The Governess

by Mary Kingswood

  She sat at one of the empty desks and wept quietly for a few minutes. Then she dried her eyes, and went back to her room. She would write to Margaret today, she decided.

  ~~~~~

  Allan stared at his reflection in the mirror. Another dreary day gone by, the hours got through somehow. And now, another dreary evening ahead of him. It was Thursday, so the joint would be mutton. Then whist with his mother, Mr Penicuik and Mr Cross. Aunt Anne and Aunt Beth would play cribbage, squabbling gently over the points. And Great-uncle Jeremiah would drink too much, then snore in front of the fire, and have to be carried to his bed by the footmen. Dear God, how bleak his life was!

  At least there would be a new face tonight. Miss Winterton, the governess. A pleasant woman, not at all forward, but then in her position she could not afford to be. He knew why his mother had not wanted her at table, of course. Poor Eloise had barely been cold in her grave before the hints had begun. She knew of a Miss This or a Lady That who had a great dowry… there was always a great dowry. Mother could not conceive that a man might marry for any other reason, or might not want to marry at all. How ironic that was, that she who had secured her husband by beauty alone, bringing not a penny piece to the marriage, should be so determined that he must marry wealth. And look where that had got him. If only…

  But there was no point in regret. He had made his choice and that was an end to it. There’s was no going back, and he could never have Marisa now.

  For a moment, he toyed with the idea of leaving off the black. Was it not time? He had a blue coat that he was very fond of. But then he remembered Miss Winterton, also dressed in sombre black, both of them in mourning, she for her father and he for… not Eloise, but for what? His lost youth, perhaps. The lost opportunities, the time gone by that could never be recovered. He was four and thirty years old, and what had he done with his life? He had three daughters where sons were expected of him. He had hidden away in the country, when he should have taken his place in society, amongst his fellow nobles. He had repaired a few cottage roofs, instead of instituting the wholesale reforms of his land that so many were now undertaking. But nothing of note. When he breathed his last, the obituary writers would be hard-pressed to say more than, ‘He was born. He lived. He died.’ No, while this dark mood gripped him, he would cling to his blacks, and at least Miss Winterton would not feel out of place.

  He went down earlier than usual, and there she was, waiting in the saloon, gazing up at the portrait of his mother over the fireplace. Her hair was simply dressed, and she wore no jewellery at all, but her gown was fashionable and well made. It fitted her rounded form to perfection. How pleasant it was to see a woman with a little comfortable flesh about her, who was not all angles and sharpness.

  “Good evening, Miss Winterton.”

  “Lord Brackenwood.”

  “It is a good likeness,” he said, standing beside her and looking up at his mother in her triumphant youth.

  “Yes, I can see that. But how awkward to wear a great wig like that, and that wide skirt. I am not sure I could walk in such a costume.”

  He laughed. “Do you know, I have seen that portrait every day of my life and never taken much notice of Mother’s clothes. They are rather outlandish, to be sure.”

  “I am very glad that we wear simpler garments now.”

  He looked at her gown, with its pleats and tucks and tiny ruffles, a complex triumph of the seamstress’s arts, and could only smile at her definition of simplicity. The others began to arrive just then, so he said, “Come, let me make you known to the rest of the household.”

  The aunts twittered over her like a pair of turtle doves. Mr Cross bowed in an exaggerated manner, kissed Miss Winterton’s hand and then held on to it for far longer than politeness dictated. Mr Penicuik was polite but as restrained as always. He was not a man to be distracted by the arrival of a lovely young lady.

  Was she lovely? An interesting question which had not occurred to Allan before. She was not a conventional beauty, certainly, but there was a serenity about her which was intriguing. A very composed woman, perfectly at her ease despite finding herself in a house full of strangers. She spoke demurely to the aunts, dealt briskly but firmly with Cross and spent some minutes chatting amiably to Penicuik, undeterred by his monosyllabic answers. A very well-bred lady indeed, which augured well for her training of the girls. And there was just a hint of mischief in her eyes sometimes. What did that mean, he wondered?

  A voice boomed across the room, “Eloise? Eloise, my dear! How well you look.”

  “Ah, Great-uncle Jeremiah,” Allan whispered in Miss Winterton’s ear. “Pray take no notice. He is easily addled.” Then, more loudly, “Uncle! Come and meet our newest resident. Miss Winterton, may I present to you my great-uncle, Mr Jeremiah Skelton. Uncle, this is Miss Winterton, come from Brinshire as governess to the girls. Do you remember? I told you all about it?”

  “Of course I remember, m’boy! Not in my dotage yet. Where is that lazy fellow, Portman? I want my sherry. Ah, there you are, Portman, skulking behind the pillars as usual.”

  He took a glass and the decanter from the footman’s tray and headed for his usual seat by the fire, near enough to be warm, but out of earshot of the aunts.

  And finally, the double doors were thrown open and Plessey’s stentorian tones announced, “The Right Honourable the Dowager Countess of Brackenwood.”

  Allan sighed. Poor Mother, always insisting on a proper announcement, even in her own house. She swept in regally, as always.

  Then, not at all as always, she stopped dead, and glared at Miss Winterton. “What are you doing here, miss?”

  4: A Misunderstanding

  Allan rarely argued with his mother, for in general there was little point. She would have her way, and it made life easier to accept the inevitable without fuss. But there were limits, and even his easy-going nature could not be pushed beyond them. Miss Winterton was present at his express invitation, and he could not cravenly surrender the point to his mother without being abominably rude to a young lady who was already suffering the grievous loss of her father, her family and her home. He remembered her words — ‘I do not wish to be caught up in a battle between you and your mother.’ Nor would she be.

  There was always a price to be paid for rebellion, but he lifted his chin and spoke calmly, albeit louder than usual. “There was a misunderstanding yesterday, but from now on Miss Winterton will dine with us, Mother.”

  His mother’s eyes flashed, and she looked more queenly than ever. She looked at him assessingly, then her eyes flicked over the silent onlookers — the chaplain wringing his hands, the secretary with a gleam of amusement in his eyes, the impassive footmen and butler, ready to relay the tale to every servant in the house.

  Wisely, she decided to say nothing, but Allan knew he would be lectured about it later. Well, he knew how that would run. If he stood up to her, he was declared to be obstinate, like his father. If he surrendered, he was weak, also like his father. Whatever he did was a failing, in her eyes. Somehow, he was never perfect, like his brother. Poor, dead Duncan, so full of life, so much fun. Even after thirteen years, the pain still made him catch his breath.

  When Plessey announced dinner, Allan led his mother in, as usual. Heaven forfend that they should do anything differently. Behind them, Mr Cross would escort Aunt Beth and Mr Penicuik Aunt Anne, as usual. Great-uncle Jeremiah would wobble in on his own, as usual, and flop into his usual chair.

  But when Allan had settled his mother and had leisure to look around, he saw that Great-uncle Jeremiah, looking rather smug, had Miss Winterton on his arm. He led her straight to the seat beside Allan. “There you are, Eloise,” he boomed, rendering the room silent, every eye turned towards them. The footman, his face a mask, held the seat for her, waiting for her to sit.

  The countess rolled her eyes and sighed audibly. “Eloise is dead, you old fool.”

  “Dead?” he said, his voice suddenly querulous. Then, with sudden force, he a
dded, “Ha! And who killed her? That is what I should like to know.” He turned clouded eyes towards Miss Winterton. “Do sit down, my dear.”

  She smiled, and patted his arm, which she still held. “Thank you, sir, but I believe you have made a little mistake. This is not my seat.”

  The countess grunted, and nodded approvingly.

  Allan frowned in irritation. Such rudeness to a stranger was beyond anything, especially when he had made it perfectly clear that Miss Winterton was to be treated as a member of the family. He could not permit it, even in his mother.

  “This seat is yours tonight, Miss Winterton,” he said. “You may tell me of your plans for my daughters’ education.”

  Colouring slightly, she sat, Uncle Jeremiah took the seat beside her, and Aunt Beth and Mr Cross were relegated lower.

  It was the oddest feeling to have an attractive young lady beside him at his own dinner table. Sometimes now when he dined out, there would be a daughter of the house or a niece sitting, blushing, beside him, the family watching hopefully, but when had such a thing last happened at home? He could not remember. Eloise had never been one for entertaining, so usually their dinners were quiet family affairs, and he ate with his mother on his left hand and his wife on his right. It was an unconventional arrangement, but his mother had decreed it and neither he nor Eloise had cared enough to object. Since the autumn, Aunt Beth and Aunt Anne had alternated the claim to his right hand.

  Now, he delighted in the novelty of a dinner companion who was fresh and new, whose conversation he had not heard a hundred times before. Not that her words were particularly enlightening. She seemed delightfully vague as to how, precisely, she planned to take his three little terrors and turn them into young ladies who could be admitted to good society. Well, there was time enough for her to find a way, and he felt no anxiety for their futures. Well, Dorothea gave him some uneasiness, it was true. But the younger two bade fair to be pretty and he would give them all handsome dowries, so they would not want for suitors. After dinner, he had the pleasure of discovering that Miss Winterton was an accomplished performer on the pianoforte, and played a competent hand of whist. He could see that she would be an asset to their evenings.

  When the card party broke up and Great-uncle Jeremiah had been carried to bed, Allan went to his room and poured himself a whisky. There were few traces of the family’s Scotch ancestry left, apart from one ancient portrait in the attic of the first earl in his barbaric highland costume, now legal again, but thankfully not much worn. But a drop of whisky before bed always settled his stomach, somehow, after an evening of insipid conversation and dull play at the card table, or, as now, before a summons.

  It was a relief to be alone again. His valet, who served double duty as the first footman, helped him dress before dinner and looked after his clothes but Allan needed no other assistance. He was perfectly capable of readying himself for bed and drawing his own bed-curtains. But tonight he did not undress. He sat, sipping his whisky, waiting.

  He had not long to wait. A timid knock on the door revealed his mother’s maid, almost as old as she was, although Denby had wrinkles enough for the two of them.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but her ladyship would like a word.”

  He took his whisky with him. She would not offer him a seat, so he liked to have something to hold, a small but tangible barrier between them.

  “Good evening, Mother.”

  She, too, was still fully dressed, sitting in one of her gilt chairs, her back straight, her face implacable. “It is not acceptable, Allan,” she began, her rough voice even now commanding, with that regal tone that had made him tremble when he was a boy. He still trembled, truth be told, but he had learnt not to show it. “I will not have that chit at my dining table.”

  “I believe the dining table is mine,” he said softly.

  “Pfft, such quibbles are beneath you,” she said, eyes flashing. “I will brook no argument over this, Allan. She will eat in her room, and there’s an end to it. I won’t have a chit like that stirring up trouble.”

  He sipped his whisky thoughtfully. It was futile to reason with Mother when she was in this mood, for she dismissed the validity of every argument. Yet he could not surrender the point. He had given his word to Miss Winterton, and it was a matter of honour as a gentleman for him to uphold his pledge. He could not reason with his mother, yet he must make her understand the position.

  Pulling forward a matching chair, he sat and took another sip of whisky.

  “I did not give you permission to sit!” she said, sitting up even straighter, if such a thing were possible. “You are discourteous to your own mother.”

  “Do you wish to talk about discourtesy?” he said in his mildest tones. “I do not advise it.”

  She flushed, but still she glared at him. “You’re determined to allow the servants to pretend to be gentry, then? Soft — that’s what you are. Just like your father. He would never listen to my advice, either.” Her voice was even harsher than usual. She was tired, he suspected, yet she would never admit to it.

  “Mother,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “let us be rightly understood, and then we will not speak of this again. Miss Winterton is the daughter of a gentleman, and is entitled to a place at my table — my table, mind — by that fact alone. She has as much right to it as Mr Penicuik, and more than Mr Cross, who may be an excellent secretary but whose ancestry would not bear close scrutiny. It is my will that each of these three be treated as guests in this house and not as servants, even though they each receive a salary at my hands. It is also my will that you treat each of them with the courtesy due to any guest under this roof.”

  She was silent, although her cheeks showed angry colour, and the knuckles gripping the arm of her chair were white.

  He sat back in his chair with a smile. “Mother, I know that you are driven by a concern for my wellbeing, so perhaps you think that Miss Winterton is a fortune hunter, and will attempt to secure me as a husband. If so, let me reassure you. I have no intention of marrying again.”

  Her expression shifted, from outrage to something far less certain. “Of course you will marry again,” she said, her tone bewildered. “You must have an heir.”

  “I already have an heir,” he said.

  “Pfft, that foolish peep-o-day boy! You need a son of your own.”

  “No,” he said, rising. “I have made one match to please you, and I will not make another. Goodnight, Mother.”

  And in triumph, surprised by his own victory, he made for the door. But as he left, her bleak expression chilled him, and she looked shrunken, like an old woman.

  ~~~~~

  ‘18th January. My dear sister, I am delighted to hear that you are comfortable at Charlsby and are being treated well, for one hears such dreadful tales of governesses. Do you remember poor Miss Chambers who drowned herself? Or did she hang herself? It was one of the two, and all because one of her pupils told her mother that she could not name the principal city of Persia. Miss Chambers could not name it, I mean, and the poor woman was so afraid that she would be turned off without a reference that she hanged herself. Or drowned herself. I am glad I am not to be a governess, for I have not the least idea what the principal city of Persia is. I am not very sure where Persia is, if I am to be honest about it. Is it in Africa? I am almost certain it is in Africa. Oh Annabelle, do you know the principal city of Persia? I am sure you must do for you read so many books, and proper improving books, not novels and such like, but if you do not, you had better look it up at once, for it seems like the sort of thing a governess would be expected to know. Where would one look up such a thing? Oh dear, it is a very good thing that I am not— Goodness, must rush. Lucy’

  ~~~~~

  Annabelle woke early, full of energy. Talking to the earl about her plans for the children’s education had brought her to the realisation that, in point of fact, she had no plans at all, nor the least idea of how to formulate any. She sc
rambled into her clothes, and made her way eagerly to the schoolroom. Today she would determine a system of lessons for her pupils. She would make a list of subjects, and then she would make another list of those items she would need in order to teach them. An instrument, for one thing. Painting and drawing equipment. Deportment rings. Globes. And books… so many books.

  Her own books had been brought through from her rooms and pushed, all higgledy-piggledy, onto the bookshelf. Her fingers itched to rearrange them… but no, she must make her lists first. She found some scraps of paper in a drawer and spent a little while preparing a pen and pouring ink into a pot. Only then could she begin.

  How strange it was to sit at the teacher’s desk. One day soon, when she looked up from her writing she would see three pairs of eyes watching her, three expectant faces waiting for her to pour knowledge and understanding into their unformed minds. What a great responsibility! She might never have children of her own to raise, but she could, perhaps, play a small part in the raising of these sorrowful girls, who must be so grief-stricken without their mother to comfort them and guide them gently towards the adult world. How wonderful to be of service to the poor dears! And if she were diligent in her stewardship, she might turn them into great ladies, worthy to marry a duke. That was an ambition to inspire her endeavours.

  She bent her head to her task, and, with this glorious vision in her mind, worked steadily for an hour. After that, since it was not yet time for her breakfast tray, she decided to reward her industry by sorting out the books. This was, it had to be admitted, a task more suited to her temperament, for in her opinion there were few activities so enjoyable as those which involved books. So she sorted and shelved, kneeling before the low bookcase, and sang a little song as she worked.