Page 7 of Trouble

When Meera returned, washed and changed, Emily was groggy and out of sorts and absolutelynotready to meet the children. All she knew of them from Amy was that there were two, and they were motherless.

‘I did tell Aster to stay put, but it’s like asking a frog to answer the front door – she seems to derive absolutely no meaning from anything I say .?.?. Right, here we are. This is the schoolroom. It’s where you’ll be teaching your lessons.’

Ah, yes. Her lessons. Emily was expected to impart wisdom. She hadn’t gone so far as to plan what that wisdom might be yet. Her primary fields of study of late had been subjects likeIntermediate Lock-picking, andSoup Studies: how to make one batch of broth last a week, neither of which would be suitable. She would probably just have to improvise, which was sort of like regular lying but with an additional element of the theatrical. She had listened around half of the time when Amy told her about the lessons she’d taught the children at her last position, and could probably cobble something passable together from what she had retained. Perhaps she could fill the first few weeks by simply asking her charges to demonstrate what they had already learned. Either that, or she’d just make them read fromThe History of England,as her own teacher had made them do back when the Laurences had been in healthy enough fortune to afford such luxuries as education.

It was only a matter of time before she was discovered as a fraud, but she thought her wits could at least get her through a month or two as long as nobody challenged her to provide a historical fact on the spot, or asked her to explain the correct order of spoons to use at a dinner engagement.

The schoolroom was extravagantly large for its purpose and papered in Aegean blue. It had been scattered with scholarly props – a globe here, an easel there – but otherwise looked like a pretty drawing room, with a table and chairs at one end and soft furnishings arranged around the fireplace.

There were two young ladies sitting by said fireplace, in very different states of readiness.

Emily’s first thought was that they were hardlychildren. The younger was maybe fourteen, the elder perhaps two years her senior. She could guess which was Aster on sight; the older sister was slumped dejectedly in her chair, entertaining herself by making the large tear in her stocking even bigger, and seemed to be covered in a fine spray of white paint. The younger was beautifully turned out, her hair the same dull brown as her sister’s, but set in perfect curls. She was smiling hopefully at Emily in a way that made her feel deeply uncomfortable.

‘Miss Laurence, this is Miss Grace Edwards and Miss Aster Edwards. Girls, this is Miss Amy Laurence. She has had a hard journey to get here, and I trust you’ll make her feel welcome.’

‘What sort of a hard journey?’ said Aster, sitting up slightly, as if energised by the prospect of Emily’s misfortune.

‘My carriage got stuck in the mud a little way down the lane,’ said Emily.

‘Dull,’ said Aster. ‘Why’d you have to say it like it was interesting, Meera? It should have been highwaymen.’

‘Aster,’ said Meera. ‘Let Miss Laurence settle in for a week or two before you start setting violent brigands on her in your mind.’

‘Shan’t,’ said Aster. ‘May I be excused? I was painting in my room.’

‘Aster,’ said her younger sister, sounding pained. ‘Don’t be rude. I am so very sorry to hear of your troubles, Miss Laurence, and I am grateful to you for making the journey. It is so difficult to travel in this inclement weather! We rarely have true summer days here – it is something to do with the coastal climate. Meera, might we have some tea?’

She sounded positively middle-aged – as if she’d been hosting people for tea and exchanging small talk about the weather for decades. It was unnerving. Emily glanced at Meera to see if this was out of character behaviour, but she was nodding approvingly.

‘Sit down, please, Miss Laurence,’ said Grace. ‘I want to hear all about you! We have been looking forward to your arrival ever since Meera told us you had accepted the position. Do you mind if I call you Amy?’

‘Is it not a little .?.?. informal?’ said Emily, hoping to cling toMiss Laurencefor as long as possible.

‘Oh, we hardly mind things like that here! Even Father saysMeera, not Miss Bhandari.’

‘And what do you call him?’ Emily asked Meera.

‘I call him Captain Edwards,’ said Meera primly. ‘As should you. I’ll send Akia with the tea.’

Emily sat down in an empty chair. She wished she could lounge uninterestedly, as Aster was doing, but she forced herself to sit upright and fold her hands neatly on her lap.

‘I love your hair,’ Grace said, and Emily couldn’t stop herself from snorting. ‘Oh, don’t laugh! I mean it – such a lovely yellow.’

Emily knew her hair to be the sort of blonde that put one in mind of soiled straw and puddles of questionable origin. Grace Edwards was obviously very practised at conjuring compliments for the irredeemable.

‘Thank you,’ she said, with great effort. ‘Your hair is also very .?.?. pretty.’

‘Akia did it,’ Grace said, beaming at her. ‘She’s marvellous.’

Marvellous Akia came up with the tea and wouldn’t stay, no matter how much Grace begged her to.

‘But it’s your night off!’

‘No, it isn’t, Grace. Oliver and Meera take tonight off, and me and Joe will take tomorrow.’

‘Joseph and Meera never really take nights off,’ Grace said ruefully.

‘That’s because Joe thinks his knives are his children, and would marinate anyone who touched them in boiling wine,’ said Aster, confirming the impression Emily had already formed of the cook. ‘And Meera hasn’t relaxed since 1807.’