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10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

" M iss! Miss Heart!"

These words, forcefully whispered, finally worked their way into Beatrice's sleep. Her instinctual reaction was to bundle up tighter within her blankets; she was not even fully awake yet, but she could already tell that the morning was cool from the chill on the tip of her nose.

"If you please, Miss, it's five o'clock—time to rise," the light voice said. Beatrice grumbled a wordless response, still mostly asleep. A hand reached out and touched her shoulder, shaking Beatrice in an attempt to rouse her.

Instantly, Beatrice's eyes flew open and her arm swung out instinctually. She did not take kindly to unfamiliar touch at the best of times, but most definitely when she was sleeping (or trying to). Awareness was upon her as quickly as a wick took light, her body taut as she jolted upright.

Her eyes, still bleary with sleep, fell on the poor scullery maid who had been charged with waking the other staff. The poor girl, who looked every inch the quintessential milkmaid without her stool, stared at Beatrice. She had flattened herself up against the wall as much as she could and blinked at Beatrice with round eyes.

"I—you—what?" Beatrice managed, forcing her eyes to stay open.

"Please, Miss, I did not mean any—that is to say, it is customary for the governess to—I did not mean to offend," the maid stammered, her lower lip poking out a little.

Beatrice stared for a moment in confusion, then took in her surroundings: the little brass bed she still reclined on, the room, the tiny window and humble wash basin. With a groan, she flopped back down onto her ( only one! ) pillow.

"Begging your pardon, Miss, but are you...unwell?" the maid asked, daring to inch forward again by a degree.

Reaching up with both hands, Beatrice scrubbed her face with her palms. "No, I am not," she replied, her voice scratchy from the early hour. "I simply...forgot myself for a moment. New place, and all that."

The maid nodded sagely. "I know what you mean. M' da's a farmer, and I never saw a good pair of shoes 'til I came here. I keep worrying I'll break something. Took me a good week to work up the nerve to even carry the water pitcher." She nodded her head toward the wash basin, where a porcelain pitcher was waiting, and Beatrice followed the gesture. "I still am not used to sleeping on my own—four sisters, I have, and we all—"

"Thank you," Beatrice interrupted, feeling like there was quite a rambling tale coming on. "I shouldn't keep you from your duties."

The maid, as if just remembering that she had others to waken, popped a quick curtsy as if by habit, and then scurried out of the room. Slowly, Beatrice forced herself to sit back upright. There was a layer of frost framing the little window, diffusing the grey light that was coming through.

Nothing for it, then, Beatrice thought with a grimace. She swung her legs out of bed and instantly regretted it. She had neglected to sleep in her stockings, and now she was cursing her past self's lack of forethought. Though her feet were tough and calloused from years of dancing, she was still rather sensitive to the cold.

Teeth clamped tightly together to keep them from chattering, Beatrice darted over to the wash basin. The thought of starting the day with pleasantly warm water for her face and hands was a consolation to her, and she relished the thought of plunging her hands in and—

"Oh, lawks !" Beatrice cried, somewhere between a gasp and a shriek. Logically, she knew that the water had to be above freezing temperature because it was, in fact, water and not ice, but it was certainly cold enough to keep one guessing. Beatrice stared down, wondering how on Earth she was going to manage under these conditions.

There was nothing to be done about it in the immediate, however, so she scrubbed her face as quickly as humanly possible. Her body tight and rigid from her refusal to shiver, she thanked her years of experience doing quick costume changes backstage for her ability to dress quickly. She did not even really have time to register the revulsion at the governess' dress, just grateful to have something warm to put on over her jumps and chemise.

It was then that it occurred to her that she did not know what she was supposed to do next. Ostensibly, she was meant to instruct the children, but there were no children present yet. She sat on her bed for a moment, gathering her thoughts. She had made it through the first evening, yes, but she would have to fill days with activities and lessons now. Some she could handle easier than others—dancing, naturellement —but if the colonel desired his daughters to be able to balance household accounts or the like, she would be in a fix.

Nonsense , she chastised herself, summoning up all her pluck and courage. You did not get this far in life to be cowed by a few sums and subtractions. She rose, and then peeked into the nursery, where the three girls were still fast asleep...or at the very least, pretending to be.

She hesitated in the door. Surely, not all the children of the little village she had passed through had private tutors. There might be a schoolmaster of some sort, or someone else to call upon should the need arise.

Really, I only need to stay one lesson ahead of them , Beatrice mused. Her eyes landed on Florence's face, and though the eyes were closed now, Beatrice was certain that they had been open just a moment before, glittering in the dark and studying her. Perhaps one step ahead of them is more apt , Beatrice thought dryly.

***

A s a consummate veteran of the stage for more years than she would ever care to relate, Beatrice was most assuredly not naturally an early riser. In fact, it was fairly commonplace for her to be seeking her bed about the time that many labourers were stumbling from theirs. Granted, since her work on the stage had been somewhat curtailed the past couple of weeks, she'd had some time to acclimate a little to a more normal schedule, but her body resisted anything strenuous before luncheon.

So it was that once she had roused the girls, she had taken up a chair next to the fire. She was meant to help them dress, but she suspected that this would be an unwelcome intrusion on their first morning together, so she left them to help each other if needed. Instead, she took down one of the books from the mantelpiece, and flipped idly through it; a primer on embroidery stitches and patterns.

Oh, please no , Beatrice grimaced inwardly. She did not know how long she would last if she were called upon to teach something so monotonous and unexciting.

It was the youngest, Sophia, who approached Beatrice first. Shyly, she held up her hair ribbons and a brush, which Beatrice accepted after only a moment's hesitation. The girl had lovely, thick dark hair that curled slightly, and Beatrice could understand how small arms could get tired easily from sorting it.

"What a crown of hair you have," Beatrice murmured as she braided it quickly, running the ribbon through. "I suspect you will have quite a time of it when it's time to put it up."

"Will I be pretty like the girls in the fashion plates?" Sophia asked. Beatrice could practically see her earnestness from the determined little set of her shoulders, even from the back.

Florence, hearing this exchange, let out a derisive little snort. She was already dressed, her hair neatly plaited, and sitting on the edge of her bed in her long smock with a pinafore over it.

"None of us are ever going to be allowed to put our hair up," she said with a toss of her head. "We're going to grow old and wither away in this nursery." She levelled a gaze at Beatrice, as if daring her to be contradictory so that she might quarrel.

"Do you really think that?" Beatrice asked simply, tying off Sophia's braid.

"Why should I not? I'm fourteen and still stuck in here," she shot back.

"We could still put ribbons in our hair and be beautiful all together in the nursery," Sophia suggested in a small voice.

She's the soft one, then , Beatrice noted, never taking her eyes from Florence, who made another snorting, dismissive sound.

"I shouldn't get your hopes up, Sophia," Florence said clearly, glaring right into Beatrice's eyes. "I don't know why you would think that Miss Heart would be a dab hand with the curling tong," she said in a biting tone, her eyes flicking up to Beatrice's cropped hair.

Beatrice did not let her temper flare—that was clearly what the girl was hoping for. Instead, she simply smiled a little and shrugged. "I haven't had to dress my own hair in that manner for quite some time, that is true," she agreed, reaching into her pocket. She withdrew a small jar and opened it, offering it up to Sophia to smell, who obliged curiously.

"Oh!" she said, her eyes flying open, "that smells wonderful! What is it?"

"Pomatum, with my own personal scent," Beatrice said. She dipped a couple of fingers in, then setting the jar to the side, rubbed her hands together vigorously, then ran her fingers through her hair, arranging it carefully so that it fell across her forehead and clung to the nape of her neck. "Now I am ready for a day of anything I wish, from riding to tea to dancing, without the need to accommodate my hair. And, as you said, Sophia, it smells divine."

"I didn't know you could get scented pomatum," Eliza piped up, speaking for the first time. She, too, peered over, a little interested. "Is it infused when made? Does the heat change the scent? Do—"

Beatrice held up her hands, smiling a little. "I confess I know very little about it, but if you like, we might undertake learning to make it ourselves, I suppose. I know someone with a recipe book about making products for a lady's dressing table."

"Like powders and rouges?" Eliza asked, her nose wrinkling a little in distaste. "Surely there are better things for ladies to do than to sit around with powder puffs and ribbons."

"Certainly," Beatrice agreed. "What did you have in mind?"

The girls all exchanged glances. "You mean," Florence asked, scepticism writ large on her face, "that you mean to let us decide what we should like to learn?"

"Well," Beatrice said, hedging a little, "I do not mean to let you run wild and entirely left to your own devices, but I see no point in fighting with you all about the importance of learning which fork is to be used for fish if you don't see the point in it."

Another glance was passed between the sisters. Beatrice waited, observing closely and hiding her nervous tension in the way her hands were folded in her lap.

"I want to dance," Sophia blurted. Beatrice focused on her, letting a slow smile of genuine pleasure spread across her face.

"I will tell you a secret," Beatrice said, leaning forward and mock-whispering to Sophia. "I am exceedingly fond of dancing."

"Eliza wants to be a naturalist," Sophia continued, shedding her shyness as she angled herself closer to Beatrice.

"A naturalist , Sophia," Eliza sighed, then immediately darted her eyes to Beatrice to see if she would be corrected.

"A naturalist? You wish to study the natural world, then?" Beatrice inquired, curious in spite of her misgivings.

"Maybe," Eliza allowed, wrapping her arms a little defensively around herself. "I am quite taken with some of the new scientific theories."

"Why, if I might ask?" Beatrice asked, tilting her head a little.

Eliza blinked slowly. She studied Beatrice for a moment, who sat perfectly still and kept her face impassive. It was not hard to imagine that if Eliza had been asked this question in the past, it was purely for the purpose of discouraging her interests.

"If it is observable, it is true," she answered slowly. "I can see it and study it; it's simpler than understanding people."

"Is it?" Beatrice asked, her eyebrows lifting.

"People are...deceptive. Complicated. Untidy. I do not care for it," Eliza said, rubbing her arms with her hands.

Beatrice absorbed this for a moment. She had met men who pursued the sciences, but she could not say that she had ever heard of a woman doing so. Granted, she had never made it a point to learn, either.

"Well," Beatrice said at last, "I suspect that you will be an expert on all of the local flora and fauna then, yes?" When Eliza nodded, Beatrice continued, "Good, then I shall be relying on you to keep me from accidentally putting my hand on a poisonous plant. I am quite out of my element up here." She turned her attention to Florence, who was still watching this with her chin lifted and a stubborn set to her jaw.

"And what about you, then? What is it that you are hoping to learn, Miss Hillmot?"

It was Sophia who answered again, having shifted quite close to Beatrice so that she might attempt to whisper into her ear. "Florence wants to be a great lady," she said.

"Does she indeed?" Beatrice said, casting her eye over Florence, openly assessing. "Well, I suppose we haven't a moment to waste, then." She rose then, clapping her hands together. "Come, we cannot become ladies without some breakfast first—no one is a lady with an empty stomach."

"But we take our breakfast in the nursery," Sophia protested, catching Beatrice's hand. "You must bring it up to us."

"And we're only allowed porridge in the mornings," Eliza added.

Beatrice put a hand to her chest in a great show of mock distress. "Only porridge ? Oh, heavens, no, that will not do. We shall all go downstairs and eat a proper breakfast," she announced. "But," she said, holding up a finger, "we must be on our best behaviour; we do not want to give your father a reason to scowl at us, lest we be banished from the dining room and never get to eat a slice of bacon ever again."

A round of solemn nods met that, and even Florence looked a little more interested. Satisfied, Beatrice cast her eye over the girls, ascertaining if they were all presentable. "Have you all completed your toilettes then? Faces are washed and hands are clean?"

The elder two nodded, but Sophia looked down, studying her toes as she dug the point of her little leather shoe into the thick rug.

"Sophia, have you prepared for the day, or are you hiding beneath a layer of dirt?" Beatrice teased gently.

"I'm just going to get dirty again," the little girl protested. "I do not see the point."

"Well," Beatrice said, thinking quickly. "I suppose the point is that no one likes to look at a dirty ragamuffin across the dining table. It's your choice, of course," Beatrice continued with a little wave of her hand. "If you do not wish to wash your face, I suppose that is your prerogative. I just hope you do not turn out like little Jimmy St. James." She finished with a dismissive shrug, which of course only served to pique Sophia's interest.

"Who is Jimmy St. James?" she asked, coming forward to seize Beatrice's sleeve in her fist.

Beatrice shrugged again, then turned to pat her hair as she inspected her reflection in the nursery mirror, adjusting the fall of her dress a little. "Oh, you wouldn't want to hear that, it's too terrible for—"

"Tell me!" Sophia cried.

"Very well," Beatrice sighed. "Jimmy St. James was a little boy in London who lived very near the fancy new park there. He liked nothing better than playing in the dirt and catching frogs, but he never wished to wash his face. He became covered in warts just like a frog, and no one wanted him sitting at their table at all."

Sophia, her eyes having grown wider and wider as Beatrice spoke, suddenly darted off. From the corner of the nursery came the sounds of splashing as her little hands scrubbed vigorously. Satisfied, Beatrice allowed herself a smug little smile.

Do not get too self-assured, part of herself warned. The others will likely not be so easily swayed.

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