11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

C olonel Hillmot did not believe in overly flowery meals, literally and figuratively. He kept a spartan table where functionality was the main centrepiece. Meals were hearty and filling, but lacked the presentation that one might have expected from a big manor house. Breakfast was no exception, which he took in his library to avoid the unnecessary trip to the dining room simply to quickly eat.

Of a morning, he also was in the habit of reading the newspaper as he ate, which was specially couriered out to him from York before the sun even rose. It came so early, in fact, that the ink was usually not dry, and it was one of the first jobs downstairs in the servants' quarters to iron it so that there would be as few unsightly smudges as possible.

He was seated at his desk, as was the norm, turned slightly aside with one leg crossed over the other at the knee. However, that was all that was as usual—he was ready to turn to the second page of the newspaper, and yet there was no breakfast before him. There was a cup of coffee, but it was quickly cooling.

It might be time to have another word with the kitchen again , he frowned to himself. He kept a tightly run home, and he found it necessary on occasion to remind the servants of the standards he expected.

And yet, the house was clearly abustle with activity. There was the unmistakable sound of footsteps through the hall, and muffled voices outside the library. His frown deepened, accented with a proper furrow on his forehead. It sounded almost as if there were voices within the dining room, which surely could not be right; there was no one who would be within that room at this hour.

The library door opened, admitting Mrs Turvy, who bore a tray of food for the colonel. Sounds followed in after her, clearly floating from down the hall. Gregory allowed his paper to fold a little and he swivelled around to give Mrs Turvy a pointed stare.

The housekeeper, clearly harried, was all apologies as she laid the tray. "Begging your pardon for the delay, Sir, but we've all been a little out of sorts this morning."

"Out of sorts? Why? Is something amiss in the kitchen?" the colonel asked. Mrs Turvy stepped back a half-step, her hands folded tightly at her waist. A few wisps of hair were escaping her neatly starched white cap.

"Not the kitchen, precisely, no," she hedged, the lines around her mouth deepening a little.

"Mrs Turvy," the colonel sighed, "you know that I both detest and have no time for this sort of coyness. If you know something, say what it is; otherwise, do not tease it out."

"Very well," the housekeeper sniffed, squaring her shoulders a little. "It would seem that the new governess has brought the three young misses down for breakfast this morning."

"Down?" Gregory repeated, not fully following her. "Downstairs? To the dining room?"

"I told her, Sir, I told her that the house policy was that the children were to breakfast in the nursery, but she dismissed this right out of hand," Mrs Turvy said, clearly incensed. "I said that the children were to eat upstairs so as not to disturb you, Sir, when you are at breakfast."

Gregory knew that he would likely not like the answer, but he found himself asking anyway, "And what was Miss Heart's response to that?"

Mrs Turvy's lips pursed outward in distaste. "She asked if you would be in the dining room, and I told her that you preferred to break your fast in the library. 'Well, then we shan't be able to possibly disturb him in the dining room if he is not in the dining room , then, shall we?'" Mrs Turvy said in a clear imitation of Miss Heart's clipped southern accent.

In spite of his irritation, Gregory found himself having to agree with the logic of that particular statement. Still, he knew that there would be no peace in his house until this particular impasse was resolved. There was always a bit of a push-and-pull between the governess and the rest of the staff; it was borne mostly of the fact that a governess was a nebulous, independent entity within their hierarchy.

"If I may say so, Sir, it will behove you to check this uppity bit of baggage before she becomes unmanageable," Mrs Turvy said, lowering her voice and leaning in.

Sighing, Gregory put down his newspaper, folding it as he did so. He pushed aside his breakfast—a slice of cold ham, two boiled eggs, bread sliced thickly and toasted—and, realising he would likely need the energy, quickly downed his coffee in one gulp. The housekeeper, smug in the way that they tend to be when they know the master is on their side in some quarrel, happily led the way to the dining room.

Gregory paused at the threshold, not sure that his ears could be working properly. There were no screams, no sounds of crying or conflict from his daughters; there were only the sounds of jovial conversation and laughter, and the clink of dishes. There was also the smell of something delicious, too, which gave him further pause.

With one hand, he pushed open the dining room door, which swung easily despite how heavy it was. Mrs Turvy, so close she was nearly breathing down his neck, followed behind him, almost bumping into him as he halted to take in the sight before him.

Sitting about the table were his daughters, as was Miss Heart. This was to be expected, and while an annoyance, was not the reason for his drawing up quickly. What was wholly unexpected was that on the table, there was a proliferous number of dishes laid out: Little sweet rolls, a plate of slabs of bacon, several types of jam, a pot of coffee, a platter of boiled and sliced eggs, and baked apples. It was fragrant and enticing, and Gregory simply stared for a long, long moment.

"Miss Heart," he said at last, "what is the meaning of all of this?" He understood Mrs Turvy's consternation more fully now: The kitchens must have been overwrought by such a demand for breakfast, as they were wholly unprepared to do so on most occasions.

"Oh, good morning, Colonel," Beatrice said, flashing him a dazzling smile. She was seated casually, one elbow on the table as she held a steaming little cup of coffee in her hand. She looked as if she were entertaining instead of caring for three young girls. Everything about her was at ease, which only irritated Gregory further. "Would you care to join us?" she asked, graciously indicating the empty place at the head of the table.

His daughters, who previously had all been focused on their plates, now chanced glances in his direction. "Miss Heart, just what do you think you are doing?" Gregory demanded, ignoring the girls for now.

Beatrice's pleasant smile and demeanour shifted a little to slight confusion. "Eating breakfast and enjoying a chat with your charming daughters?" she replied, raising her coffee cup a little in their direction, which made Sophia giggle. Gregory glared at her, and she quickly put her hands in her lap and looked down at her plate again.

"I do not pay you to socialise with them," Gregory ground out, checking his temper.

"Oh, to be sure," Beatrice agreed, sipping her coffee and sighing appreciatively.

"I see that you have disregarded the edict about breakfast being eaten in the nursery, as well," Gregory continued, his voice rising a little. "This is not a hopeful start for you, I must inform you."

At that, Beatrice paused, her cup halfway to her mouth again. With great coolness, she gently replaced it on the saucer with the softest of clinks. Every move, every gesture and flick of her eyes seemed carefully choreographed as she put her hands together, one elbow still on the table, and turned more fully to Gregory. It was a shockingly graceful display, somehow tantalising and beguiling as well as infuriating.

"What is it that you are hoping for them, precisely?" Beatrice asked, her cat-like green eyes glittering out of her placid face. She nodded toward his daughters, who were all alternating between stealing glances at their father and staring down at their hands.

"You are to instruct them in the ways of being proper young ladies," Gregory answered immediately.

"Precisely," Beatrice agreed. "Now, how am I to do that if I do not see what their manners are like at table? If they cannot practise their conversation and how to hold a knife and fork like genteel little ladies, then how do you propose they get better at it?" She paused, arching an eyebrow at Gregory in the silence. The gesture felt as loud as a gunshot for all the irony she put into it. "Will you next demand that they become accomplished horsewomen, but bar them from the stables? Expect recitations, but forbid reading?"

Taken aback, Gregory could feel warmth rising on his neck below the high collar of his shirt. There was an unanswerable logic in what she said, which was exceptionally irritating. He refused to allow her another victory, however, so he shifted tack.

"Wherever they are eating, I am quite confident as to what they should be eating," he pronounced, hoisting his chin into the air and folding his arms behind his back. "The nursery menu is quite strict, and we've had no fuss about it yet."

Miss Heart tilted her head a little, nodding slightly. "I suspect that is true," she said, seemingly agreeing. "Although, I also suspect that a large portion of the misbehaviour in this house has boiled down to the very simple reason of hunger." She paused, taking another slow, deliberate sip of her coffee. "No one can survive on just porridge; the poor things must have been starving before luncheon."

There was a quiet murmur of assent from around the table, which was quickly silenced with a glare from Gregory. "Porridge is recommended for energetic children—girls should not eat bacon and sweetmeats before luncheon, it will overexcite them," he said, nodding his head authoritatively.

Miss Heart made a small snorting sound, as if she were attempting to suppress a laugh that managed to escape through her nose. "Do forgive me, I suspect a touch of hay fever," she said, her face completely smooth but her eyes sparkling with humour. "Tell me, Colonel, do you expect your soldiers to march on empty stomachs as well?"

"Certainly not," he said stiffly. "That is entirely different."

"It is not," Miss Heart shot back. "We shall be undertaking a vigorous programme of study and activity, and we shan't be able to do so without hearty meals." She glanced down the table, looking at each of the girls. "Besides which, they do not appear to be overly excited, do they? To my eye, they are sitting perfectly nicely to a civilised breakfast."

There was another strained silence as everyone contemplated. He did not wish to allow Miss Heart yet another victory, but she had a point. His daughters were very much sitting relatively well, no one was crying, and there seemed to be some effort at civility being attempted. Miss Heart's eyes locked onto his, and they engaged in a sort of silent battle of wills.

Gregory Hillmot had not risen to the rank of colonel by behaving rashly, nor by being a fool; true enough that he'd been born a gentleman, but his success was not solely the result of a purchased commission like so many other gentleman-officers. He therefore allowed himself a moment to consider what was before him.

He knew that his daughters still darted anxious looks between each other, Miss Heart, and himself. It was true that it seemed as if they had been enjoying something of a jolly time, which he must admit he had not seen with any of the other governesses. Miss Heart herself, for all of her coolness, was still a young governess, without the weight of experience to give her authority.

Ah, so that's the game, is it? Gregory thought. He nearly broke into a sly smile as realisation dawned, but curbed the impulse.

Miss Heart had clearly seen the strain between himself and his daughters, and also been keenly aware of the natural enmity between children and their governess. If she managed to align herself against Gregory, then the girls would naturally view her as an ally. Gregory could appreciate sound tactics, even from an enemy quarter, and seeing Miss Heart attempting to forge the triangle conflict between them into a wedge that she might wield was a stroke of brilliance.

"You may instruct the kitchen as to the nature of the girls' meals," he said at last. He phrased it as if he were granting permission, which was a little bit of a moot point, considering that she had already done so. He held up a finger, pointing it directly at Miss Heart as he spoke. "But I warn you, I do this against my better judgement. If I sense that this is beginning to induce poor behaviour, I will put a stop to it at once."

Miss Heart's mouth quirked ever so slightly as she raised her cup of coffee in salute. Gregory only acknowledged this with a serious frown before clicking his heels together and turning sharply to exit the dining room, nearly bowling over Mrs Turvy as he did so. The housekeeper, looking a little disappointed, mooched off back below stairs.

Gregory paused for a moment after the dining room door had swung shut. There was a moment of silence from within, and then a tiny explosion of giggles. The laughter swelled until it filled the dining room, spilling out a little.

"Now, now," Miss Heart said, attempting to be serious, but Gregory could hear the smile in her voice, "we must at least attempt to eat like civilised ladies, or there shall be another breakfast embargo put upon us—a bacon ban, if you will."

More laughter followed that, but to Miss Heart's credit, the conversation lulled afterwards, followed by the sound of knives and forks clinking against plates. Occasionally, there was the low request for someone to please pass the salt, or the bowl of little buns. It was a friendly, genial-sounding affair, thoroughly civilised; it was hard to believe this was the same group of girls that had been a thrashing, fighting pile on the floor just a few weeks ago.

Gregory shook his head a little, then retreated back to the library. It was only when he sat down that he realised just how silent it was, eating in here amongst the volumes on the shelves. A small marble bust of Wellington on one of the higher shelves was his only company. It had never felt particularly lonely before—if anything, it had felt like a comfort, a reprieve—but now, the silence was profound.

He shook his head and picked up his newspaper again. He had never been a sentimentalist, and he had no intention of starting now. Determined, he forced himself to focus on the latest reports from France, a proclamation on the king's health, and an advertisement for a new sort of boot polish. His concerted effort at concentration was somewhat undermined, however, by another realisation: he could not remember the last time he had heard laughter in the house.