She was distracted and pensive and uncharacteristically placid. Her sharp eyes had softened, more often turned to the window now where she’d stand and stare, her gaze lost among the turning leaves and tempestuous sea. She didn’t lie on the bed with Bridie and laugh about Mr Trench, but lay staring into the gathered silk of the canopy above, sighing heavily but contentedly, like a romantic heroine in the magazines Bridie read. Bridie could only assume that she had fallen in love with her tutor, for who else could have turned this feisty, defiant young woman to sap? Mr Trench was certainly handsome. Behind his spectacles his eyes were a soft chestnut-brown. Although serious, his features were regular and pleasing, his nose straight, his chin angular, his jaw and cheekbones well defined. Bridie considered him gentlemanly. He always said good morning and acknowledged her politely, which was more than most Deverill guests did. Most never even looked at the servants unless they wanted something, and a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you’ seemed not to be part of their vocabulary.
