They continued to stare at her, not understanding the language. But as it was the only language she knew besides a bit of schoolhouse French, she carried on, certain that people could find a way to communicate if they desired it. “How do you find London? Was it what you expected?”
Somehow, a half hour of their attempts to communicate passed. Hattie decided that was enough time for tea, wished the women good afternoon—buenas tardes—and returned to the study. It was easier to find her way this time, as her smirking friend with the tall white hair sort of pointed the way.
But the viscount was gone from the study when she entered. So was his big folder of papers.
She walked to the small writing desk and found there the two letters she had written. They’d been signed, his signature made with thick black strokes and a flourish. Beside the letters was another piece of paper. He’d attached a square of a note onto which he’d printed,What it says.
Hattie looked at the paper beneath the note. The writing was so small it was nearly impossible to decipher. Why would anyone develop such obnoxious handwriting? She sat down and puzzled out the tiny cursive letters and finally thought she had it. At the bottom of the note he’d left her, she wrote, very plainly, in legible print:The amount paid to Mr. Ed Moore for making of a coffin for Mrs. Crump, deceased—Hattie certainly hoped Mrs. Crump was deceased at the time of the making of the coffin—shall be six pounds forty pence, and the payment to be made by the fifteenth day of the month following interment.
There was nothing else on the desk for her. She stood up and wandered around the room. She looked at the books on the table next to the armchair. All were in French.
On his desk was a stack of ledgers and some unopened letters.
Hattie went to the sofa where he’d been sitting and sat in the very same spot. She spread her hands over the chintz upholstery and found it cool to the touch. She imagined herself filling the contours his body had made. She stood up from there and wandered to the window to have a look at the garden. She glanced down—and quickly hopped backward and out of sight. The viscount was there! In the garden!
She pressed a hand to her racing heart to quell the surprise of spotting him, unnerved by the idea that he might have seen her and would assume she was spying. But her heart slowed, and she cautiously leaned forward to have a peek.
The viscount was seated on a bench next to a small fountain. The elderly lady who’d nearly doused Hattie with mop water was seated next to him. Between them on the bench was something...a plate? Hattie couldn’t make out what was on the plate, but the two of them kept bending over it, picking something up and putting it in their mouths. They were tasting something.
And then, the biggest surprise of all—the viscount laughed. Helaughed. He had a charming laugh, deep and gentle. Hattie drifted closer to the window, watching the two of them, and remaining there until the elderly woman stood.
Lord Abbott reached out a hand to steady her. Then he stood, too, picked up the plate, and offered an arm to her. The two of them casually strolled across the garden, toward the house, chatting in Spanish that drifted up and through the open window.
But he did not return to the study.
At half past five, Hattie packed her things, took her bag, and left the way she’d come. Down one long hall, lifting her hand in silent salute to the woman with tall hair as she passed. She ran down the servants’ stairs, and carried on, passing through the kitchen, wishing the two women a good day and receiving the same, she thought, in Spanish. Then retraced her steps down the tiled hall. She went out the servants’ door and into the alley and wended around the house to the street.
What a curious occupation this was. What a mysterious man he was.
She couldn’t wait to come again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THATMISSWOODCHURCHcould make out what looked like barnyard chicken scratch was astounding to Mateo. Even if he could read English fluently, he’d not be able to make out a single word of his grandfather’s handwriting.
He discovered that the word which had given him the most grief wascoffin. Coffin!
The first week of Miss Woodchurch’s employment had gone along like that, her deciphering words and letters he’d nearly thrown into the fire. She was punctual, which Mateo greatly appreciated. She wrote a perfectly fine letter, stating politely what he said in his rough, more direct way. Her penmanship, as promised, was very good. And when he read what she’d written, the language seemed to flow in a way that he envied.
He found he didn’t need her services for as long every day as Beck had suggested, and while he still wasn’t entirely comfortable having this young woman in his sphere for hours on end, he kept thinking back to what Beck had said: that she needed this position. He didn’t know why she needed it, but he liked her, and he didn’t want to send her away if that was the case. So, he sent her for tea. Every day, dismissing her when the work was done to take her tea.
There was something else about Miss Woodchurch that stood out to him in that first week—she was very much at ease in his company and seemed to grow more so every day. She talked freely and she talked alot.Muy habladora.
Moreover, from what he’d gathered, she was doing quite a lot of talking during tea, too.
Twice this week, he’d passed by the hallway leading to the staff section of the house and heard laughter. And then her voice, lifting above Borerro’s deep rumble, followed by the kitchen girls’ high-pitched voices.
One afternoon, it rained. When he went to the window to close it, he saw the lower half of her beneath the portico over the terrace. There was a man leaning against the column, smoking a cheroot. He recognized the man at once as Pacheco, his manservant. Miss Woodchurch was carrying on a conversation with Pacheco, and that stoic old Santiavan was laughing.
Even more surprising, Pacheco hadn’t mentioned making her acquaintance.
He wondered what they could possibly find to talk about. The curiosity began to eat at him.
One morning, Borerro brought him the post. Mateo noticed that he had a small pin affixed to his lapel. He leaned forward, peering at it.“Qué es eso?”
Borerro glanced down. “A Tudor rose,mi señor. Miss Woodchurch gifted this to me.”
“Shegiftedit to you?” he asked in Spanish. “Why?”
