you, sir," she said.
"However," he said, "it was written all of one year ago. Have you had employment since then?"
She stared at her knees and appeared to consider her reply. "Yes, sir," she said.
"And what was it, Miss Duncan?"
"I was governess for eight months to three children, sir," she said.
"For eight months." He paused, but she did not pick up the cue. "And why was the position terminated?"
"I was dismissed," she said after hesitating for a few moments.
"Indeed?" he said. "Why, Miss Duncan?" Had she been unable to control the children? He could well imagine it. She seemed totally without character.
"My—my employer accused me of lying," she said.
Well. She was frank at least. He was surprised by her reply and by the fact that she did not immediately proceed to justify herself. A meek mouse indeed.
"And did you?" he asked. "Lie, I mean."
"No, sir," she said.
He knew how it felt to be accused falsely. He well knew the feeling.
"Is this your first attempt to find employment since then?" he asked.
"No, sir," she said. "It is the seventh. The seventh interview, that is."
He was not surprised that she had failed to get past any of those interviews. Who would wish to employ such a drab, spiritless creature to educate his children?
"Why have you been unsuccessful?" he asked.
"I believe, sir," she said, "because everyone else has asked what you just asked."
Ah yes. Her confession doubtless brought any normal interview to an abrupt halt. "And you have never thought to lie?" he asked her. "To pretend that you left your employment of your own free will?"
"Yes," she admitted, "I have thought about it, sir. But I have not done so."
She was also a very moral little mouse. Someone once upon a time had told her that it is wicked to lie, and so she never lied even in the service of her own interests. Even if it meant she would never again be employed. She clung to a puritanical morality. His father would be appalled.
"For which proof of your honesty you are to be commended, Miss Duncan," he said. "I may be able to offer you something."
She looked up into his face for the first time then, very briefly. Long dark lashes swept upward to reveal large, clear eyes that were as blue as the proverbial summer sky. Not the sort of gray that sometimes passes for blue, but pure, unmistakable blue itself. And then the eyes disappeared beneath the lashes and lowered eyelids again. For one disturbing moment he felt that he was about to make a ghastly mistake.
"Thank you, sir," she said. She sounded a little breathless. "How many children are there? Do they live here with you?"
"There are no children," he said.
He waited while she studied her knees, transferred her gaze to his knees, and raised her eyes to his chest—perhaps even to his chin.
"No children?" She frowned. "My pupils, then, sir, are—are…"
"There are no pupils," he said. "I am not in search of a governess, Miss Duncan. It is another position entirely that I have to offer."
The little mouse obviously sensed that a big bad cat was about to pounce. She jumped to her feet and turned in the direction of the door.
"I am not about to suggest anything improper, Miss Duncan," he said, remaining seated. "Actually I am in search of a wife. I am willing to offer you the position."
She half turned back to him but did not look directly at him. "A wife?" she said.
"A wife," he repeated. "I am looking for a Mrs. Earheart, Miss Duncan. Temporarily, that is. At least, the marriage would be forever, I suppose, since such things are next to impossible to dissolve by anything less drastic than the death of one of the partners. If you have any romantic notion of marrying for love and living happily ever after, then I must bid you a good morning and proceed with the next interview. But I daresay you have not, of if you have, then you must realize that such a dream is unrealistic for someone in your situation."
She raised her eyebrows but did not contradict him. Her body was