by Abigail Agar
“Twenty,” Marina said. She reached the rug on which all four of them stood and, on instinct, sat at their feet, crossing her legs. She tapped the ground in front of her, giving them a wide smile. “Why don’t you all sit down here? I don’t want to stand unless we have to.”
“Ms Hodgins says we aren’t supposed to sit on the floor,” Christopher said, sounding accusatory.
“Well, I suppose she won’t know what we don’t tell her,” Marina said, shrugging. “And as far as I can tell, I’m in charge here. Unless the four of you want to tell me differently?”
It seemed the children had a secret dialogue. They exchanged glances, with Lottie’s little eyebrows bobbing up and down (perhaps she hadn’t gotten the silent communication down completely, as she was only four years old). Max sat, first: a surprising gesture, given that he was easily the quietest out of the four. He brought his fingers together, linked his hands. He peered at Marina with a kind of genuine interest as if he’d never truly looked at another person before.
“That’s not very old,” Claudia said, sitting on the other side of Christopher. “Only eight more than me.”
“Almost,” Christopher said. He remained standing, his arms stretched over his chest. Everything about his stance seemed to demand something more from Marina. Something that would ensure that he could fully trust her, after being unable to trust everyone else.
“Don’t you have a mother?” Lottie asked. She, too, was standing, although she crept closer to Marina, her little toes bobbing in their stockings. Her voice was quiet and bird-like as if every word she spoke was part of a song.
“Yes, I do,” Marina said. “But it was time for me to leave her and head out on my own. That’s why I’m here.”
Christopher tore his head towards Claudia, making heavy eye contact. He blurted out, “Well, we don’t have a mother. She died.”
Marina peered down at her hands, wondering at the proper thing to say to such volatility. She’d never taken a master class in child-rearing. And, as the youngest of eight, she’d never been the one turned to during times of strife. But she pushed forward, trying to speak in the way she might have if these were just her friends in the field, the ones she’d met as a child. Her secret life between the trees.
“I’ve heard that, yes,” Marina said, bowing her head. “I’ve heard that she was a remarkable person. Someone who loved all four of you a great deal. And she’s left your family very sad, with her absence. Is that right?”
Christopher dropped to the ground as if she’d hit him with a bow and arrow. He placed his hands across his stomach, unable to make eye contact with her. But his head shook up and down, affirming what she’d said. Perhaps she’d said it exactly right.
Perhaps being above them, in any respect, wouldn’t work—when it was so clear that they were angry, frightened, alone. Finally, after a long, quiet moment, Lottie stepped forward and placed herself on Marina’s lap, circling her arms around her neck. She whispered into her ear, saying, “Christopher gets very, very angry,” before turning her eagle eyes back to him.
“Do not!” Christopher said. But his voice was bouncy, excited. And he looked at his little sister with gleaming eyes.
“Tell me,” Marina began. “What do you children do during the afternoon when you have a governess?”
“Besides torment her?” Christopher asked. He said it teasingly, biting his bottom lip. He rubbed his palms together, looking mischievous.
“If you want to torment me, you better get it out of the way,” Marina said, giggling. “Because, if I’m being honest with you, I’m not like the other governesses. Not only do I not want to abandon you. I also have nowhere else to go.”
Lottie cosied tighter against Marina, so that her cheek pressed hard against her chest. Marina watched as Christopher and Claudia exchanged further, furtive glances, while Max remained staring at his hands. It seemed they needed a council meeting of the siblings. But Marina wanted nothing more than to take them somewhere, pull them out of the drab air of the mansion.
“Why aren’t the four of you outside, anyway?” she asked, tilting her head towards the window. “The sun’s peeking out of the clouds. In a few months, it’ll be dark and dismal every single day of the week. We have to use the sun while we can.”
The children followed suit, with Claudia mentioning that one of their last governesses was terribly frightened of bugs (which had led them to remain inside for the majority of the last part of September.
Claudia further mentioned that this fear of bugs had ultimately led to the governess’ decision to part ways with the family—a story that Marina didn’t bother following up on, as she assumed it meant any number of things: including putting bugs in the governess’ bed. If that had been her bed, she didn’t want to put herself through those horrendous dreams).
“Outside?” Lottie asked, peeking her head up from Marina’s chest. “Right now?”
“Why not? Let’s pack a picnic. Some snacks,” Marina said, feeling overly eager—as if she could overwrite the “rulebook” of this home within the first few hours. Was it possible to avoid any nonsense or sadness, stride forward?
The five of them got busy, then: with Lottie pulling Marina’s hand and dragging her towards the hallway. Claudia came up the rear, tittering with Christopher about some tree they planned to climb, while Max ambled along softly behind them. Marina made a mental note to have a private chat with Max, afterwards, to become closer to him in a different way. Perhaps she needed to handle them all differently. Perhaps she had to demonstrate that she recognised they were all separate humans, rather than one, massive beast.
Lottie dragged Marina to her bedroom: a gleaming room filled with light, with a four-poster bed along the far wall, lined with purple curtains. The curtains fluttered in a soft wind that flung out from the cracked window. Lottie beamed, hopping towards the bedspread and reaching her teddy bear. “This is Rex,” she told Marina, holding him aloft. “He’s been mine ever since I was born.”
“We all have teddy bears since we were born,” Christopher said, rolling his eyes.
“Even me,” Marina said, giving them a mischievous grin. “Don’t tell anyone, but I brought mine with me. But he’s a bit more battered and bruised than old Rex, here.”
“You have a teddy bear?” Lottie asked, sounding completely shocked. “And you have him here?”
“In my bedroom,” Marina said, nodding. She blinked around the little room, still decorated for a much younger child. It seemed that their mother had left the final touches on it before passing away. “I think your bedroom needs a bit of a grown-up girl touch, don’t you?”
Lottie followed Marina’s eyes—past the crib, long-forgotten, the birth announcement that was framed on the far wall, and the painting of dolls and teddy bears. It was truly a bedroom of a toddler, rather than a girl who would be five within the year. Even Lottie seemed sure of this, now.
“You’ll help me?” she asked.
“Certainly,” Marina said, grinning widely. She slid her hand along Lottie’s, as the other children motioned for her to see their bedrooms. Her heartbeat fluttered as they rushed for the next bedroom, the one that belonged to Christopher. This bedroom was a bit larger than Lottie’s, with a blue bedspread, and several balls tossed in the corner (seemingly untouched for many months). Christopher raced towards the bed, hopped onto the mattress—took a few bounces—and then rushed for the pile of balls. He tossed one towards Marina, who caught it with fast reflexes. He beamed at her, impressed.
“Aren’t you going to tell Ms Hodgins that I bounced on the bed? Aren’t you going to scold me?” he demanded.
“Only if you don’t bring enough balls outside for all of us,” Marina said, tossing the ball back. Christopher lurched his knee upward, so that the ball bounced once, then again. He allowed her yet another smile, before ducking towards the hallway. He began to kick the ball towards the next bedroom, with his team of brother, sisters, and Marina following behind.
Claudia’s bedroom was meant for a soon-to-be teenage woman, with a large mirror in the corner, a stool on which to sit and apply makeup—when the time came, and a thick, luxurious rug in the centre. Claudia dug her feet into it, stretching out her arms to show off her kingdom. “I do all my writing and reading in here,” she told Marina, suddenly feeling able to reveal this true passion of hers. “But don’t tell Father I’ve been writing.”
“Why not?” Marina asked, tilting her head. In her mind, a man as musical as the Duke of Wellington might have approved of such an artistic act.
But Claudia just shrugged, mumbling, “He wants me to be safe. A woman who will marry. A woman uninterested in such affairs.”
Marina smiled at this statement, knowing that even if Claudia didn’t sense it in herself, she was saying her father didn’t want Claudia to grow into someone like Marina. Someone who didn’t have anyone to call her own.
Max’s room came last. It was darker than the others, with a thin window near the corner. Max spread his left arm towards the space, shrugging slightly. He looked sheepish, his own eyes scanning the room as if they were seeing it for the first time.
On the desk, he’d spread out several drawings he was in the midst of crafting—one of a woman who might have been their mother, with another of little Lottie. Marina stepped towards them, investigating the young boy’s talent. At only seven years old, she marvelled at how fine his line was.
“You have real talent, Max. I don’t know if anyone’s told you that,” she said.
Especially given that the boy had been only six when his mother had passed, perhaps this was a new skill. Marina made a mental note to try to hone it, to at least push him to keep creating. She felt like the children had a wealth of knowledge, each of them with individual hidden talents—ones she was suddenly privy to, as their governess.
How could any of the other governesses want to run so quickly away from them?
Marina led her team into the sun, with Christopher and Max bobbing two soccer balls from hand to hand. Behind them, Lottie and Claudia brought up the rear, with Claudia struggling to tie a bonnet on Lottie’s head. Lottie protested, trying to swat it off.
“Lottie, you know that all ladies wear bonnets,” Claudia said, almost scolding her.
But Marina spun her head towards them, giving Lottie a wry smile. “Out here, nobody has to be a lady, Claudia. If Lottie doesn’t want to wear a bonnet, she certainly doesn’t have to. Alright?”
Claudia’s jaw grew slack. The bonnet bobbed towards the ground as Lottie scampered off, trying to keep up with her brothers. For a long moment, Claudia scowled at Marina, seemingly trying to intimidate her. Ah, Marina thought. Perhaps this is where I’ll see the real darkness …
But instead, Claudia just murmured, “We really have to be careful when Sally Hodgins watches us. She will report everything to Father. She is his eyes, right now. Just watch out, alright?”
Marina’s eyebrows lowered. Claudia burst past her, keeping up with her siblings as they strode across the grounds and gardens. After a death breath—forcing her mind to calm—Marina brought her hand out along a thick red brick wall, lined with moss and ivy. On the other side, she could make out sunflowers, swinging back and forth in the breeze. The garden was gated, yet it wasn’t locked. Marina ducked her head towards it, calling out Christopher’s name.
“Christopher! What is this place?” she asked.
Christopher spun back, tossing his ball into the air. “Sally’s garden!” he said. “We’re not allowed in there.”
Marina nodded, glancing back towards the swinging sunflowers. They seemed now tinged with darkness. How could a woman of the house forbid the house’s children from entering such a beautiful place? Marina reached her hands around the irons of the gate, shaking it slightly. It clattered back.
“Come on!” Christopher called. “Keep up, Marina!”
They wandered towards the far edge of the grounds, where the children showed her the entrance to the forest. There, the trees weren’t as thick as in the proper forest, leaving the children space to spread out their blanket, dot the blanket with their tiny packages of cookies and breads and cheeses, and then spring up into the air to grip the trees’ limbs.
Marina remained standing atop the blanket, nibbling on a cookie. The children had told her that the cook was remarkable, always making treats for them—and hiding them from Sally. “Sally throws them away,” Claudia whispered, her voice low. “We have to be very secretive.”
There was a game to it, this life on the Duke’s estate. Marina wondered how much of it the Duke was privy to, or how much of it had developed in the wake of their mother’s death. She watched as Max arched higher in one of the closer trees, his tiny legs shaking as he burst higher into the air.
“Max, be careful up there!” Marina called. As she did it, she felt a smile spring up on her cheeks. She suddenly sounded so much like any governess she’d ever imagined. Calling out for the children’s safety, already feeling an incredible density of love for them.
Love! When, just that morning, she’d been shivering in her brother’s carriage, wondering if she’d even get the job. Now, she pushed the thought of Martin’s face—with that prominent mole—out of her head. How he’d teased her when they’d been children, calling her the “ugly duckling.” Saying their mother and father should have stopped after having seven children. That eighth one was a mistake.
The children crept into the trees, with Lottie frequently scampering back to nibble on a cookie and look up at Marina, curious. In fact, each time one of them returned to eat snacks, they added another question to the pile.
“Do you like cookies?” Lottie asked. A seemingly loaded question from a four-year-old.
“Why, yes I do.”
“Have you ever climbed a tree?” Max asked, his voice soft.
“I’ve climbed lots of trees. I just think it’s best I stay on the ground to watch you four, right now,” she returned.
“Did you sew that dress yourself?” Claudia asked, sounding both rueful and impressed.
Marina tugged the fabric, noting how simplistic and cheap it looked when compared to the children’s clothing. “I did indeed,” she sighed. “Although it’s not as beautiful as your dress.”
“My mother sewed it,” Claudia said. “Just before she died. It’s getting a little bit small.” She stretched her fingers atop her chest, noting that she’d begun to grow. Her face grew downturned at this knowledge, at this admittance that she, too, would have to grow old—even as the thought excited her, in some respects.
It was a difficult thing, having to come to terms with your own womanhood. Marina knew it well.
“You know what. I’ll talk to your father,” Marina said, falling to her knees. “And I’ll see if I can get some extra fabric to sew some new things for you.”
Claudia pulled at the dress, her face still sombre. Marina knew she’d said the wrong thing, so she struggled to fix it.
“What I mean to say is, I can repair this very dress,” she said, her voice lowering. “I can add a bit of fabric here and there so it still fits as you grow older. You shouldn’t have to give it up, just because—well. Because we all have to grow older, in the end.”
Claudia nodded, biting her bottom lip. “It was just the last thing she made for me. Or for anyone,” she affirmed. “She got sick so suddenly. Within a week, she was just …”
“Christopher?”
Max’s voice rang out, louder than Marina had heard it since her arrival. Her eyes darted towards Max who was poised in the centre of the yonder field—his eyes directed towards the deeper forest. She glanced towards Lottie, nibbling a cookie just a few feet away, and then back towards Claudia. And, with a jolt, she realised—Christopher was nowhere to be found.
“Max, where is Christopher?” Marina asked, darting from the picnic blanket.
