“I don’t want to stop you. I was only thinking that you should probably hurry. It’s morning, and if the household hasn’t already discovered you missing, they will soon enough.”
The little girl peered toward the house; her brow furrowed with worry.
Genevieve pointed to the pillowcase. “You left your belongings there. If you tie the end in a knot, it’s easier to carry. Shall I do it for you?”
“No!” The girl grabbed the pillowcase and held it close to her chest. “It’s mine.”
Genevieve stood up and dusted her skirts off. “You’ll be on your way, then.” She stepped aside.
The little girl stood too. “You don’t care if I run away?”
Genevieve raised her brows. “Why shouldIcare? I just happened to be passing by and saw your boot. When I peered closer, I saw your doll and wondered what her name was. I had a doll like that when I was younger. In fact, I still have her in a trunk in my room. Her name was—is—Marcella.”
“Marcella?” The little girl giggled. “That’s a funny name.”
Genevieve put her hands on her hips, pretending to be offended. “No, it’s not. It’s the name I always wished were mine. You see, I never liked my name, and I thought my life would besomuch better if I had been named Marcella.”
“What’s your name?” the girl asked.
Genevieve opened her mouth as if to reply, then closed it again. “Wait a moment. I told you the name of my doll. Now you wantmyname as well. You haven’t told me anything about you. What’syourdoll’s name?”
The little girl looked at her doll and brushed the hair back, smoothing it. “Harriet.”
“Harriet is a pretty name,” Genevieve said. “Do you wish that was your name?”
“No.” The girl shook her head. “It’s my Mama’s name.”
Genevieve’s belly tightened at the tone of voice. Clearly, Harriet was gone. Dead? Run away? Genevieve’s mother had said there was a tragedy, so it was not unthinkable that the child’s mother might be deceased. “It’s a perfect name,” she said, keeping her voice from catching, but just barely. “Do you still want to know my name?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Genevieve.” She held up a hand. “Don’t call me Ginny. I don’t answer to Ginny. I willtolerateEve, but I prefer Genevieve.”
The little girl nodded. “I don’t like being called Franny. I want to be called Frances.”
Genevieve stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Frances.”
The little girl giggled but shook her hand. Then Genevieve took Harriet’s hand and shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Harriet.” She straightened. “And now I suppose I should go home.” She reached for her parasol, opened it, and turned back toward the road.
“But wait!” Frances said. “You’re leaving already?”
Genevieve turned back and gave Frances her best forlorn expression. “I came because of the advertisement for a”—she looked at the child, judged her age at about seven, and made her decision—“governess. If you’re running away, you won’tneed me. I’ll go home and look for another child who wants a governess to play dolls with and read books and play hide-and-seek in the gardens.” She sighed. “It’s too bad, because this house has some very good hiding places. Good day, Frances. Good luck running away!”
She started walking, her steps jaunty. It didn’t take more than five steps for the child to join her. She looked down. “Are you running away in my direction?” Genevieve asked.
“Yes,” the little girl said.
“I don’t recommend it,” Genevieve offered.
“Why not?”
“This is the way to the road that leads into the village. If you go this way, too many people will see you. You should stick to the woods. It’s easy to hide there.”
“Oh.” Frances looked over her shoulder at the trees in the distance. There were no great woods in this part of Devon, but Genevieve imagined the trees looked great to a small child. “Are the woods dark?” Frances asked.
Genevieve continued walking. “Yes. Very dark. No one will find you there. There’s only—Well, never mind that.”
“What is it?”
