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“Why not?”

“Any number of things could happen. She may not do an adequate job of teaching you. Or she may decide to accept another position.” He took a sip of wine. “Just keep it in mind.”

“But if I want her to stay, she will,” Emma said stubbornly.

Luke didn't reply, only picked up his spoon and dipped it in his soup. After a minute, he changed the subject and began to tell her about a thoroughbred horse he was thinking of buying. Emma followed his lead, carefully avoiding any mention of the governess for the rest of the meal.

Tasia wandered about her room, a third-floor chamber with a charming round window. She was pleased by the thought that the sun would wake her each morning. The narrow bed was covered with fresh white linen and a simple quilted blanket. There was a mahogany washstand in the corner, with a chipped porcelain basin decorated in a flowered blackberry pattern. Near the window were a chair and table, and on the opposite wall a battered armoire with an oval mirror on the door. The room was small, but clean and private.

Her valise had been set by the bed. Carefully Tasia unpacked the hairbrush and the cakes of rose-scented soap that Alicia had given her. It was also because of Alicia that she owned two dresses: the gray one that she was wearing and a black muslin that she hung in the armoire. She wore her grandmother's gold cross under her clothes at all times. The ring from her father was knotted in a handkerchief and hidden at the back of the armoire beneath her personal linens.

Finally Tasia moved the wooden chair to the corner of the room. She stood her icon against the chair back, so that she could look at it when she was in bed. Lovingly her fingers traced the Madonna's tender face. This was her
krasnyi ugolok
, her “beautiful corner.” All those of Russian Orthodox faith had such a place in their homes, where they could find peace at the beginning and end of each day.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the door. Opening it, Tasia came face to face with a housemaid a few years older than she. The girl wore a starched apron and a cap that covered most of her flaxen hair. Her features were attractive, but there was a hard look about her eyes. Her lips were compressed into a thin line. “I'm Nan,” the girl said, handing her a cloth-covered tray. “Here's your supper. Set it outside the door when you're done. I'll come to collect it in a bit.”

“Thank you,” Tasia murmured, confused by the girl's attitude. She seemed angry about something, though Tasia had no idea why.

Enlightenment was soon in coming. “Mrs. Knaggs says I'm the one who must attend you when you want something. I didn't need the extra work. My knees already ache from going up and down the stairs all day. Now I'm to carry your kindling and cans of bathwater and your supper tray.”

“I'm sorry. I won't require very much.”

Nan sniffed contemptuously and turned on her heel, trudging back down the stairs.

Tasia brought the tray to her table, giving the icon a wry glance as she passed by it. “See what these English are like?” she murmured. The Madonna's face remained placid and long-suffering.

Gingerly Tasia lifted the cloth to see what was beneath. There were slices of duck, a dab of brown sauce, a white roll, and boiled vegetables. All of it was carefully arranged and garnished with violets. There was also a little glass cup filled with pasty white pudding. The same thing had been served at the Ashbournes' home. Blancmange, Alicia had called it. The English seemed fond of food with no flavor. Tasia picked up one of the violets and draped the cloth back over the dinner tray. She wasn't hungry. But if she were…

Oh, if only she could have a slice of dark Russian bread with butter, or salted mushrooms sopped in cream. Or some blinis, the delicate pancakes dripping with honey. Some familiar smell or taste, anything to remind her of the world from which she had come. The last few months of her life were a confusing whirl in her head. Everything had fallen through her fingers like sand. Now she had nothing to hold on to.

“I have myself,” she said aloud, but her voice sounded strained. Absently she wandered across the room and stopped in front of the mirrored armoire. It had been a long time since she had looked at herself, other than taking swift glances to make certain her hair was neat and all her buttons were fastened.

Her face was very thin. The bones of her cheeks looked sharp and delicate. The roundness had gone from her neck, leaving lavender hollows to emerge from beneath her high collar. There was no color in her skin. Unconsciously Tasia clenched her fingers around the violet until its rich perfume spilled into the air. She didn't like seeing the fragile woman in the mirror, a stranger with all the confidence of a lost child. She wouldn't let herself be fragile. She would do whatever was necessary to regain her strength. Discarding the bruised flower, she strode to the table.

Picking up the dinner roll, she bit into it and began to chew. It nearly choked her, but she swallowed and forced herself to eat more. She would finish her supper. She would sleep all night without waking or dreaming…and in the morning she would begin to make a new life for herself.

T
he servants' hall was filled with conversation. Smells of coffee, toasting bread, and frying meat wafted through the air. Quickly Tasia straightened her skirts and smoothed her hair. Wiping her face clean of expression, she pushed open the door. The long table in the center of the hall was crowded with people. They fell silent and stared at her. Looking for a familiar face, Tasia found Nan's unfriendly gaze upon her. The butler, Seymour, was busy in the corner ironing a newspaper. He didn't spare her a glance. Just as Tasia considered backing out of the room and fleeing, Mrs. Plunkett's cheerful face appeared before her.

“Good morning, Miss Billings! You're up and about early today. ‘Tis a surprise to see you in the servants’ hall.”

“I gathered that,” Tasia said with a faint smile.

“I'm almost done preparing your breakfast tray. Nan will bring it upstairs very soon. Do you take tea in the morning? Chocolate, maybe?”

“Might I eat down here with everyone else?”

The cook was perplexed. “Miss Billings, these are ordinary servants. You're the governess. You don't take your meals with us.”

It must be a peculiarly English attitude. Her own governess hadn't lived in such isolation. “I'm supposed to eat alone?” Tasia asked in dismay.

“Aye, except the times when you're invited to eat with His Lordship and Miss Emma. That's how it's usually done.” She chuckled at Tasia's expression. “Why, it's an
honor
, lamb, not a punishment!”

“I would consider it a greater honor to take my meals here with you.”

“You would?” Every face in the hall was turned toward her now. Tasia steeled herself not to flinch as dozens of gazes raked over her. Flags of color burned high on her cheeks. Mrs. Plunkett regarded her for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose there's no reason why you couldn't. But I warn you, we're a common lot.” She winked as she added, “Some might even chew with their mouths open.”

Tasia walked to the empty space at one of the long benches. “May I?” she murmured, and a few housemaids shifted to make room for her.

“What will you ‘ave, miss?” one of them asked.

Tasia looked at the row of bowls and platters before her. “Some toast, please. And perhaps some of that sausage…and an egg…and one of those flat things…”

“Oatcakes,” the maid said helpfully, passing the food to her.

One of the footmen down at the other end of the table grinned as he watched Tasia fill her plate. “She may look like a sparrow, but her appetite is horse-sized.” There was a scattering of friendly laughter, and everyone began to eat and talk as before.

Tasia enjoyed the bustling warmth of the servants' hall, especially after the loneliness of the past months. It was nice to sit in the midst of a crowd. Although the food tasted strange to her, it was hot and filling.

Unfortunately her contentment was soon destroyed by Nan's unfriendly stare. The housemaid seemed determined to make her feel unwelcome. “Look at the way she cuts her food in little bites, all ladylike,” Nan sneered. “And how she touches the napkin to her lips, just so. Everything is ‘may I’ and ‘might I.’ Well, I know ‘zactly why she wants to sit with the lot of us. It does no good to put on airs when she's all by herself.”

“Nan,” one of the girls chided. “Don't be a cat.”

“Let ‘er alone, Nan,” someone else said.

Nan quieted, but she continued to glare at Tasia.

Tasia choked down the last few mouthfuls of her breakfast, though it was suddenly like swallowing paste. She'd been hated and feared and sneered at for months by peasants who didn't know her, by cowardly peers who had abandoned her…and now by a spiteful housemaid. Finally Tasia lifted her head to stare back at Nan, her eyes narrowing into slits. It was the same icy look she had given the prison guard in St. Petersburg, and it had the same withering effect on Nan. The housemaid flushed and looked away, her hands balled into fists. Only then did Tasia stand and leave the table, carrying her plate to the great wooden sink. “Good day,” she murmured to no one in particular, and was answered by a chorus of friendly replies.

Slipping out to the hallway, Tasia came face to face with Mrs. Knaggs. The housekeeper seemed less forbidding than she had the night before. “Miss Billings, Emma is changing from her riding clothes. After breakfast she will be ready to begin her lessons at precisely eight o'clock.”

“Does she ride every morning?” Tasia asked.

“Yes, with Lord Stokehurst.”

“They seem very fond of each other,” Tasia said.

Mrs. Knaggs glanced around the hall to make certain they were not being overheard. “Lord Stokehurst dotes on the child. He would give his life for her. He very nearly did, once.”

An image of the silver hook appeared in Tasia's mind. Unconsciously she touched her own left wrist. “Is that how—”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Knaggs had noticed the gesture. “A fire in London. Lord Stokehurst went right into the house before anyone could stop him. Every inch of the place was blazing. The people who saw him go in there believed he would never be seen alive again. But he came out with his wife over his shoulder and the child in his arms.” The housekeeper tilted her head to the side, seeming to watch the movements of ghosts. “Lady Stokehurst didn't live to see the next morning. For days Lord Stokehurst was out of his head with grief, and pain from his wounds. The worst damage was done to the left arm—they say he pulled a burning wall apart with his bare hands to save his wife. The hand festered and poisoned his blood, till they had to choose between taking it off or letting him die. It was ironic, how kindly life had treated him until then, and to lose so much all at once…There's not many it wouldn't have broken. But the master is a strong man. Not long after it all happened, I asked if he would give Emma into the safekeeping of his sister, Lady Catherine. She would have taken the child for as long as necessary. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the baby's all I have left of Mary. I could never give her away, not even for a day.’” Mrs. Knaggs paused and shook her head.

“I've let my mouth run away with me, haven't I? It hardly sets a good example for the others, to stand here with my tongue wagging.”

There was an ache in Tasia's throat. It hardly seemed possible that the man Mrs. Knaggs had just described was the same cool, self-possessed aristocrat she had ridden with in the carriage yesterday. “Thank you for telling me about him,” she managed to say. “Emma is fortunate to have a father who loves her so much.”

“I would say so.” Mrs. Knaggs stared at her curiously. “Miss Billings, if truth be known, you are not at all the kind of governess I expected His Lordship to hire. You're not from England, are you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“You're already the subject of speculation around here. No one at Southgate Hall has any secrets worth telling—and it's clear you have a great many.”

Not knowing how to reply, Tasia shrugged and smiled.

“Mrs. Plunkett is right,” the housekeeper mused. “She says there is something about you that invites people to talk. Maybe it's just that you're so quiet.”

“It's not intentional, ma'am. I take after my father's side of the family. They're all quiet, and they tend to brood. My mother is very talkative and charming. I always wished to be more like her.”

“You do well enough,” Mrs. Knaggs said with a smile. “I must be off now. Today is washday. There's no end of scrubbing, starching, and ironing to be done. Perhaps you would like to occupy yourself in the library or music room until Emma is ready.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

They parted company, and Tasia wandered through the mansion, searching for the music room. Her tour with Emma last night had been so brief, and she had been so tired, that she remembered nothing except the kitchen.

Purely by chance she stumbled onto the music room. It was circular in shape, fitted with curving mullioned windows. The pale blue walls, stenciled with gold fleurs-de-lis, rose to a ceiling painted with cherubs playing musical instruments. Seating herself at the shining piano, Tasia lifted the cover and tried a few chords. As she expected, the instrument was perfectly tuned.

Lightly her hands wandered over the keys, searching for something that would suit her mood. Like all St. Petersburg society, her family had a passion for everything French, especially music. She began to play a sprightly waltz. After a few bars, she stopped as another melody came into her mind, gently beckoning. She was thinking of a Chopin waltz, a haunting piece that seemed to ripple from the heart of the piano. Although she hadn't played it for a long time, she still remembered it fairly well. Closing her eyes, she went slowly at first, gaining confidence as the music overtook her, building in lush strains.

All at once something prompted her to open her eyes. The music stopped abruptly, locked inside her frozen hands.

Lord Stokehurst stood only a few yards away. There was a strange look on his face, as if he'd received a terrible shock.

“Why are you playing that?” he barked.

In her alarm, Tasia could barely find her voice. “I'm sorry if I've displeased you.” Hastily she stood up and skirted around the bench, keeping it between them. “I won't touch the piano again. I only meant to practice a little—”

“Why that music?”

“Sir?” she asked in confusion. He was upset by the piece she had been playing. It must have some special significance to him. Suddenly she understood. The frantic pace of her heart began to ease. “Oh,” she said softly. “It was her favorite, wasn't it?” She didn't mention Lady Stokehurst's name. There was no need. Stokehurst paled a few shades beneath his tan, and she knew she was right.

The blue eyes flashed dangerously. “Who told you?”

“No one.”

“Then it was just a coincidence?” he sneered. “You just happened to sit there and play the one piece that—” He bit off the rest of the sentence. His cheek muscles flexed as he clenched his teeth. The force of his anger, held in such tenuous check, nearly caused her to back away.

“I don't know why I chose that one,” she blurted out. “I…I just felt it.”

“Felt it?”

“I-in the piano.”

Silence. Stokehurst seemed to be torn between fury and amazement as he stared at her. Tasia wanted to take the words back, or explain more, anything to ease the crushing stillness. But she was paralyzed, knowing that whatever she did or said would only make things worse.

Finally Stokehurst turned and walked away with a muffled curse.

“I'm sorry,” Tasia whispered. She continued to stare at the doorway, realizing the scene had not gone unobserved. In his fury, Stokehurst hadn't noticed that his daughter had hidden herself just outside the door. One of Emma's eyes was visible as she peeked around the edge of the frame.

“Emma,” Tasia murmured. The girl vanished, as silently as a cat.

Slowly Tasia eased herself back onto the piano seat. She thought of Stokehurst's face when she had been playing the waltz. He had watched her with a sort of agonized fascination. What memories had been stirred by the music? She didn't think many people had ever seen him that way. The marquess seemed like a man who prized his self-control. Perhaps he had convinced himself and everyone else that he had gone on with his life, but inside he was still grieving.

It was very different from her mother's attitude about her father's death. “You know your dear papa would want me to be happy,” Marie had told her. “He is in heaven now, but I am still alive. Always remember the dead, but don't dwell on them. Your papa doesn't mind that I have gentlemen friends, and neither should you. Do you understand, Tasia?”

Tasia hadn't understood. She had resented the way her mother had recovered from Ivan's death with such apparent ease. Now she was beginning to regret the harsh judgments she had made about Marie's behavior. Perhaps Marie should have stayed in mourning longer, perhaps she was self-indulgent and shallow, perhaps she had too many gentlemen friends…but she had no hidden wounds, no festering grief. It was better to live fully rather than be haunted by the memory of what was lost.

Luke wasn't conscious of where he was going. He kept walking until he found himself in his bedroom. The massive bed, draped in ivory silk and poised on a rectangular platform, had never been shared by anyone except him and his wife. It was sacred territory. He would never allow another woman here. He and Mary had spent their first night together in that bed. A thousand nights together. He had held her when she was pregnant, had been at her side when she had given birth to Emma.

His head was filled with the waltz. The melody pounded in his brain until he groaned and sat on the edge of the platform. He clasped the side of his skull as if that would keep the memories from coming.

Difficult though it was, he had accepted Mary's death. He'd been out of mourning for a long time. He had family and friends, a daughter he loved, a beautiful mistress, a life that kept him too busy to dwell on the past. It was just the moments of loneliness he couldn't seem to conquer. He had been friends with Mary since childhood, long before they had fallen in love. He had always gone to her first, to share happiness or grief, to pour out his anger, to find comfort. When she died, he had lost his best friend as well as his wife. Only Mary had filled that place in his heart. Now it was painfully empty.

Half in a dream, he saw Mary seated at the piano, her hair blazing in a pool of sunlight from the window. The waltz had poured from her fingertips…

“
Isn't it lovely?” Mary cooed, her hands dancing over the keys. “I'm getting much better at it
.”

“
Yes, you are,” he agreed, smiling against her brilliant red curls. “But you've been practicing that waltz for months, Mary Elizabeth. Are you ever going to play another one? Just for the sake of variety
?”

“
Not until this one is perfect
.”

“
By now even the body has it memorized,” he complained. “And I'm beginning to hear it when I sleep at night
.”

“
Poor man,” she said lightly, continuing to play. “Don't you realize how fortunate you are that I've chosen such a divine piece to torment you with
?”