The Reluctant Governess. Anne Mather

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      Immediately, an angry feeling of resentment welled up inside her again as she struggled to get hastily to her feet. A man leapt out of the station wagon and came swiftly round to her side, but by the time he reached her she was on her feet, a trembling mass of indignation.

      ‘Your pardon, fräulein,’ he said, in low attractive tones, that were less guttural than others she had heard, ‘but,’ he continued, ‘you would have been well advised to wait in the office!’

      Victoria stiffened her shoulders, surveying him angrily in the light from the lantern hung above the station entrance. ‘I was not invited to wait in the office,’ she stated coldly, brushing down her coat and the trousers of her suit. ‘Perhaps you would have been well advised to be here in time to meet me!’ Her dark eyes challenged him. She had no intention of allowing this—this chauffeur to attempt to put her in her place. Even so, her gaze fell before the piercing brilliance of his, and a faint smile touched his lips.

      Victoria was infuriated by this response. Maybe it was because she had made such an ungainly entrance which was something she was unused to, while he was calm and assured and utterly unmoved by her impatience. He was attractive too, she acknowledged reluctantly; tall, and broad, and muscular with hair which she had thought at first was white but which she now realised was simply silvery fair. His brows and lashes were dark in comparison and the heavy lines that were etched beside his mouth added age and experience.

      Shrugging, he bent and lifted her suitcase, and was about to turn away when she said: ‘Just a moment! What do you think you’re doing?’

      The man straightened, his muscles rippling beneath the fur parka he was wearing. His eyes were narrowed now and he frowned.

      ‘You are Miss Victoria Monroe, are you not?’ he queried softly.

      Victoria twisted the strap of her handbag. ‘And if I am?’

      ‘You are going to the Schloss von Reichstein. I am from there.’

      Still Victoria hesitated. She had no doubt that he was indeed from the schloss as he said, but some streak of perversity would not allow her to admit it. Instead, she gave him a disdainful stare, and said: ‘How can I be certain of that?’

      Just at that moment the porter appeared from the direction of his office, swinging his lantern, obviously disturbed by the sound of raised voices. He looked up at the man beside Victoria, and touched his cap with deference. ‘Es ist Sie, Herr Baron!’ he nodded politely, his attitude vastly different from the way he had treated Victoria, and while she experienced an awful feeling of dismay at his words, he went on in his own language, gesticulating at the weather as he conversed with her companion. Victoria’s cheeks burned. The Baron indeed! No chauffeur as she had vainly imagined, but her employer himself! Inwardly she was seething. Someone should have warned her that in Austria barons might be found meeting their employees off mountain trains! It simply wasn’t done! Her experience had given her an infinitely different impression of aristocrats. And anyway, if this man was her employer someone had been misled. He was thirty-eight—forty at the most, whereas her godmother had attended school with his cousin who was easily sixty!

      As though allowing her time to recover her dignity the Baron continued to discourse with the station porter, and only when Victoria began to move her feet rather restlessly did he turn to her and say: ‘Perhaps you would get in the car, fräulein. Now that my—er—credentials have been shall we say vouched for?’

      Victoria made no reply. She was half afraid even now that her unruly tongue might run away with her, and she was beginning to blame him for the position she was in. He should have introduced himself in the first place instead of allowing her to assume he was some kind of employee himself. And yet, she had to admit, their meeting had not been entirely conventional, and she had flared at him for being the cause of her accident. The Baron put her case in the back of the vehicle, and came round to climb in beside her, bidding the porter ‘Guten Abend.’ As well as the thick parka he was wearing thick trousers made of some kind of skin and knee-length leather boots. Only his head was bare and obviously he didn’t appear to feel the cold as she did. However, he handed her a rug from the back of the car to put over her knees, for which she was grateful. She tucked her hands inside the sleeves of her sheepskin coat and was glad of its warmth and weight.

      The station wagon moved away and again she heard that grating sound. She glanced swiftly at him, wondering whether the vehicle was in need of repair, and as though gauging her thoughts he said: ‘Chains, fräulein! I am afraid our roads are impassable without them at this time of year.’

      Victoria nodded, said: ‘Oh!’ and then turned her attention to her surroundings. The snow partially illuminated the village as they drove along the main street. The chalets with their sloping roofs and smoking chimneys gave an impression of warmth and comfort that was far removed from the misted windows of the train. They seemed to rise in tiers up the sloping pastures of the mountain, and the realisation that people lived and worked here was warming. A feeling of exhilaration replaced her earlier resentment and she felt she had been unnecessarily ungracious.

      As though attempting to reconcile her behaviour, she ventured: ‘I—I really ought to apologise, Herr Baron. I was completely unaware of your identity, of course.’ A smile tugged at the corners of the mouth.

      The Baron von Reichstein looked in her direction for an intent moment, then returning his attention to his driving, he said:

      ‘Do I understand that that is how you treat people who are not your employers, fräulein?’ in infuriatingly sardonic tones.

      Victoria’s colour returned heatedly. ‘Of course not. I’m not a shrew!’

      The Baron shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, you are quick-tempered, fräulein. I somehow do not see you and Sophie becoming the best of friends.’

      Victoria controlled her indignation. ‘Sophie?’ she queried, pleasantly. ‘That is your daughter?’

      ‘Correct.’

      Victoria digested this. So this man was the Baron von Reichstein. Certainly he was much younger than Aunt Laurie had suspected or she would not have been so eager to pack her goddaughter off to his isolated schloss in the dead of winter.

      In an effort to begin some sort of conversation, Victoria tied a scarf over her hair, put up her coat collar, and said: ‘Is it far to your—er—house?’

      The Baron hesitated. ‘Not too far,’ he said at last. ‘However, pehaps I should warn you, it is not a house. It is a schloss, a castle, in fact!’ He glanced her way. ‘Are you a sturdy female, Miss Monroe? The Schloss von Reichstein is no place for greenhouse plants.’

      Victoria compressed her lips. ‘Only for hardy annuals, perhaps?’ she muttered, almost under her breath, but he heard her, and a faint smile touched his lips.

      ‘Indeed, Miss Monroe. We are all hardy who live in these mountains.’

      Victoria sighed. They were leaving the village behind now and the road was beginning to wind through forests of pine trees thickly laden with snow. It was very quiet, very still, and as the snow was no longer driving СКАЧАТЬ