He stood and stared at her for a few moments, irritated, disliking her. Not understanding her. Not wanting to understand. Dash it all. Why could her maternal grandmother not have lived in the wilds of Scotland? He had not needed any of this. He had needed to get over Anna with all the dignity he could muster and in his own good time.
“You had better come and have tea with me,” he said abruptly, surprising himself. “Have you ever been to Sally Lunn’s? You have not lived until you have tasted one of the delicacies named after her. They are famous.”
Her lips thinned. “I have not yet been paid, Mr. Cunningham,” she said.
Good God, was she penniless? He knew she had been cut off entirely by her father’s will and that she had refused to share any of Anna’s fortune. But . . . literally penniless?
“I have invited you to come and have tea with me, Miss Westcott,” he said. “That means I will be paying the bill. Go and fetch your bonnet.”
“If this is your way of gathering information about me so that you can paint a convincing portrait of me, Mr. Cunningham,” she said before leaving the room ahead of him, “I would warn you that I will not make it easy for you. But if you do get to know me, please let me know what you discover. I have no idea who I am.”
He stared after her for a few moments, half annoyed, half puzzled, and quite sure this was the last thing he wanted to be doing on a Friday afternoon. But despite himself, he found himself grinning before following her out of the room.
I have no idea who I am.
There was that dry sense of humor again—directed against herself.
Six
Sally Lunn’s tearoom, in the oldest house in Bath, was on the North Parade Passage, quite close to the abbey and the Pump Room. It was a tall, narrow building with a bow window jutting onto the street. Inside, it was tiny. The tables were crowded together, cheek by jowl, and all of them seemed to be occupied, as was very often the case. Joel did not come often—until fairly recently he had not been able to afford the extravagance—but he was recognized by a waitress, who smiled warmly at him and indicated a vacant table in the far corner.
Miss Westcott drew attention as they weaved their way between tables in order to reach it. The same thing had happened during their walk here, and he found it as uncomfortable now as he had then. Other patrons leaned out of her way to make more space for her to pass and watched her after she had gone by. It was not so much her appearance, Joel concluded, as the air of noble arrogance and entitlement with which she bore herself. It was inbred, he supposed, and quite unconscious, yet it did not manifest itself in the schoolroom. Outside, however, she expected people to move out of her way and to clear a path for her, but she acknowledged and thanked no one. Joel was intensely irritated as he murmured thanks for both of them and followed her to the table. He wished fervently he had not issued such an impulsive invitation.
She sat with her back to the wall, and he took the chair facing her across the small table. He ordered a pot of tea and two Sally Lunns from the suddenly flushed and flustered waitress. She actually bobbed a sort of curtsy as she left their table. Miss Westcott seemed unaware of her existence.
“I hope you are hungry,” he said. “Though my guess is that you missed luncheon in order to purchase purple wool and needles to knit a rope in more than twenty segments.”
“I am pleased that I amuse you, Mr. Cunningham,” she said. “The shopkeeper had been stuck with the wool when the customer who ordered it took exception to the brightness of the color and bought gray instead. She offered it to me cheaply and I accepted, since I was using orphanage money.”
Anna’s money. It would be cruel to tell her that, though, just because he would like to take her down a peg or two.
“I expect the finished product will amuse half of Bath,” he said. “And the children will tell the story behind it to anyone who stops to look or comment, and everyone will be charmed.”
She stared at him, nostrils slightly flared, and he could see that she was not amused. “How does one get them to speak only when spoken to?” she asked abruptly. “And not to volunteer information until it has been solicited?”
“It is perfectly easy to do,” he told her. “You have to make them feel small and worthless and oppressed. It helps if your name is Nunce and if you never do anything with them that is of the smallest interest to them.”
She continued to stare, tight lipped. What an enigma she was. He had expected her to be at least as bad as Miss Nunce. Anyone looking at her now would expect it too. She was not pretty, he thought. But there was something about her firm jaw and chin, her straight nose, and her blue eyes fringed with dark lashes that made her more handsome than any of them and suggested both intelligence and firmness of character.
“You are an abject failure,” he told her, grinning. “The children are not mute in your presence. And they are learning and enjoying themselves. They like you, a sure death knell to any chance of imposing rigid discipline.”
“If that is true,” she said, “that they like me, I mean, I have no idea why.”
It was a surprise to him too. Perhaps children were able to see beyond the severity of outer appearance to . . . what?
“How do Mrs. Kingsley and your sister feel about your moving into the orphanage?” he asked to change the subject.
“I did not tell them,” she said. “I packed my bags early this morning and wrote them a letter, and I left early to ask Miss Ford about the empty room. When she agreed to let me rent it, I asked Roger if someone could be sent to fetch my things and deliver the letter. Abby sent a reply with the man who brought my bags, but I have not yet had a chance to read it. I do not need to, however, to guess that she is upset. First our father died. Then our brother left to fight in the Peninsula. Then our mother went away to live with our uncle in Dorsetshire. Now I have moved out.”