Chapter 3 - Vera
Of all the dreadful luck, Vera thought.
Then again, if it weren’t for poor luck, she’d have no luck at all.
A brass bell jingled merrily overhead as Vera entered the village inn.
Beyond a large archway, small groupings of people sat at tables, eating the stew that the innkeeper’s wife made fresh every morning.
The smell of lamb and rosemary scented the air, setting Vera’s stomach to grumbling.
She’d avoided the breakfast table that morning, because she was avoiding him—the Baron Winthrop, returned home unexpectedly from India.
Though the smells were distracting, Vera’s focus wasn’t on the dining room but the small alcove she stood in, with numerous shelves and cubby holes behind a small counter where the post was kept. The innkeeper was assisting a customer, and Vera’s mind slipped back to the baron.
The way he’d looked at her—the narrowed eyes, the deep crease between his eyebrows that spoke plainly of distrust. The master of the house had returned, and he was not happy to find Vera residing in the guest quarters.
“Good morning, Miss Ashbury,” the innkeeper said, rousting her from her unpleasant thoughts.
She smiled up at him, hoping her expression wasn’t as pinched as her emotions. “Lovely day, isn’t it? I’ve come to check the post.”
“As you do nearly every day.” His full cheeks bunched with his smile. “You must be keen for a certain letter, eh? Today, you’re in luck. Post just came in, and there’s a letter for you, along with the papers.”
Vera took the stack of mail eagerly and nodded her thanks. She ignored the kind laughter that spilled after her into the street before she managed to close the inn door.
Somehow, the innkeeper and his wife had gotten the idea that Vera was conducting some sort of romance via post. They’d decided that was why she checked in for new letters almost daily.
Not that the truth was any less embarrassing, Vera thought. She rounded the corner and pressed her back to the stone building, using the relative privacy of the small alleyway to tear open the letter.
Miss Ashbury,
I regret to inform you that none of the positions you inquired about are a good fit for one such as yourself.
May I renew my suggestion that you reconsider Mr. Audel’s offer?
That position has not yet been filled. As you have no experience and therefore no references, another offer of employment will be difficult—if not impossible—to come by.
Sincerely,
Mr. Bratton
Vera pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. Dismay washed over her like a powerful ocean wave, threatening to buckle her knees.
Mr. Bratton was the manager of an employment agency, one that regularly posted notices in the papers. Vera had written to him directly, weeks ago, briefly explaining her situation and asking whether he knew of any positions that might hire a quality lady without references.
To her delight, he’d stated that he knew of such a posting and had put her in touch with one Mr. Audel, a wealthy merchant who was looking for a governess for his daughters.
She winced, thinking of the letter. She’d read it so many times that she could nearly recite the thing, but she was no more certain of it now than on the day she received it.
My dear Miss Ashbury,
Mr. Bratton kindly forwarded me your contact information, and it sounds like we might be an excellent fit. I am in need of a governess for my two daughters, ages eight and eleven.
The letter had continued, describing the daughters and duties of the position. Nothing had concerned her until she reached the last few lines of the missive:
My house is smaller than others you may be used to. Therefore, you will occupy my late wife’s chambers. Do not be alarmed—though the room adjoins mine, I certainly will not use the door between if it is unwelcome.
Please write back with a description of your person. Mr. Bratton informs me you are twenty-four years of age, which is a bit older than I’d prefer. However, I am willing to make an exception depending upon your appearance.
I look forward to getting to know you better.
Sincerely,
Mr. Charles Audel
It was the only response she’d received, but she hadn’t written him back yet. Instead, she’d shoved the letter into the desk drawer in her bedroom and prayed for something, anything else.
She’d written to every single job posting that had been even remotely close to something she thought she could do. Most of the time, she’d received no response at all. But with every polite rejection, her despair mounted, weighing down her limbs.
Now that the baron had returned, her hopelessness threatened to crush her.
As she’d quit the room that first day, she’d heard the baron ask, Who is she? His question rolled around in her mind like an untethered barrel in the bottom of a ship. What he’d really been asking was: Why is she here?
When the baroness had swooped in to the rescue, inviting her to stay, Vera had gratefully accepted.
Her intention was to trespass upon Jacqueline’s good will just long enough to secure gainful employment.
However, that had been weeks ago, and Vera was no closer to finding a suitable position for work than when she’d started.
With the baron returning, it was only a matter of time before Vera wore out her welcome and truly had no place to go.
Perhaps she could ask Candace if she could stay with her, though her pride balked at the thought.
That would be a temporary solution, unless she wanted to live off the charity of others for the rest of her days.
No—this was no one’s problem save her own.
Vera inhaled a shuddering breath, buried the letter from Mr. Bratton at the bottom of her market basket, and shoved away from the wall. She lifted her chin and stepped back into the sunshine.
Perhaps she might have asked Mr. Harris, the town shopkeeper, if he had a position available, but Candace’s former maid, Hortense, had just married the man’s son.
Besides, it had taken Vera some time to acquaint herself with the reality of taking employment—she’d rather not serve the people she’d once considered equals.
Vera didn’t have much pride, but she was loathe to release the little she had left. Surely, there had to be something else.
“Miss Ashbury, wait a moment.”
Vera paused, glancing over her shoulder.
As if her fears and doubts had conjured him, the Baron Winthrop strode up the street behind her.
Instead of the ragged clothes that had made her think he was some rambling vagabond, today he wore dark trousers and a charcoal coat.
Though of fine quality, the trousers were belted tightly round his waist and the coat appeared to pinch his shoulders.
Vera pursed her lips, but if there had been a moment where she might have pretended not to hear him, it was long past.
“What are you doing in town?” he asked, gaining her elbow and peering down at her.
She longed to roll her eyes but settled for shaking her head. She’d never met a more boorish man than the Baron Winthrop.
“Good morning, Lord Winthrop.” She gave him a sugary smile that she hoped would contrast his own frown and impress upon him how rude he was being.
If anything, his frown deepened. His silence demanded a response to his initial question.
“I was getting fresh air,” she said. “And checking the post.”
“Did you get any? Post, I mean?” He peered at her basket, and Vera barely refrained from pulling it behind her back.
“What are you doing in town, Lord Winthrop?”
At her obvious refusal to answer his question, his frown ripened to something adjacent to a glower.
Pity, Vera thought. If the baron weren’t stomping about, frowning like some terrible villain in a penny dreadful, he might be good-looking.
He was tall with broad shoulders. Though his form was lithe and muscular, the hollows in his cheeks spoke of missed meals, and the dark smudges beneath his eyes inferred that he either had a drinking problem or hadn’t slept well in over a fortnight.
However, even one night in a civilized house had served him well. His beard—though still far too long for the current fashion—had been trimmed a little, as had his hair. He no longer looked like a complete wastrel—he only appeared like a man with no concern for fashion or grooming.
Vera firmly told herself she didn’t care what the churlish man looked like, and scolded herself for noticing any detail about him.
“I’ve come to order some trousers.”
His words confused her momentarily—her thoughts had scampered well past the question she’d asked him.
“Ah.” She nodded and turned to be on her way. “Best of luck to you.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
She frowned. “What about your trousers?”
“I’ve already ordered them. Are you headed back to my house?”
The way he said it—my house—had Vera stiffening. She jerked a nod.
“Very well.” He extended an arm toward the street with a mocking tilt to his head.
Vera suddenly wished she’d made up another errand to separate them. She set a brisk pace up the main street of the village, toward the road.
“How long have you been staying with my mother?”
Ah, here it is. The inquisition.
“A couple of weeks now.” She kept her tone light.
It had actually been well over two months, but he didn’t need to know that.
“And how long are you planning on staying?”
Though they walked quickly, the baron didn’t feel the need to watch where he was going.
Instead, he stared down at her as they went.
Vera kept her face resolutely forward, tried not to let on how distracting she found his gaze.
He was a full head taller than her, with sharp brown eyes that took everything in at a glance.
If he were a kind man, and if he lost the beard and got a proper haircut, he might have been very pleasing indeed.
But he wasn’t kind. Or welcoming. Or anything close to the sort.