to her belly and mentally sank through each solid, immovable layer beneath her feet. Wooden floor. Stony plinth foundation. Cobbled London street. The same layer of grainy, musty earth that Romans had packed beneath their sandals, and the bedrock Atlas, supporting the city on his shoulders.
There, now. You’re fine, you ninny.
She wasn’t lost at sea. She was in the Reynaud residence. And she was a governess.
An underqualified, ill-prepared, and thus far unsuccessful governess, but a governess nonetheless.
When she swallowed, her tongue rasped against the roof of her mouth. She was also a thirsty governess.
By now, Alex’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. She went to the washstand and lifted the ewer. It was light in her grip, no sound of sloshing. Empty. Drat. Tomorrow she’d be certain to set a cup of water aside before she retired, but that wouldn’t help her now. She supposed she might ring for a maid, but she hated to bother the staff. She squinted at her compact traveling clock on the washstand. Already five in the morning. She could wait another hour until sunrise, couldn’t she?
Her parched throat objected. No, she couldn’t wait. To most people, the sensation of thirst was an inconvenience. But then, most people didn’t know the minute-by-minute torture of going without water for days at a stretch.
Alex slid her feet into a pair of worn slippers and made her way out of the bedchamber, through the corridor, and down the stairs with silent footsteps. Being small-statured had a few benefits, and stealth was one of them.
In the kitchen, she found the kettle on the stove. It still held some cooled water. She gulped down one cupful, then a second, and yet another still.
Once her thirst was slaked, she turned to make her way back upstairs.
Thump. Thump.
She eyed the closed door to Mr. Reynaud’s private retreat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The dull rhythmic sound ceased, and then started anew, and despite her misgivings, Alex put her ear to the door.
Now the thumping sounded more like banging. Something hitting the wall, again and again. Not just banging, but intermittent grunting.
She shouldn’t be listening to this, but she couldn’t pry her ear from the door. The sense of sordid fascination was irresistible.
All went quiet once again. She pressed her ear tightly to the door and held her breath, eliminating the distracting sound of her own inhalation. Then:
Bang-bang-bang.
Crash.
And a deep, harsh sound that was part growl, part barbaric shout.
She clapped a hand to her mouth. She was so absorbed by the struggle not to laugh, she didn’t notice the heavy footfalls until they were just on the other side of the door. The door latch turned.
No time for escape.
The door swung open.
She jumped back, clapping both hands over her eyes. “I didn’t see anything.”
“I swear it,” she said. “I didn’t see anything at all.”
Chase stared at his governess. She stood there with a finger-blindfold clamped over her eyes, dressed in a simple shift. Shadows skimmed contours of the form beneath it. “I should think snooping is beneath you, Miss Mountbatten.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, still covering her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I only came down for a drink of water, I promise.”
“Pressing one’s ear to a door would seem an ineffective way to quench thirst.”
Her shoulders wilted. “I didn’t mean to intrude. And I didn’t see anything, hand to my heart. I’ll be going to my chamber straightaway.” She covered both eyes with one hand and groped comically with the other. “Turn me around, if you would?”
“Are we playing blindman’s buff?”
“No.” Her throat flushed red. “Turn me the other direction. Toward the door. Point me back the way I came, and I’ll go up to bed.”
Chase went to the basin and worked the pump handle. The scene was so absurd, he’d nearly forgotten the throbbing pain in his hand. “I can’t send you to bed yet. I’m in need of your assistance.”
She swallowed audibly. “Assistance?”
“I can’t deal with this one-handed.”
She reeled a step in retreat, colliding with a shelf of copper butter molds, setting them a-rattle. Even though she’d backed herself into a corner, she still wouldn’t lower her hands from her eyes. “Can’t your . . . your guest provide you some relief?”
His guest?
“I don’t have a guest.”
A single finger peeled away from her face. He caught a glimpse of dark eyelashes through the gap.
“I thought you were entertaining a visitor,” she said.
He looked at the door to his retreat, then back to her. “Why would you think that?”
“I heard . . .” She swallowed and whispered faintly, “. . . banging. And groaning.”
Good God.
He chuckled. “If you hoped to hear something salacious, I’ll have to disappoint you. I was hanging paneling. On the wall. With a hammer and nails. And I seem to have sliced my thumb. Hence the groaning.”
“Oh.” She lowered her hands and gave a nervous laugh. “Thank heavens. What a relief. I mean, I’m not relieved about your wound, of course. I’m sorry about that. I’m just glad you’re not—”
“Bare to my skin and covered in well-earned sweat?”
“Erm . . . yes.”
He gritted his teeth. He would have loved to draw out the amusement, but his thumb wouldn’t be ignored any longer. “The cook keeps a bit of plaster up there.” He jutted his chin toward a high shelf atop the cupboard. “If you’d kindly fetch it for me.”
She didn’t do as he asked, but approached him and had a look at his wound. “You can’t just smear plaster over this.”
“It’s a small wound.”
“But a deep one. It must be cleaned thoroughly.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ve seen wounds like this one fester. Bigger and stronger men have succumbed to less.”
“It’s truly none of your concern,” he said, growing testy at the suggestion of her tending the wounds of bigger and stronger men.
“It is my concern. If you die of gangrene or lockjaw, I’ll never be paid.”
Fair enough. He offered her his hand for dressing.
She washed the wound thoroughly with boiled water from the kettle and strong lye scullery soap. He winced. Damn, bugger, blast.
Then she slipped the flask from his waistcoat pocket. “May I?” Having uncapped it, she lifted it to his lips. To his quizzical expression, she replied, “You’re going to want it. This will hurt.”
Chase took a sip. He wasn’t about to admit any pain, but he wouldn’t refuse a swallow of good brandy.
As he watched, she poured a stream of amber spirits directly into his wound, letting it trickle until it overflowed. Then she pressed the wound to purge more blood and did it again.
On the outside, Chase was determined to look manful and impervious to pain.
On the inside . . . Christ.
When she capped the brandy and set the flask aside, he exhaled with relief.
She turned to search the kitchen stores. “Now for some vinegar.”
Bloody hell.
He winced as she began her fresh round of torture. “How are the girls’ lessons coming along?”
“Slowly. I’ve been attempting to earn their confidence, but they have the sort of wounds that won’t be easily healed. How long ago did their parents die?”
“I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “I don’t even know if they’re orphans. They could be illegitimate.”
“They’re not . . . ?” She broke off, abandoning the query.
“Mine?” He shuddered at the suggestion. “I would still have been at school when Rosamund was born. It’s true that I possess a natural talent for seduction, but I wasn’t that precocious. All I know is that their father never claimed them, and the woman they called mother died three years ago, and they’ve been passed around relations and schools ever since.”
She clucked her tongue. “Despite all their mischief, I pity them.”
You ought to be pitying me, he thought.
Having a woman this enticing living under the same roof was a constant temptation. And Chase battled temptation with approximately the same success as a seagull battling the Royal Navy.
Out of sight was not out of mind. At night, he found himself thinking of her. Upstairs, alone, in the dark. But worse by far were the mornings. For God’s sake, he began each day holding her hand. That, and trying like hell to make her laugh. He hadn’t managed it quite yet, but most days he wrangled a reluctant smile. That alone was worth four flights of stairs.
Just yesterday, Rosamund had woken him with a single word: “Tapeworms.” He’d all but leapt to his feet with delight.
It wasn’t entirely desire, but it was partly desire. He knew an innocent outward appearance often concealed a tightly coiled spring waiting for release. In the dark of night, with that virginal shift unbuttoned and that plait of dark hair unbound, Alexandra Mountbatten might prove surprising.
No sooner had he conjured the image than she untied the strip of linen holding the end of her plait. As her hair came unbound and fell loose, he stared at a lock of black satin dipping to graze the slope of her neck.
She pursed her lips and blew over his wound to dry it.
God Almighty.
“There’s no doubt that they’re clever,” she went on, winding the strip of linen about his thumb, “but life’s taught them some difficult lessons. One only needs to look at Millicent to know Daisy’s hurting. It’s obvious from spending mere minutes with Rosamund that she’s learned to be wary. She won’t lower her guard easily. It will take time and patience to gain her trust.”
“You have until Michaelmas.”
“We have until Michaelmas.” She deftly tucked the strip of linen in on itself, securing the binding.
“Disciplining children is not among my talents. That’s why I hired you to take them in hand.”
She looked up at him. “Maybe they don’t need to be taken in hand, but taken into someone’s heart.”
Heart? He tugged his hand from hers. “Oh, no. Don’t get ideas.”
“Goodness. Heaven forbid that a woman have ideas.”
“Ideas are all well and good, but not those ideas. I know that look in a woman’s eye. I’ve seen it before, many times. You think you can convince me to settle down.”
“You don’t need to settle down. My father was a sea captain. I was raised on a ship, sailing the globe. We were the least settled family in the world, and yet I never doubted his love for me.”
“Wait. You were raised aboard a ship? Sailing the globe?”
She paused in the act of packing up the unused salves and plaster. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.”
“No, I think you should have mentioned it. And long before now.”
“Does it truly matter? Perhaps I had an unconventional upbringing, but that doesn’t mean I can’t perform my duties. I had a full education. Here in England, at a proper school. I . . . I did warn you I wasn’t gently bred, and you said you didn’t care.” Her voice went small, but resonant with emotion. “Mr. Reynaud, I need this post. Please don’t sack me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I have no intention of sacking you. That’s not what I meant.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. You should have told me straightaway because you should tell everyone straightaway. If I had your life story, it would be the first thing I mentioned to anyone. ‘Hullo, I’m Chase Reynaud. I learned to toddle aboard a merchant ship, and the Seven Seas rocked my cradle. And have I mentioned that no tropical sunset could compare with your beauty?’ The women would fall into bed with me.”
“Don’t they fall into bed with you anyway?”
“That’s true. But they might do so a half minute faster. Over months and years, those half minutes add up. So let’s hear the rest of the tale.”
She put away the soap and vinegar. “My father was American. After the Revolution—”
“The rebellion,” he corrected.
“—he became a seaman. He’d worked his way up to first mate when they anchored in Manila harbor. Theirs was one of the first ships to open trade with the Philippine Islands. Aside from the Spaniards, of course. Anyhow, they anchored for a few months. That’s where he met my mother. And they fell in love.”
“She was a Spanish colonist, then?”
“Mestiza. My grandfather was Spanish, but my grandmother was native to the island.”
Fascinating. This information solved a few mysteries that had been lingering in Chase’s mind. Life on a trading ship would have taught her the value of goods—everything from the ribbon around her neck, to telescopes and comets. He supposed her mother had blessed her with that bounty of dark hair and her delicate snub of a nose—and her father was likely to blame for her stubborn, independent streak. Those Americans just wouldn’t be told what to do.
“So if your father was American, and he met your mother in the Philippine Islands . . . how did you come to be living in England?”
“That’s a long story.”
He looked pointedly at his bandaged hand. “I won’t be doing any more work tonight.”
She paused. “After they married, my father sailed back to Boston. He promised to return once he’d found a partner and bought a ship of his own. It was only supposed to be a year, but in the end, it took him more than three. When he finally returned, he found that my mother had died. He was no longer a husband.”
“But he’d become a father.”
She nodded. “Most men would have left me to be raised by my mother’s family, but my father would have none of it. He took me aboard his ship, and off we went. The Esperanza was our home for the next decade. He’d named it for her.” She smiled a little. “The same way my mother had named me after him. His name was Alexander.”
