The Reluctant Governess. Anne Mather

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      Victoria relaxed. ‘Danke, yes,’ she nodded. ‘It’s much warmer down here than upstairs.’

      Maria folded her arms. ‘It is cold in your room? The fire is gone out?’

      ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Do—do I light it?’

      Maria shook her head. ‘Gustav will do it later, fräulein.’ She turned away to where a coffee percolator hummed on another stove. ‘You would like some coffee? Or tea?’

      ‘Coffee would be fine,’ replied Victoria gratefully, seating herself near the roaring fire. ‘Is it always as cold as this?’

      Maria spooned sugar into a cup without asking Victoria’s preference, and shrugged, pulling a face. ‘In May the warm days come,’ she said.

      ‘May!’ Victoria shivered. It was still only March. May seemed a very long way away.

      ‘You will soon get used to it, fräulein,’ asserted Maria, comfortably, handing the girl a cup of strong black coffee. ‘Wrap up warmly and you will find it is invigorating.’

      Victoria sipped her coffee with some satisfaction. At least it was good coffee. She was beginning to feel hungry, too, and the sight of those golden brown rolls was very appetising.

      Maria put the rolls on to a wire tray, and began to set a place near Victoria. She put out some of the white earthenware plates they had used the night before, together with a dish of yellow butter and a jar of home-made conserve. Then she indicated that Victoria should sit at the table, and Victoria did so with gratitude.

      ‘The—er—Baron?’ she began, as she buttered a roll and added some conserve.

      Maria frowned. ‘Yes?’ she said uncompromisingly.

      Victoria sighed. ‘Does—doesn’t he eat here?’

      Maria sniffed. ‘The Herr Baron breakfasted two hours ago, fräulein,’ she retorted, with some disparagement.

      ‘I see.’ Victoria sank her teeth into the roll and savoured its flavour with real enjoyment. It was strange, you simply didn’t get bread like this in England.

      Maria hesitated by the table. ‘Have you seen Sophie yet, fräulein?’

      At the mention of the child’s name, some of Victoria’s contentment vanished.

      ‘Yes, I’ve seen her,’ she replied carefully. ‘She came to my bedroom earlier.’

      Maria still hovered beside her. ‘What did she say?’

      Victoria frowned. ‘Very little,’ she answered honestly.

      Maria twisted her hands together. ‘It is wise not to take too much notice of what she says,’ she said unhappily, ‘Sophie is a strange child. No one can get near to her. She makes up—what you would call—fantasies!’

      Victoria looked at Maria curiously, and then the woman’s words found an echo in something she remembered from earlier this morning.

      ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘could I have heard an explosion this morning? I—I believe something like that woke me.’

      Maria’s eyes flickered. ‘An explosion, fräulein?’

      ‘Yes.’ Victoria lifted her shoulders. ‘Like a shot, for example.’

      Maria looked relieved suddenly. ‘Oh, perhaps,’ she agreed, nodding. ‘Gustav was out early with his rifle.’

      Victoria digested this, but Maria turned away, apparently willing to let the conversation end there. Victoria ate two rolls, felt pleasantly full, and accepted a second cup of coffee. She was in the process of drinking the second cup when the heavy door at the far side of the kitchen opened and her employer came in.

      This morning he was dressed in thigh-length boots, and a thick fur-lined overcoat. A fur hat resided on his head, but he drew this off as he came in and threw it to one side as he unbuttoned his coat, and unzipped his boots. Victoria gave him a fleeting glance, and then returned her attention to her coffee, unwilling to appear too inquisitive as he divested himself of his outer garments. Maria welcomed him eagerly, offering him coffee, and he patted her shoulder warmly, and said: ‘Ja, good and strong, Maria!’ before transferring his attention to Victoria.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Monroe,’ he nodded, running a hand through the thickness of his fair hair. ‘I trust you have spent a good night.’

      Victoria found herself colouring under his brilliant blue gaze like a schoolgirl, and was angry with herself for doing so. In consequence, her tones were sharp, as she replied: ‘Thank you, yes, Herr Baron.’

      The Baron’s brows drew together slightly, and he studied her thoughtfully for a moment before continuing: ‘It will be necessary for us to talk this morning, Miss Monroe. I suggest you wait a moment while I have my coffee, and then we will go to my study.’

      Victoria lifted her shoulders. ‘As you say, Herr Baron,’ she answered swiftly.

      The Baron gave her another studied look before turning back to Maria and taking the mug of steaming liquid she handed him. Warming his hands round its width, he came back to the fire, standing, one foot raised to rest on the settle at one side of the fire, as he stared into the flames. In black vorlagers and a black sweater he was an infinitely disturbing figure, and Victoria couldn’t help wondering where his wife might be. Had Sophie been more forthcoming she might have asked her about her mother, but the child had not been helpful in any way. It was possible, of course, that Sophie missed her mother and that that was why she behaved so badly. But would any woman be able to stand the isolation here all winter long? Had the Baroness merely gone to where there were lights and people and simple luxuries like central heating, for example?

      Victoria ventured another look at her employer. He might not be an easy man to live with; there was a touch of ruthlessness about him as well as that sardonic cynicism, and yet she was aware also of a gentleness that showed whenever he spoke of his daughter. He turned suddenly and found her eyes upon him and she quickly looked away, but not before she had encountered the disturbing penetration of those naked blue eyes.

      He finished his coffee and put the cup on the bench beside a deep sink, then turned to Victoria. ‘Are you ready, Miss Monroe?’ he asked briefly, and Victoria got obediently to her feet.

      At that moment the kitchen door opened again, this time from the hall which led to Victoria’s room, and Sophie came in almost jauntily. Victoria had been wondering where the child was, and now she thought there was about Sophie an air of satisfaction that had not been there before.

      ‘Papa!’ she exclaimed, when she saw her father, and rushing across to him she wrapped her arms round his hips extravagantly. ‘Wohin gehen Sie?’

      ‘English, Sophie,’ said her father gently, disentangling himself from her clinging arms. ‘I am going to my study. Miss Monroe and I need to discuss your tuition.’

      Sophie turned in her father’s arms and wrinkled her nose at Victoria, but as only Victoria saw her the Baron did not remonstrate with her. ‘I don’t want to do lessons, Papa! I want to come out with you. Can I, Papa? Can I?’

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