A Magical Regency Christmas: Christmas Cinderella / Finding Forever at Christmas / The Captain's Christmas Angel. Margaret McPheeЧитать онлайн книгу.
took a deep breath and incinerated every bridge. ‘If Miss Woodrowe wants it, the position is hers.’
‘Really, Mr Martindale!’ Lady Eliot’s mouth pinched. ‘We cannot possibly countenance such a—’
‘Thank you, Mr Martindale,’ said Polly calmly. Her face glowed as she turned to him. ‘If I may have a key, I will walk into the village tomorrow and decide what will be needed.’
He scowled. The deuce she would. ‘As to that, Miss Po—Miss Woodrowe—I have the keys with me now and would be delighted to drive you.’
Lady Eliot drew herself up. ‘I must make quite plain that this has not Sir Nathan’s approbation!’
Alex bowed to her. ‘I perfectly understand that, ma’am.’ He turned back to Polly. ‘Fetch your cloak, Miss Woodrowe. I will await you in the front hall.’
* * *
Polly stared about the second room of the schoolhouse in rising panic. She had not thought. She simply had not thought, had not known. But now the reality of the two-roomed cottage crashed over her like snow falling off a branch.
The schoolroom was in fine order. Neat rows of desks, a cupboard holding slates and other equipment. Books on a bookshelf, a desk for the teacher and a great fireplace. She had seen a huge stack of wood outside. Clearly teacher and pupils were not expected to freeze. The schoolroom itself had been freshly whitewashed and was more than acceptable.
This room, too, had been whitewashed. And that was it. There was nothing in it. Nothing. An alcove to one side, with a wide shelf clearly intended for a bed, was innocent of mattress and bedding. There was no furniture. There was nothing. She swallowed. Even if there were something, she realised with a jolt of shock, she would have no idea how to so much as cook her dinner. There wasn’t even a cooking pot in which to cook it, although there was an iron rod, with a hook to suspend a pot, that clearly swung in and out of the fireplace. She had seen such arrangements when visiting women in the village...but a cooking pot would cost money, and she would need a table, and chair to sit on, and bedding and...
And she was not going to give up! She had got the position and she was jolly well going to keep it. She had some money. Not much, but surely enough to buy a few simple things to furnish this room.
She lifted her chin. ‘I will need to—’
‘It won’t do,’ said Mr Martindale. He swung around on her, his grey eyes hard. ‘You can’t possibly live here! I must have been insane to suggest it.’
Her determination firmed. ‘Why not?’ All the reasons why not were buzzing frantically in her head. If she could swat them aside, why could not he? ‘It...it just needs furniture. A table and chair. Perhaps a settee to sit by the fire. Some bedding and a...a cooking pot.’
His glance skewered her. ‘Polly, do you even know how to cook?’
She stiffened. ‘Do you?’ She tried to ignore the leap of her pulse, the sudden clutch of her lungs at the sound of her name, her pet name, on his lips. For two years she had been Miss Woodrowe. Her aunt and cousins insisted on Hippolyta now. No one, not one person, had called her Polly since her mother’s death. And he shouldn’t be now.
‘I have Mrs Judd,’ he pointed out with a smile.
‘And I have a brain,’ she said, ruthlessly quelling the little flare of delight at his smile. ‘And I can buy a book. And...and ask advice. Please.’ Oh, curse it! She’d sworn not to beg.
‘You’ll be alone,’ he said. ‘A young woman, alone.’ His mouth firmed. ‘I don’t like it at all.’
‘Well, I do,’ she said. ‘My uncle is right. I cannot possibly go back and forth from his house.’ Better to make the break completely and establish her independence. Aunt Eliot would put every sort of rub in her way. But the bubble of panic rose again. Women were not intended for independence. It was wrong. Against the proper order. Unnatural. She swatted those thoughts away, too. Any number of people had probably thought it against the natural order when King John was forced to sign the Magna Carta. The sky hadn’t fallen then either.
Alex frowned, clearly thinking. ‘Perhaps lodgings here in the village—’
‘No!’ Her vehemence was as much at her own cowardice as at his suggestion and she flushed at his raised brows. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve lived in someone else’s home for two years. I...I should like to live by myself.’ Being under someone else’s roof, subject to their rules and arrangements had galled her. Certainly if she paid board she would not be a dependent, but... ‘I should like to try.’
He scowled. ‘For goodness’ sake, Pol—Miss Woodrowe! It’s winter, and—’
‘There’s a huge pile of wood out there,’ she said. ‘I actually do know how to light a fire.’ The governess had been permitted a fire in her room on Sunday evenings at the Frisinghams’, although she suspected this generosity had more to do with prevailing damp than concern for the comfort of a lowly governess. Since no servant had been responsible for lighting it, she had learnt how to manage for herself.
‘But by yourself—won’t you be lonely?’
She stared at him, surprised. ‘You live alone. Don’t tell me Mrs Judd holds your hand in the evenings. Are you lonely?’
‘That’s diff—’ He stopped and the wry smile twisted his mouth. ‘Very well. Yes. Sometimes I am.’
‘Oh.’ His honesty disarmed her. But still— ‘Well, no. I don’t think I will be.’ She might be alone, but that didn’t mean lonely. She was lonely now, surrounded by people who would prefer that she wasn’t there at all, people she had thought cared for her. Polly Woodrowe, poor relation and dependant, was a far different creature than Polly Woodrowe, wealthy cousin. But she couldn’t explain all that to Alex Martindale—it would sound self-pitying, utterly pathetic. So she said, ‘It’s different being a guest and family member to being a dependant.’
His brows rose. ‘The change in your circumstances is difficult for them, I take it.’
Something in her snapped. ‘Difficult for them?’ She snorted. ‘I’m sure it was difficult to discover that the girl you counted on bringing a healthy dowry into the family was ruined! Positively tragic. And...’ she was warming up to her subject now, ‘...if you are going to tell me that it is my Christian duty to accept the situation allotted to me by God, with humble piety, then you may go to the devil!’
He blinked and Polly realised what she had said. Oh, goodness. This time she wouldn’t have to get as far as being pawed around by the son of the house to be dismissed. This time she was going to be dismissed before she’d even started.
‘I was being sarcastic,’ said Alex mildly. ‘And if,’ he continued, ‘I had been so mind-bogglingly arrogant as to say that, you’d be welcome to kick me on my way.’ He eyed her consideringly. ‘You are sure, then, that you want this? There will be no going back, you know.’
She swallowed. ‘There is already no going back.’ She had already lost her place. In society, in her family. She would have to make her own place.
‘I suppose it will be safe enough,’ he said slowly. ‘Right here in the village. And Dominic owns the cottage, so only a fool with a death wish would cause trouble.’ His expression hardened. ‘Not to mention having me to deal with.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Very well, then. Fifty pounds a year, payable quarterly.’
‘Fifty?’ It came out as a sort of squawk.
The dark brows rose. ‘Not enough?’
This time she picked up the humour in his voice. ‘More...more than enough,’ she managed. ‘I—the cottage will need some things. A table, maybe a chair—if you could advance me a little and take it out of—’
‘Certainly not!’ He glared at her, grey eyes furious, all humour fled. ‘The place will be fully furnished and equipped.’