On the afternoon his mother had brought the matchmaker into his life, she’d also managed, over tea, to complain about the slow pace of Mateo’s work. He’d been mortified for a second time by her, but before he could explain himself, before he tried to describe how indecipherable his grandfather’s writing was, Beck had seized on the complaint as a problem he could solve. He said he knew of a woman from his school in need of a position.
Lady Aleksander had pointed out what Mateo had been thinking—that it would be frowned upon to have an unchaperoned, unmarried woman work alone with the viscount, who was a bachelor.
“No reason to fret,” Beck had said confidently. “She’ll be no temptation to the viscount.”
That remark had landed with a thud. “I beg your pardon, sir?” Mateo’s mother had snapped.
“My apologies for misspeaking. I would not presume to know. What I mean is that the young lady is accustomed to work,” Beck quickly amended. “And her family is accustomed to her working. Instead of thinking of her as an unmarried young woman, ripe for the plucking—”
“Good God,” Lady Aleksander complained.
“Think of her more like a spinster aunt who comes for tea. No one would think twice about that, would they? Furthermore, if she comes and leaves through the servants’ entrance, who can speculate what job she has come to do?”
It did not sit well with Mateo. The discussion was cold—whoever the woman was, she was a person. “Regardless of the door she uses, she is still a woman whose reputation deserves to be respected.”
“Yes, of course, of course,” Beck said quickly. “But she also deserves an opportunity to earn a wage. She is good and decent and possesses the skills necessary to help you. And...she needs the position.”
“What do you mean, she needs it?” his mother asked before Mateo could open his mouth.
“She needs the money,” Beck said flatly. “I imagine you will all think me crude for mentioning it, but her family is... They are...” He paused, screwing his face up as if he were trying to solve a riddle. “Unconventional,” he said at last.
“Meaning?” Lady Aleksander asked.
“Nothing criminal.”
Mateo’s mother laughed. “That’s hardly reassuring.”
“I am trying to say that her situation in this world would be greatly eased if she could earn a bit of money on her own. I won’t say more, I won’t speculate, but I’ve known her since she was a student at my school. She is dependable and trustworthy, and acts with integrity. If you don’t believe me, perhaps you might at least make her acquaintance and judge for yourself.”
Later, Mateo would consider that he most likely would have said no to the arrangement, but his mother chose that moment to scoff at Beck and thereby sealed his decision. “I don’t care if she’s an angel, it’s inappropriate.”
“By all means, Beck. Bring her round,” Mateo said.
His mother’s teacup clattered in its saucer. “Teo!”
“Thank you, madam, but I’ve decided,” he said quietly. And for once in his blessed life, his mother didn’t argue.
He did need help. And something Beck had said resonated with him—that her life would be greatly eased if she could earn a wage. So he agreed—he would meet her and judge for himself.
Well, the day was here. He felt a bit uncomfortable; he always did with people he hardly knew. His longtime servants—Rosa and Pacheco and Borerro—were like family to him. But others? It did not come easily to him. He was a grown man now, not the boy who had feared the judgment of strangers. But he was not a charming man. He wished he was—how much easier life would be if he had the casual charm of his brother, Roberto, or the ease of hospitality, like his sister, Sofia. His siblings could walk into any room, with any number of people, and emerge laughing with new friends and invitations to dine. But he’d been cut from a different cloth. Making friends didn’t come naturally to him. He couldn’t seem to make people feel at ease. Generally, he came through meeting strangers feeling exhausted and empty and doubting himself.
Be that as it may, he had too many pressing issues to worry how he was perceived. He had a stack of invitations needing replies, letters to business partners and estate agents that should be written, and some documents that he sincerely hoped the woman could read and interpret for him.
And, lest he forget—which would be impossible at this point—he had the curious problem of a misdelivery of goats instead of the sheep he’d bought, which he felt certain had to be the result of mistranslation of his English.
He needed a scribe, and he needed one now.
He heard the knock on the door, heard Borerro invite them in. He straightened his cuffs, again and again, until Borerro came for him. Then he straightened them one last time and went down to the study to meet his guests.
* * *
THE STUDY WAS on the eastern side of the house, darkly paneled, overlooking the garden and the street. On one wall were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stuffed with books about agriculture, history, and philosophy. The windows were opened to allow for more light, and through them, Mateo could hear the faint sounds of carts and horses and people moving about.
His grandfather’s mahogany desk dominated one end of the room and was stacked with papers and ledgers, and behind it was a thickly padded leather chair. The room was very masculine, and he instantly tried to imagine a young woman fluttering about, touching the drapes, sitting on the furnishings, filling the space with her presence. At the other end of the room was a small writing table he’d had brought from one of the bedrooms.
“My lord,” Beck said, bowing his head, and drawing Mateo’s attention to him.
“Beck. Welcome.” He folded one arm behind his back and gripped his hand into a fist, then shifted his gaze to the woman. It was an old habit he’d adopted as a boy when his parents would thrust him to the front of the stage. Behold your heir, Santiava. The crowd would behold, and later, his father would belittle his nerves, how he’d appeared and, if he’d said anything, how ridiculous he’d sounded.
He couldn’t see but a few wisps of the woman’s hair beneath her bonnet, but thought it was brown. She had wide, clear blue eyes, and she looked a bit surprised. There was a light in them, a bit of a sparkle that intrigued him. Was she excited? Happy to be here? And why did she clutch her reticule so tightly?
“Lord Abbott, may I present Miss Harriet Woodchurch,” Beck said, and on cue, Miss Woodchurch stepped forward and dipped into a perfect curtsy.
“She comes to you with excellent credentials, having graduated from the Iddesleigh School for Exceptional Girls. She is currently occupied with bookkeeping for Mrs. O’Malley and her sweets shop, as well as serving as a lady’s companion to the daughter of a viscount. In addition to her many talents, her penmanship is perfection.” Beck smiled at Miss Woodchurch.