“As you can see, Miss Woodchurch has come prepared. A good sign of her abilities, I’m sure you agree.”
Mateo nodded stupidly. He felt awkward—was he to congratulate the woman on her penmanship? Remark on the neatness of it?
“You probably have some questions for her?” Beck said. He was clearly the one most at ease in this room and reminded Mateo of his brother, Roberto. Like him, Beck probably never met a stranger. All Mateo ever met were strangers.
He looked again at Miss Woodchurch, his gaze quickly skimming her, down to the tips of her soiled shoes and up again. She was young. Too young? “His lordship has explained the work to you?”
“He has, my lord. You need someone to write for you.”
“And you are confident in your ability to take down what I say and put it to paper properly?”
“Very confident, my lord. At my former school, I was often said to have the best penmanship.”
How had she come to be standing here? She seemed so...ordinary. She wasn’t as unremarkable as he’d first thought—she had a pleasant face, stunning blue eyes, and her hands were very elegant. That was it, he realized—she didn’t have a vaunted title or riches beyond imagination, or beauty to stun him. She seemed practical, intent on earning the position. It was something of a relief to him that he sensed no other motive than to work.
Interestingly, he thought he might like ordinary.Hewas ordinary, save the circumstances of his birth.
“You must think it peculiar to be remarked for penmanship, and not something a bit more important, like the ability to do sums in one’s head. But we all have our strengths.”
“Pardon?”
“I was pointing out that while math might be someone else’s strength, writing is mine.”
He held her gaze.
“You must have a strength, too, my lord, wouldn’t you say?”
Was this her attempt at conversing with him? He wasn’t certain what his strengths had to do with her employment.
“Oh, I think his lordship must have many,” Beck interjected. “More questions, my lord?”
More every moment she stood before him. “Why do you seek employment?”
Something in her expression changed. The light in her eyes dimmed a little, and her ready smile faded. “I should think the same reason anyone seeks employment, my lord—a desire to earn a living.”
He could think of only one or two instances of where a woman might need to earn a living. “Are you a widow?”
She blinked. “I’ve never been married.”
“Perhaps it is not the same in England, but in Santiava, a woman who enjoys a certain privilege in life does not pursue work. It is considered...” He couldn’t think of an appropriate word in English.“Déclassé,”he said in French.
Miss Woodchurch’s brows dipped into a dark vee. “How unfortunate for Santiavan women. I think it’s laudable that a woman of any class might want to provide for herself.”
“Very laudable indeed, Miss Woodchurch,” Beck quickly interjected. “I admire your motivation. But I think we might agree that in England, not everyone shares your opinion.”
“I suppose not,” she said primly.
Mateo already didn’t understand this woman.
“My lord, have you any other questions?” Beck prompted again.
He had one hundred questions now if he had one. He was intrigued that she spoke to him as if they were somehow on equal footing. But practically, there was more to this position than simply taking notes and writing. Mateo stepped closer to her. “Señorita...do you understand this work is confidential? I should not like my private affairs talked about in drawing rooms and coffee houses around London,sí?”
A bit of color rose in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, but I donotfrequent coffee houses,” she said, and sounded, he thought, a bit insulted. “You may depend on my discretion in all things.”
“Inallthings?”
Her cheeks colored a little more. “As I said,” she confirmed, and interestingly, sounded a bit defiant. If his mother had been here, she would have taken great offense, but he liked that she spoke with conviction. He liked that she was confident in her abilities. He studied her a moment longer.
