by Fanny Finch
Agnes feared the same might happen to Georgia. If she could help prevent that, then she would do all it took. It was not fair that such a lovely, charming, deeply emotional young lady should be forced to withdraw from society because she did not know how to properly connect and communicate with others.
Of course, Georgia was so in tune with emotions, both her own and those of others, that she would have no difficulty breaking the rules. But Agnes suspected that breaking too many rules would have the same deleterious effect, driving other children away from Georgia and leaving this poor, sensitive, friendly soul without any company among her peers.
The duke was right. She did care about Georgia a lot. A lot more than she needed to. And she knew precisely why. Because Georgia reminded Agnes too much of herself. She had known this all along, of course, but that afternoon, as she lay the girl down for her nap, Agnes realized the true significance of this.
Much like the duke could not remove his emotions from the equation and see what was right for Georgia, regardless of her feelings, Agnes was falling into the same trap. She was so emotionally invested that she could not act properly, like someone who was not related to the girl, as a governess should. That was as much of a problem as the duke's inability to allow the girl to go through any duress.
Agnes felt a presence behind her. Checking on the girl briefly, she then turned around to see the duke standing in the doorway.
He had not left for his usual tea and cake. As she looked at his gentle, relaxed, almost artificial smile, she realized he was waiting for her to leave. He wanted to see her, and to talk with her about... something.
Agnes realized it had to be something serious, as he wanted to have the conversation far away from his sweet and sensitive sister. This sent a slight chill down her spine, but still, she followed him out and closed the door to the nursery behind her.
Once they were outside, the tension built. He did not say anything, he simply stood beside her, smiling, but too much in the way for her to slip past him. She was not sure why he had positioned himself like this, but it did make her feel a little stressed. As though realizing she was uncomfortable, he stepped aside and leaned against the wall a little, giving her plenty more room to move.
Agnes curtsied deeply. "Did you wish to speak with me, Your Grace?" she asked, knowing full well what the answer was. But someone had to break the silence.
He nodded. "Yes, I have been thinking about the matter you mentioned to me," he replied.
There was a pause. Agnes was not sure if he did this for dramatic effect or without thinking, but she felt a little nervous again.
"I cannot allow you to be any stricter with her," he said finally, not even making eye contact with Agnes as he did. "She is too young, she has been through too much already. Do you not think that she knows the world is hard? Do you not think she knows that there are consequences to her actions? She is simply enjoying life now, whilst she can, whilst there is not much for her to fear."
Agnes shook her head. "She is too young to truly understand these things. The sooner she learns about the realities of the world, the better, surely? She is just a girl now, but she is going to be a woman someday."
"Precisely. She is just a little girl, Miss Hubbard. She needs to be protected from the horrors and hardness of the world," he replied. "She knows it exists. She has seen more than enough of it for her tender years. Now she should be allowed to be a child once again, and to grow and explore at her own pace. She needs to know that life is not a hellish story of constant torment and difficulty."
Agnes averted her gaze.
The duke paused.
"Do you believe life is a hellish story of torment and strife, Miss Hubbard?" he asked quietly.
"I suppose I do," she replied plainly. "At least for some people it most definitely is."
"And so long as I am alive, my sister shall not be one of those people," he replied, smiling warmly, fully confident, it seemed, in his own immortality.
Agnes wanted to reply. She wanted to remind him that he very well could die and that his death could leave Georgia without a family, or a home, or a title, or anything at all.
But who was she to contradict the master of the house? And she had given him time to think it through. He had thought about it and reached the conclusion that, at least for now, his sister needed to be kept free of the burdens of life, free to be a sweet and innocent child once again, for as long as possible.
"You must treat her gently, Miss Hubbard," he insisted. "You must show her what is expected of her with your own actions and words, and allow her to learn and to follow at her own pace. Too much punishment would simply make her withdraw even further, make her afraid to explore and discover. You must protect her so she may bloom, like a rare flower."
She forced herself to smile. "I suppose that is what is best for her," Agnes said, lying through her teeth. "So that is what I shall do."
He seemed almost relieved. "I am glad that you understand. But do not assume that I am angry with you for your suggestion. It was an important thing for me to consider, and I am glad that I have."
"I am glad that you are glad, sir," Agnes replied, knowing there was nothing more she could say.
Chapter 9
At first, it was simply a little frustrating to Agnes. The days would pass painfully by. She was not sure why. It was not much different to what they had been doing in the first place, and she was actually able to add new books, new concepts, new lessons to their routine. If anything, it should have been enjoyable.
It was not.
She could not shake that feeling of betrayal, that feeling that the duke was being foolish and purposefully denying her wishes. After all, how could he believe something so radically different from what she knew to be true?
She made every effort to uphold his beliefs and his wishes, doing her best to teach Georgia all she knew by showing, rather than by forcing her to imitate. The girl was no more receptive to example than she was to instruction and seemed angry at her change of pace, but Agnes persevered, hoping that one day it would yield fruit.
But as time went on, and the days turned to weeks, and nearly another whole month had passed, she felt the frustration growing like a terrible weed in her soul. It was simply too much for her. She tried absolutely everything she was allowed to try, and none of it was working. The duke would not budge, she already knew this, but she was running out of options. Either Agnes had to be allowed to teach in her own way, or Georgia would not learn.
Leah's letter marked a strange turning point for her. Agnes's beloved friend was one of the few people who understood the harshness of her circumstances, having been through similar events together. Unlike Agnes, Leah had been blessed enough to marry before needing to become a governess, and had escaped the fate which befell the other three of the four friends, who seemed doomed to a life much lowlier than that they had been born into. The letter arrived early one morning and was handed to her in bed by the maid who brought her the washbasin. Agnes read it, realizing how fast time had passed, how soon the wedding would be. It had been over two months already. Somehow it felt like much less and much more at once.
Much less because every day had been the same, so it felt as though she had been living the same handful of days over and over, rather than over sixty different days.
And much more because the monotony drew out time, making it feel as though she had been there, trapped in that cycle, forever.
And yet Agnes had made no progress at all with Georgia. If anything, after the initial breakthrough, the child had regressed. She rejected her books entirely, angrily. She became more and more violent each day, damaging any item she could reach, refusing to nap until she threw a tantrum and collapsed of exhaustion, screaming and squealing over Agnes as she attempted to speak.
It was more like dealing with a one-year-old infant than a four-year-old girl. Or perhaps even like dealing with an animal of some description, that could not communicate or reason or cooperate, only
resist any efforts to civilize it.
She did not even talk anymore. Not a single word. Not even an attempt. It was as though whatever good impression Agnes had made at first was worth nothing. As Agnes sat, reading the books to her, Georgia would resist staying seated, would tear at the pages of the book, and would angrily shout and squeal until Agnes helped her onto the floor, where she would run in great circles about the room, playing with all sorts of items that should not be played with.
No effort at restraining her, distracting her, or entertaining her worked. And Agnes was slowly growing tired of this. Although she still felt affection for the girl, any sense of gratification she felt as the lessons ended was gone. There was nothing rewarding about attempting to wrangle a screaming, violent, discipline-proof child every day.
Agnes was not a fool. She knew that the purpose of her employment was to keep her alive and contributing to society, not to gratify her. She knew that if this process led to Georgia learning more eventually, opening up and noticing how Agnes acted, imitating her governess and becoming more ladylike through her own efforts, it would be worth it.
But Agnes liked to see progress. She liked to see lines filling a page as she wrote, pages turning as she played the piano or read a book, a pattern forming as she embroidered a dress, a rose blossom after careful care. She wanted to see her contributions to Georgia's development, to see proof that she was on the right path.
And, as it stood, she felt as though she were not contributing anything at all. It was all so hollow now. Every day since the duke's decision had been almost exactly the same. Only Sunday mornings differed, with their trip down the hill to the church. And even then, the constant battle of wills was the same. It was simply a matter of fighting the child's poor public appearance, rather than fighting her poor concentration when it came to working.
It was exhausting, it was continual, and Agnes felt as though nothing had been achieved. Receiving that letter simply drove the thought home even harder: Two months had passed, two months of constant effort and Georgia was getting worse, not better.
Sitting at her desk, eyes skimming the letter over and over, barely taking the words in, she wondered if it was right for her to stay, if she could do anything to help them, if they could do anything to make her stay there worthwhile.
As a girl, she had always been able to move away from challenges in which she did not excel. When she had taken up painting, she had been so terrible at it she had thrown a fit. Her father had sent the art tutor away. When she had been studying languages, she had performed excellently in German and Latin, but never got very far with French. Once she knew the basics, her French tutor was fired. She had never had to persevere through something so difficult and unpleasant before.
And she did not really wish to.
It was a scary thought, that perhaps she ought to leave. She did not like the unknown, the prospect of starting over with a new family. After all, the duke and Georgia were not the best family she could work for, but they were far from the worst-case scenario. The prospect of working for someone even worse was quite a deterrent. But, at the same time, she had gone through similar changes already without trouble. She had lost her family and moved house several times in the space of only a few weeks. She had uprooted and started life over as a governess. Surely another change of scenery would not hurt her.
And it could do nothing but benefit Georgia. The girl clearly needed a governess more like her brother, more sensitive and caring, more easy-going and warm and maternal, to guide her. Georgia was probably picking up on Agnes's own cold nature and frustration, and this was translating into a cold, detached, frustrated toddler. No wonder she was doing worse.
Was it too rash? Was it too soon to decide that she was not able to do a good job as this girl's governess? Or was it better to make this decision sooner rather than later, before she could do any more harm to the poor child's development? Maybe now it would still be reversible.
Agnes could not decide. But she suspected the duke would have something to say about the matter. However quiet and sensitive he was, he could definitely be opinionated when he needed to be as well. Perhaps if she spoke with him she would be able to decide what she was to do about the whole situation.
But both were gone.
Georgia had already been woken and dressed, and the duke was not in his office, nor in the drawing room with her. The table was being laid for breakfast. Agnes could see three places, even though she usually ate hers in her own quarters. Perhaps they had company, and that was why they were missing?
But no, she could hear voices outside. And only the two, the duke and the child.
Agnes walked out into the garden, seeing the duke pushing his little sister on the swing that hung from a small apple tree. The tree was in bloom, and the child was looking up at the flowers as the wind tugged at them lightly.
There was something gentle and sweet in her. Agnes knew this. But what good was it to know that the girl's true nature was so pleasant and mild if Agnes could not help bring that personality to the surface? What good was it if it was only going to be drowned out by Agnes's own negative influence?
It was so charming to see her like that, enjoying a rare moment of peace alone with her brother, each feeding from the other's relaxed happiness.
The girl was laughing and clinging onto the ropes, even though he was barely pushing the swing with any strength at all. He was watching carefully, perfectly timing his pushes so she swung enough for a thrill, not so much as to be truly scared. The duke was handling the girl's time on the swing with the precision of a military operation.
Agnes watched the duke and his sister for a moment, almost entranced by the idyllic image of the older brother pushing his baby sister's swing, her looking up at the white flowers, him looking down at her, both laughing and happy, both completely relaxed, at peace with themselves and the universe.
The duke finally noticed Agnes at the top of the garden, and when he did she walked down the path towards them. Georgia, rather than throw a fit, grinned and waved eagerly at Agnes.
As Agnes reached them, the duke smiled and stepped aside, allowing Agnes to take over pushing the swing. Georgia smiled widely at Agnes as the swing wobbled a little and then began gliding once again. She was so happy, so relaxed, such a cheerful child.
Agnes knew that this would only last until the lesson, at which point the girl would descend into a rageful little demon and proceed to make Agnes's day worse from then onwards. But for now, she would relish the peace.
"You were looking for us?" the duke finally asked.
Agnes nodded. "I was. I have a few questions, sir."
"I need to speak with you, actually," he said. "In private, if at all possible. It is a sensitive matter."
Agnes nodded again. "I understand. Although I do not see that there is any place more private than your own garden, Your Grace."
"Not that sort of privacy," he whispered gently, casting a knowing glance at the girl who, transfixed by the flowers above her, seemed to not be paying any attention at all to the adults.
"Oh, I see," Agnes replied. "I do not think it is too much trouble if she hears, though, is it?" she asked back. "She is only a little girl, sir, and your sister too. Can you not say in front of her?"
"She understands more than she seems to, and knows more words than she can say. I would not want to worry her," he whispered quietly to Agnes before picking Georgia up off the swing. "Come, it is time for breakfast, little lady."
Georgia wrapped her arms around her brother's neck, drawing herself close to him as he walked back towards the house. She was smiling, looking over his shoulder, still watching the apple blossom waving in the light breeze. She waved right back at it, then smiled at Agnes.
Agnes forced herself to smile back, but her heart was not in it. Her own issues could wait, for now, she needed to know what it was that the duke needed to discuss so urgently and so privately.
Chapter 10
Agnes felt a se
nse of dread, her heart panicking in her chest as she followed the duke to his office. Her own concerns had all but vanished by now, and all she felt was panic. Not fear. In the time she had known him she had learned that his overbearing nature was not intentional and he was not attempting to scare her, and so she did not feel afraid near him any longer. But panic. She was stepping forth into the unknown, in a sense.
She despised conversations that had not been previously mentioned. Just a few words, a slight warning as to what was to come next. That was all she needed to feel at ease. Then she could rehearse conversations in her head, come up with a few different ways to express her perspective, and move on.
But as they walked into the office and he motioned for her to close the door, she felt her panic rising. She did not know what this conversation was going to be about. She had not prepared herself.
