The Reluctant Governess. Anne Mather
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in an entirely different direction, you would have been horrified afterwards, do you not agree?’
Victoria’s mouth lifted slightly. ‘So you let me believe you were a barbarian, Herr Baron?’ she countered.
‘Oh, not that, surely,’ he protested. ‘However, it must be obvious to you even now that what we have to offer here is not what you are used to.’
Victoria frowned. ‘You don’t know what I am used to, Herr Baron.’
‘No?’ he shrugged. ‘I have not spent all my life here, at Reichstein, fräulein. I can recognise cashmere when I see it, in your sweater, for example. And your trousers are not made of inferior yarns.’
‘You can’t judge a person by their clothes!’
‘No, I accept that. That is why I am willing to give you a trial. Nevertheless, I venture to say that your predecessors were perhaps a little more prepared than you are for the task ahead.’
Victoria felt affronted. ‘How can you say that,’ she exclaimed unthinkingly, ‘when neither of them succeeded in their efforts?’
The Baron raised his dark eyebrows. ‘You see, fräulein,’ he said, ‘you begin to prove my point already!’
Victoria compressed her lips. ‘Why? Because I am without deference?’ she asked stormily.
The Baron’s eyes darkened. ‘We will leave the matter of my position alone, fräulein,’ he stated harshly, and for a moment Victoria felt completely deflated.
‘As you wish,’ she murmured uncomfortably, and he slid off the desk and walked behind it, lifting a letter which Victoria immediately recognised as being written in her godmother’s flowing hand.
‘Why did you wish to leave London, fräulein?’ he asked suddenly, startling her.
Victoria linked her fingers together in her lap. ‘Is that of any consequence, Herr Baron?’ she asked politely.
The Baron flicked the letter with his thumb. ‘I think so. After all, if your reasons for coming to Reichstein are to escape from something—unpleasant, perhaps, I should be aware of its nature.’
‘Why?’ Victoria looked up at him.
‘If the impossible happens and you are accepted here I should not like to think you would leave us again if whatever it is you are running away from resolves itself.’
Victoria controlled her temper. ‘How do you know I am running away from anything?’ she protested.
‘Your godmother’s letter is vague, and yet one gets the impression that what is implied is worth more than what is actually said. However, as you seem loath to commit yourself, I must assume it is a personal matter and trust that it is nothing which might reflect unhappily upon us.’
Victoria’s nails bit into the palms of her hands, but she said nothing. Let him think what he liked. It was of no matter. Time would prove that she was as equal to the task as her predecessors, and if she had anything to do with it he would have nothing to complain about. Even so, it was startling to realise that already her life in London was receding in significance and her presence here at Reichstein was the reality. Whether it was because it was all so vastly different from what she had imagined she did not know, but certainly her anxiety at parting so abruptly from Meredith had become of less importance than succeeding at this task. Of course, she had deliberately refused to think about him last night or maybe she would have felt those awful pangs of conscience, but even so, it was reassuring to know that her heart was by no means as bruised as she had believed it to be. The memory of Meredith’s betrayal was still painful, but now that her pride was in no danger of being destroyed here, miles away from anyone who had known about their association, she could face the future less emotionally. In that, at least, her godmother had been right. She had said that Victoria had been hurt more by the knowledge that she would look a fool than by real heartbreak.
Now the Baron came to lean against the mantel, looking down at her intently. ‘About Sophie,’ he began. ‘I should warn you, she is not an easy child to get along with.’ He spread a hand expressively. ‘As no doubt you are aware after that small fracas earlier.’
‘Yes.’ Victoria continued to study her fingernails, unable to confront that piercing gaze.
‘No doubt you consider my attitude sadly lacking in dicipline, fräulein?’
Victoria sighed. How was she supposed to answer that? ‘I—I think Sophie is a lonely child,’ she ventured, uncomfortably.
‘How very diplomatic,’ he commented dryly. ‘No, my dear Miss Monroe, it is not just loneliness! When Sophie was ill she was given every attention. Her slightest wish was my command. She is very dear to me. Naturally I spoilt her, and now this is the result.’
Victoria bit her lip. ‘How old was Sophie when she became ill, Herr Baron?’
‘Eight years of age—a little over eighteen months ago. She was in hospital for many months, and her recovery from the paralysis was nothing short of a miracle.’ He flicked ash into the flames. ‘You can have no conception of the relief her recovery gave to me. For a time it seemed impossible that she would ever be a normal child again.’
Victoria hesitated, but the question had to be asked: ‘And—and your wife, the Baroness—--’
He straightened. ‘We will not discuss Sophie’s mother, Miss Monroe,’ he said harshly. ‘And now—if we can decide upon a syllabus—--’
Victoria coloured and then allowed him to direct their conversation into educational channels, putting forward her opinions only when asked for and receiving his instructions in return. It was his suggestion that they should conduct the lessons here, in his study, where there was a desk and ample reference facilities in the book-lined shelves. He already had textbooks in both German and English from which Victoria was able to gauge Sophie’s ability and the other equipment necessary for providing writing materials and paper was present in the ample drawers of the desk. When he had completed his instructions about Sophie, Victoria rose to her feet, ready to take her leave, but he stayed her with a gesture and she sank back into her chair again.
‘It is necessary now that I outline what free time you have available and how you may spend it,’ he said consideringly. ‘Also, if you would prefer to eat in your room, I can arrange for a tray to be provided.’
‘Oh no. That is—--’ Victoria bit her lip. ‘I don’t mind eating in the kitchen. I—I prefer—--’ She halted. She had been about to say she preferred the company to the isolation, but to do so would be to play right into his hands. However, before she could think of an adequate substitute, he said:
‘I understand, fräulein. Do not imagine I am without feelings. I, too, need the company of—others, sometimes.’
Victoria’s eyes dropped before his, and a disturbing quiver rippled along her spine. Why did this man create this awareness in her? Almost all the men she had known were wealthy, sleek, sophisticated; they drove fast cars, holidayed in the Caribbean or the South Pacific, wore the latest clothes and knew all the best restaurants. The Baron von Reichstein should have been like them, but he was not, and his only concession to the present trends were the long sideburns which grew down to his jawline. His clothes were good, but practical, and there had been reinforcing leather patches on the elbows of his coat. His transport was a mud-splashed station wagon, and he was used to eating wholesome soup out of earthenware dishes at a scrubbed kitchen table. Why then did she notice every minute detail about him from the hard strength of his broad body to the sensual curve of his full lower lip?
‘Now to the matter of free time.’ The Baron was speaking again, and Victoria gathered her composure. ‘Naturally, you will be free every day after lessons are over, which should be a couple of hours after lunch. However, I should be grateful if for a further consideration you would consider yourself Sophie’s companion for some part of the day.’
Victoria coloured.