The older woman’s face changed. Oh, that change! The girl knew it so well now that she saw it ten times a day.
“No. My sister and I manage very well, and we have an Italian maid to do the washing up.”
“Thank you,” Olive said, faltering. “You don’t know anyone who wants an English girl? I have been very well educated. At least—”
“I am afraid not.”
Poor Olive. She was an unskilled workwoman, not especially gifted in any way or fitted by her upbringing to earn her daily bread. Long years of her girlhood had been spent at a select school, and in the result she knew a part of the Book of Kings by heart, with the Mercy speech from the Merchant of Venice and the date of the Norman Conquest. Every day she bought the Fieramosca, and she tried to see the other local papers when they came out. Several people advertised who wanted to exchange lessons, but no one seemed inclined to pay. Once she saw names she knew in the social column.
“The Marchese Lorenzoni is going to Monte Carlo, and he will join the Marchesa and Miss Whittaker in Cairo later in the season.”
“Prince Tor di Rocca is going to Egypt for Christmas.”
It was easy to read between the lines.