Chapter 19
I seated myself with all the grace I could muster across from Baron Fondy's staff, Butler Dunmore, in the drawing room of the baron's residence. It was a pleasant enough space, albeit lacking the over-the-top grandeur of Millicent's extravagant residence here in Torvalis, a residence that was not even her primary one.
Baron Fondy's home, however, was what I would generously call "respectable." Modest by noble standards, yet far from humble. Judging by the size of the structure as I had approached it earlier, I estimated it boasted at least ten bedchambers on the second floor alone. A decent number, certainly, though one could argue it bordered on excessive. How many beds could one man possibly need? Truly, the habits of the aristocracy never cease to amuse me.
Butler Dunmore was a frail, diminutive man with gray hair that seemed as though it had been weathered by centuries rather than decades. He looked as if the faintest breeze might whisk him straight into the grave, yet his demeanor was polite, even warm. Sliding a piece of paper across the low table to my side, he smiled faintly. "My apologies, Mrs. Woodstone. My lord has stepped out to attend to some business and regrets he could not greet you personally. He has tasked me with handling this matter."
"Not at all, Butler Dunmore. I arrived unannounced, after all. Thank you kindly for meeting with me." I accepted the paper, and as expected, it was a contract of employment. The terms mirrored exactly what Jack's letter had described earlier. Three hours, three days a week, and twenty silvers per day. I had to suppress the grin threatening to overtake my face, instead setting the paper neatly back onto the table. My hands returned to my lap, the picture of poise. "How could one deny such a splendid opportunity? It would be a great honor to serve as the Young Lord's tutor in the art of literature, should he find me suitable."
Butler Dunmore studied me with a faintly amused glint in his eye, as if he were an old sage who had already discerned everything about me. "Are you certain that is all you can teach, Mrs. Woodstone? It seems to me you possess knowledge far beyond the realm of letters. My lord is also seeking a history tutor for the Young Lord." His words carried a hopeful undertone.
The only history I am intimately familiar with were the tragic, bloody tales of my own life, and I dare say no child should be subjected to that sordid curriculum. Oh, how I longed to seize this opportunity and earn more coin, but alas, my upbringing had left me ill-equipped for such lofty pursuits. "A humble commoner such as myself is not blessed with the breadth of historical knowledge required for such a task. I was fortunate enough merely to learn to literature."
He sighed knowingly, his weathered face softening with a smile. "I understand. Life is not kind to those of our station. I, too, am a commoner. Hardship is something we both know well."
"Indeed."
"And what does your husband do, Mrs. Woodstone? I understand you are married."
"My husband, Kyle, is a logger. A very kind man. We have been married for four years now."
"He is a fortunate man to have found a wife of such fine character as yourself, Mrs. Woodstone."
For heaven's sake, could we not skip the endless pleasantries and cut to the part where I sign the contract? My hand was practically itching to grasp the quill. He was one of those individuals who, even when you had metaphorically opened the door and motioned for him to leave, would pause on the threshold and continue prattling on about this and that.
We exchanged pointless words for thirty minutes of polite nodding and vaguely agreeable hums before the dear old man finally remembered why I was there in the first place.
"I must apologize, Mrs. Woodstone. You must be weary of my incessant chatter," he chuckled, though he showed no signs of stopping.
"Not at all, Butler Dunmore. I find myself thoroughly entertained," I lied with grace.
At last, he slid the inkpot and quill toward me across the table. "Well then, I suppose it is time to seal the deal."
"It would be my greatest pleasure."
Grasping the quill, I signed my name with elegance, looping my letters with such finesse that angels might weep. I slid the paper back toward him, praying that this would mark the end of his endless commentary. He studied my signature, his eyes lighting up as though he had discovered a treasure.
"Truly fascinating," he said with a tone of awe. "Your penmanship is exquisite, Mrs. Woodstone. It is rare to see such precision and artistry."
I smiled, my pride swelling. "Thank you kindly, Butler Dunmore."
Yes, I know, my handwriting is a masterpiece, thank you for noticing.
But then, as if to punish me for my hubris, he launched into another fifteen minutes of marveling over my handwriting.
He finally rose, and I followed suit, grasping my cane. "I shall take you to meet the Young Lord. He should be in his bedchamber," Butler Dunmore said, gesturing for me to follow him out the door.
"What is his name?" I inquired as we walked.
"I cannot believe I forgot to tell you," he chuckled. "His name is Benjamin Fondy."
Before I could comment, a man appeared down the corridor. He was middle-aged, smartly dressed in a tailored brown suit, his neatly styled black hair suggesting an attention to detail and cleanliness. My immediate thought: Baron Fondy.
He approached us with the effortless politeness nobles wear. "Mrs. Woodstone, it is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance."
"The pleasure is mine, Lord Fondy," I replied, inclining my head slightly.
"You are even more radiant in person than your portrait suggested," he remarked with an appreciative smile. "Simply stunning."
"Your kindness flatters me, Lord Fondy."
"Oh yes," he continued, clearly delighted to elaborate, "your portrait now hangs in our art room. My wife, being an artist herself, insisted it belonged there. I trust you do not object?"
"Not at all. I am simply relieved it does not frighten away the visitors."
And so, as fate would have it, the conversation spiraled into another ten-minute ordeal. Butler Dunmore even saw fit to contribute his opinions, as though the two were competing for the title of Most Enthusiastic Conversationalist of the Year. I stood there, smiling like a proper lady while inwardly praying fervently to every deity I could think of that young Benjamin would not inherit his father's penchant for chatter.