Playing to Win (19 page)

"I suppose—I suppose she told you she
has no need for a nursemaid—at present."

Trevor shifted uncomfortably in his
chair. This was one of the conversations he had mentally rehearsed
while driving home in that deuced cold curricle. Unfortunately, the
real conversation was failing to follow the script he had written.
Telling Clarissa of his sister’s views ought to have been the wedge
that would open her mind to the idea of accepting his
carte
blanche.
But he had, as usual, not taken the listener’s
probable emotions into his calculations. And it had not occurred to
him that Clarissa would know his sister’s views without being
told.

In the face of her naked vulnerability,
it did not seem possible to immediately bring forward his arguments
and offers. In fact, even a Philistine like himself could see that
it would be nothing short of cruel. He decided to skate past the
issue. For the moment, he promised himself. Only for the
moment.

"The devil of it is, my sister does
need a nursemaid. But she won’t admit it," he said gruffly.
"Augusta has four wild little boys, and the most incompetent Nurse
it has ever been my misfortune to meet. But if the truth be known,
Gussie enjoys dancing attendance on her children! She gladly pays
the boys’ Nurse to do nothing, so that she may have the privilege
of cosseting and scolding them herself all day."

Clarissa’s smile was wistful. "I would
feel the same."

He snorted. "My sister has a thousand
amiable qualities, but where her children are concerned she is
completely birdwitted. She pays a nurse to do nothing, so I
supposed she might pay a nursemaid to do nothing as well! Besides,
I offered to pay your salary."

He saw the shock on Clarissa’s face and
added testily, "You need not take offense! I am at least partially
responsible for the coil you find yourself in. It was a reasonable
offer for me to make. But she would have none of it."

"Of course she would have none of it!"
exclaimed Clarissa. "Good God, sir, you must have given her the
impression that—that—" She buried her face in her hands.

"No such thing, I assure you! I told
her outright you were a virtuous girl."

Behind her hands, Clarissa uttered a
sound somewhere between a moan and a laugh. "And this failed to
convince her? How extraordinary."

A reluctant grin briefly flashed across
Trevor’s face. "Yes! The silly creature wanted
references."

The silence that greeted this remark
was deafening. It spun out for a moment while Mr. Whitlatch’s jaw
set grimly. "Well? Have you any?"

"No." Clarissa raised her face tiredly
from her hands and regarded her companion bleakly. "I thought I
told you. Miss Bathurst passed away quite suddenly."

Trevor swore under his breath. "I
cannot secure you employment without references! What of her
successors? The cousins, or whatever they were. Did they not
provide you with any sort of letter?"

"They told me they could
not."

"Could not!" Mr. Whitlatch, goaded,
rose and took a hasty turn about the room. "Why could they not?" he
tossed over his shoulder at her.

Clarissa answered in a small, shamed
voice. "They said they felt unqualified to recommend me, because
they were unacquainted with my work."

Mr. Whitlatch flung himself back into
his chair. He regarded Clarissa from under fiercely beetling brows.
"In other words, they turned you off without a
character."

"They believed I had none, sir." She
hung her head, obviously wretched.

Trevor’s hands clenched wrathfully on
his knees, but his wrath was not directed at Clarissa. "So these
ugly customers not only dismissed you, they refused to provide you
with the means to secure a post elsewhere. And I suppose you meekly
packed your bags! I would have camped on their doorstep until they
coughed up a letter of recommendation!"

That brought her head up. "Why did I
not think of that?" she marveled. "A pity you were not there to
advise me, sir! Such rough-and-ready tactics would doubtless have
caused them to
instantly
capitulate, and we might have been
spared this conversation!"

His lips twitched, but he firmly
repressed the urge to grin at her sally. "It seems to me," he told
her sternly, "that you would be hard-pressed to prove you were ever
within five miles of Bathurst Ladies’ Academy, let alone that you
resided there for years, completed your studies, and were kept on
as a teacher."

She flushed, straightening in her
chair. "As you say," she said stiffly. "Unless my word be taken, I
cannot."

"Well, don’t poker up!" he advised her.
"I don’t doubt your story, after all. But what did you plan to do
before I stumbled into your life? You can’t peddle an education
door to door as if you were selling pins!"

"No, but I heard there were registry
offices in London, where one can apply for governess positions and
the like. I had hoped to interview at such an office."

His brows arched sardonically. "Without
references? Your name would be placed at the bottom of the list—if
they agreed to list you at all! Women are cautious, you know, about
the sort of persons they put in charge of their children. You
should have heard Gussie! I never knew she could be so pig-headed.
She’s generally an easy-going sort."

Clarissa raised puzzled eyes to her
companion’s face. "Is it really so difficult, to obtain a post
without references? A governess cannot be
born
with
references! She must earn them somewhere. I understand that I
cannot expect to receive a prestigious situation, or a high-paying
one, but surely even a beginner like myself—"

Trevor interrupted her impatiently.
"You are mistaken! Governesses are, in fact, born with references!
It is the only occupation open to genteel women in impoverished
circumstances. Believe me, Clarissa, the market is glutted with
such women! And they are generally hired because they are
somebody’s cousin, or somebody’s sister, or because Aunt
So-and-So’s dear friend Miss Such-and-Such has known the
applicant’s family all her life,
et cetera
."

A short silence fell. Clarissa picked
up her sewing again, her hands not quite steady.

"My father secured me the best
education money could buy," she said in a low voice. "He believed
he was providing for my future. I, too, thought he had given me the
means to avoid both poverty and disgrace. Now it appears he did not
succeed, and I must choose between them."

He frowned. "Choose between
what?"

"Poverty and disgrace." Her fingers
trembled as she set another stitch.

Trevor felt a stab of exasperation.
"There is no need for these heart-burnings! I won’t pretend to
misunderstand you. You speak of choosing between life as a menial,
and the kind of life I offered you yesterday. A menial’s life is
certainly one of poverty, with all its attendant miseries. But I
still cannot fathom why you think becoming a gentleman’s
chère
amie
would be such a disgrace."

A mirthless laugh escaped her. "If you
do not understand why prostitution is disgraceful, I cannot explain
it to you."

His eyes gleamed; this was the opening
for which he had hoped. He might be able to make her an offer
tonight after all.

"Try."

He waited, feeling the way a cat must
feel as it crouches before the mousehole.

Clarissa’s fingers stilled. She seemed
taken aback. He watched, not unhopeful, as she struggled for a
moment to find words and then shrugged helplessly. "Some truths
simply
are.
One cannot give a reason. I could refer you to
the Bible, of course—"

"Yes, I’ve no doubt you could. But
those are not your words. A parrot can quote scripture! I want to
know why
you
, Clarissa Feeney, believe it is wrong to trade
pleasure for income."

She set her sewing carefully back in
the basket, folded her hands in her lap, and leveled her gaze at
him accusingly.

He held up one hand as if fending off
her reproach. "Forget the ulterior motive you are ascribing to my
question! I only ask you to explain your views to me as you would
explain them to any friend."

"Very well," she replied icily.
"Prostitution is wrong because it divides married persons, whom God
has joined together as one flesh. It is wrong because it causes men
to break faith with their wives. It causes them to spend money
wastefully, money that would be better spent on their families. It
wreaks havoc on the lives of innocent women who are betrayed,
abandoned, made ill, or even impoverished through their unfaithful
husbands."

"I am not speaking of married persons,"
Trevor countered. "I have told you already that I have no patience
with men—or women!—who hold their marriage vows lightly. But what
of arrangements between unmarried persons? Whom do they harm? For
myself, I confess it seems a completely different matter to me. I
see nothing wrong with a convenient and pleasant liaison, if there
is no third party to consider."

Clarissa’s eyes flashed. "There is
always a third party to consider! My entire life has been an object
lesson in why prostitution is wrong! Even in such an arrangement as
you describe, do you not, at the very least, run the risk of
creating a child?"

Mr. Whitlatch was silenced. A hit, he
acknowledged wryly to himself. A palpable hit.

He tossed off the last of his drink and
set down the mug. It was time to try a fresh approach. He leaned
forward, elbows on knees, and spoke gently.

"I know your views on the matter, but
for good or ill, my dear, you have been born. Now that you are
among the living, you must want something from life. What is
it?"

She looked up at him warily. He was
reminded once again of a wild creature, scenting danger. "What do
you mean?"

"I know what you planned your life to
be. And I know what you expect your life to be. But what do you
want
your life to be? Surely no one dreams of becoming a
governess. Is that really the height of your ambition?"

Her apprehension seemed to fade. To his
surprise, a shy smile flitted across her features. The effect was
charming. "Of course not."

He returned her smile. "Well,
then?"

She played with the edge of her sewing
a little nervously. "One cannot always have what one desires. It is
better to seek—achievable goals."

"Ah," he said softly. "You must
secretly cherish some goal you believe is
not
achievable."

She laughed a little, self-consciously
shaking her head. "Well, it is certainly not in my hands!" Her eyes
met his fleetingly, then dropped. "I suppose I want what most women
want."

"And that is—?"

She blushed again. "It does no good to
speak of such things. But of course I would rather marry than be a
governess. Anyone would."

Trevor folded his hands across his
waistcoat and crossed his legs, watching her from under hooded
lids. Best to get her secret hopes out in the open—where he could
pull them to bits. He hoped she wouldn’t take it too hard. An
unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling of guilt stirred within him, but
he quashed it. This was no time to grow a conscience! Not now, when
he could sense his quarry weakening.

"Tell me," he invited. "Do you think
you might marry someday?"

Clarissa looked doubtfully at him for a
moment, but seemed to decide his question was innocent enough. Her
sewing dropped as if forgotten, and she gazed into the
fire.

"It is not impossible. We spoke of
God’s gifts the other day. I know that the gift of love and
marriage is not given to everyone," she said slowly. "But it is
often given to—unlikely recipients."

"Such as yourself?"

She nodded. Her expression became
wistful again. "I enjoy other people’s children, but I would dearly
love to have children of my own."

He kept his tone encouraging. "And when
you picture marriage, what sort of husband does your imagination
conjure? What kind of life would you fancy? In your heart of
hearts."

Her eyes were wide and misty. She gazed
into the flames as if she could read her future in them. Her
pensive reverie was lovely to behold, but Mr. Whitlatch found
himself chafing with impatience as he watched her. He knew she had
been harboring some idiotic, schoolgirlish fantasy! This was
it.

"He need not be handsome, or rich," she
said dreamily. "A kind man. Perhaps a scholarly man; a reader of
books. I believe I could be happy with very little. A small garden
would be nice, and a few chickens or geese."

Trevor could not repress a sneer. "Love
in a cottage, in fact!"

Clarissa took no notice of his sarcasm,
but continued to gaze tenderly into the fire. "Yes," she agreed,
sighing. "That would be lovely."

"You are aware, I trust, that such
cottages are far more pleasant to look at than to live in. And that
they generally house farm laborers."

The jeering note that had crept into
his voice seemed to penetrate her consciousness at last. Clarissa’s
eyes refocused and returned, somewhat apprehensively, to her
companion. "Yes, I suppose. Not always."