CHAPTER SEVEN
Marion took a deep, stiffening breath and tried to gather her whirling thoughts. There was no question, obviously. She had other plans, entirely different ones. “I’m very honored to be asked—”
“Obviously!”
“—but I’ll have to turn the duchess’s offer down.”
“What?” All color drained from Lady Rose’s face. “Turn it . . . down?” Her tone was one of absolute disbelief.
“I have other commitments,” Marion said, steadily. “My college course. After which I intend to work with the poor.”
It was Lady Rose’s turn to look amazed. “The . . . ?” The word wouldn’t come out. She tried again. “The . . . ?” Her eyes bulged and she swallowed.
“In the slums,” Marion added, for good measure.
A silence followed, interrupted with occasional snaps from the fire. Lady Rose stared into it. Then she turned her head to Marion. Her expression was calm again, even if her eyes held traces of shock.
“Miss Crawford. You clearly feel you have a vocation, but what higher vocation could there be than serving your king and his family? What greater honor or more important task than to be shaping the young minds of the next generation of imperial rulers?”
Marion stared at her. This was an unexpectedly skillful move. She had played the commitment card, but Lady Rose had played it back, acing it with flattery. Her words also held echoes of Miss Golspie. You should teach the wealthy. But she had spent the summer doing that. She had done her duty.
“You would enjoy living in London,” Lady Rose added, moving to secure her advantage. “A pretty young girl like you would have a wonderful time there.”
Marion suppressed a pang of longing. The fact that Valentine came from the capital made her wish she knew it better. But there would be time to travel later, in the vague future. For now, her plans did not include working with royalty. Her vocation was with society’s exact opposite extreme.
“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said, firmly.
Lady Rose stood up. The violet eyes were resigned. “Very well, Miss Crawford. I will let my sister know.”
AS SHE WALKED back through the trees, Marion reran the amazing conversation through her mind. Had she done the right thing? From her own point of view, definitely yes. As for Lady Rose and the Yorks, the inconvenience of her refusal would surely be tempered by the knowledge that every other governess on the planet would jump at the chance.
Her mother, on the other hand, would be devastated. A cold dread slithered through Marion’s stomach at the thought.
Mrs. Crawford’s interest in the royal family had recently become a mania. She had hung portraits of them in the sitting room and filled several scrapbooks—large, homemade brown-paper affairs held together with string—with pictures cut from newspapers. The little princesses had a scrapbook all to themselves.
No, she could not go home yet. Her mother would sense her guilt and cross-examine her with a barrister’s ruthlessness. She needed time to compose herself.
On the edge of the woods Marion hesitated. The weather was hot and close, with a thunderous weight to the air. Between the rasping, restless leaves, the light was a dirty yellow.
She would, she decided, go and see Valentine. He was not expecting her, but it would be a surprise. She would not tell him about the Yorks; not yet, anyway. There was no need: lacking her mother’s perception, he was unlikely to suspect anything, while volunteering the information would only invite his triumphal glee.
By the time she reached the city, great black towers of cloud had gathered in the sky. All hell was clearly about to break loose. She hurried down Princes Street. She needed to get inside with all speed. The same thought had obviously occurred to everyone else. People were casting doubtful looks upward before redoubling their pace.
The rain fell faster and faster. In no time at all it was a heavy gray curtain, drumming on the pavements and gurgling down the gutters. Marion’s hat, soaked through, hung over her face, irredeemably ruined, with soggy flowers hanging off the end. Her hair stuck to her neck and her skirts clung to her legs. The water in her shoes bubbled and squelched and her heels skidded on the slippery stones.
Few other people were in the streets now. The rain had made it so dark that the few passing vehicles had switched on their headlights. They shone like yellow eyes through the hissing rain. Above, the thunder rolled and crashed.
Eventually, the university came into view, its outlines gray and vague in the downpour. Still holding on to her ruined hat, Marion ran across the wet grass, feet squelching, heels sinking in the mud. The great steps of the central building poured like a waterfall.
She ran down the passage and up the wooden stairs. His door loomed before her. She twisted the knob and threw it open.
Her merry salutation died in her throat. Two people lay on the bed amid the familiar twisted sheets. One was Valentine, eyes closed in ecstasy as he ground his body between a pair of white thighs.
She stared, frozen to the spot. But something moved on her face, something warm. A hot tear was slowly threading down her cheek.