12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

T hough the day had begun with frost and chill, as the sun rose, it quickly turned into quite a lovely early spring day. As this was Beatrice's first chance to really get a view of the estate, she decided to take advantage. The girls were appropriately bonneted and booted, and they all headed out of doors in a group (though some with more enthusiasm than others).

Beatrice could not help but pull in a breath as she took in the sight from the rear of the house, where they had exited. The manor was perched atop a small hill, which sloped down to a rolling valley. The area around the house was carefully manicured grass, but beyond that, the ground was awash with a violet hue, little flowers growing wild among the grass. It was a beautiful picture, even London-girl Beatrice had to admit. The space was so open, so unencumbered, that it was hard not to feel something profound when viewing it.

There was little time to admire the view, however, as both Eliza and Sophia were rather eager to set out on the promised walk. Florence, as Beatrice understood was her wont, followed along sullenly behind them, her face arranged in a permanent pout. The other two, however, were quite excited to be off, as Beatrice had promised that they might visit a little stream that ran through the edge of the property.

Beatrice had reason to be grateful that she was so used to physical exercise, for it turned out that rambling across fields was rather more taxing than a jaunt down a paved street. She was also thankful for the practical cut of her dress, as well as the fact that it was a light wool, as this kept all manner of brambles and sticky little seeds away from her legs. They reached the little stream, and Beatrice turned Eliza and Sophia more or less loose to do as they pleased, so long as they stayed within her sight.

"You mean...we may occupy ourselves as we wish?" Eliza asked, exchanging a glance with Sophia.

"Yes—why shouldn't you?" Beatrice asked, not quite understanding the confusion.

"Well," Eliza said, fidgeting with her hands behind her back, "Father says that time spent in idleness is time wasted." Sophia nodded gravely, confirming the truth of this proclamation.

"But you are not being idle, are you?" Beatrice asked. She gestured broadly to the grassy wilderness that surrounded them. "Surely there is much to be learned from the natural world; at least, that is what Mr Coleridge believes."

"Mr Samuel Coleridge?" Florence asked, speaking for the first time since they had left the house. "You have heard Mr Coleridge speak, then?"

"I have," Beatrice confirmed. "It was at a salon in London. He had many things to say about the natural state of man, and what we might learn from the state of nature."

"A salon in London?" Florence repeated, folding her arms and raising one brow sceptically. "Why were you at a salon in London?"

"Oh, well," Beatrice said, giving a forced little flick of her wrist, "one knows many people in London. And, of course, I was not always a governess."

"You weren't?" Sophia asked, her brown eyes large. "Were you a great lady, come down hard in the world? Was your inheritance stolen from betwixt your very fingers? Who was the fiend, was it a distant relation from a far-off land, like...Prussia?"

"Prussia," Beatrice said, staring at Sophia. "Ah, no, nothing so exciting as all that. Good gracious, wherever did you come up with all of that?"

"Florence likes to read Gothics," Sophia announced, which caused the oldest Hillmot sister to glare. "Sometimes she reads them to us after bed."

"Does she indeed?" Beatrice asked, glancing sidelong at Florence. "Well, we must put a stop to that," she said, and Sophia looked crestfallen. "You'll ruin your eyes reading in the dark like that," she continued, "so perhaps Florence might favour us with a reading before we all retire. Mind," she said with a warning glance to the eldest girl, "that it is appropriate for your audience."

Florence looked mutinous at the suggestion, but did not protest openly. Instead, she turned and looked away, striking what Beatrice was sure the girl thought was a meaningful, contemplative stance worthy of a starving artist. She kept her opinions to herself, however, and sent the younger two girls off to entertain themselves for a bit.

She sat in silence upon a fallen tree for a while, Florence stubbornly refusing to engage with anyone around her again. This suited Beatrice just fine, for she was grateful for a moment to try and understand this girl. Beatrice did not particularly understand childhood since she had not really had one, as most who were born into poor families did not. From the moment she was old enough to earn, she was set to work—it was simply good fortune that she'd had a talent for dancing, and had been able to leave home to support herself in that manner before she was Florence's age.

"So," Beatrice said finally, "I do not imagine the colonel keeps Gothics in his library...or romances for that matter." Though she was still turned away, Beatrice could see colour rising on Florence's ears, showing that she had guessed correctly. "I'm really very curious to know how you managed to get them."

"Why? So you can put a stop to it? Or so that you might pretend to be my friend some more?" Florence demanded, whirling on Beatrice with surprising ferocity. "You act as if you are here to be our nursery chum, but you aren't—you're here to keep us in line and follow Father's orders, whatever you may pretend."

Beatrice was taken more than a little aback by this outburst, and found herself leaning away subconsciously. Her first instinct was to bite right back, matching anger for anger. She caught herself just in time, however, mostly out of concern for the younger two Hillmot girls; they had heard Florence's outburst, and both of their heads had popped up to watch.

Beatrice took a moment to study Florence. The same petulant expression was still there, the same defiant posture, but there was something else. The girl's eyes were moist, and her fingers clung to her upper arms. Beatrice had made a career of knowing how to read society men, and her skills at observation were proving more useful than she had imagined in her new place.

"You've had a governess try that in the past, haven't you?" Beatrice asked softly. When Florence did not respond, Beatrice nodded. "Believe me, I know precisely what that's like. I cannot stand it any more than you can. That's part of the reason why I left London." She glanced back at Florence, and saw that though the girl was still standing stiffly, she was clearly listening. Taking a chance, Beatrice gently patted the place on the tree next to her.

Florence looked away sharply for a moment, then down at the ground, and finally relented. She still refused to look at Beatrice, and kept her arms folded over herself. Beatrice, meanwhile, simply sat in silence. She was not bothered by the notion, as she was quite fond of solitude. The girl would speak when she was ready.

"No one ever asks me what I want," Florence said at last.

Beatrice laughed wryly. "Well, your father does seem to be of the mind that children are to be seen and not heard, so that is hardly surprising."

"He didn't use to entertain such notions," Florence said, her voice growing thicker and her eyes distant. "Not before—" She pulled herself up sharply, cutting off her words with a finality that Beatrice did not dare to intrude on.

Beatrice let that slide without prying. She adjusted course then, saying, "What is it that you do want, then?"

Florence thought for a moment, her face conflicted as she wrestled with a variety of feelings. "I just want to be taken seriously," she said at last. "I am not a child, but you wouldn't know it from the way that Father treats me. I am fourteen years old now, not six, but you wouldn't know it from the way that I live. He won't entertain any notion of me putting my hair up, nor getting fitted for a proper dress." She punctuated this with an angry little kick, showing her ankles from her ruffled pinafore.

"Have you no friends about the neighbourhood, then?" Beatrice asked.

"No, I haven't," Florence groused. "And even if I did have some sort of companionship, I should be too humiliated to go out among them dressed like this."

"I cannot get your father to change his mind," Beatrice said, watching as Eliza bent close to examine something in the muddy bank of the stream. "But I can do my best to help you be prepared, and maybe then you can change his mind."

"How do you propose I do that?" Florence asked, turning to Beatrice at last, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Beatrice shrugged. "Do you imagine that you help your case by acting as you have? No," she said, holding up her hand to forestall Florence's coming protest, "I do not criticise you. I am simply asking, if it were up to you, would you believe that you were ready to leave the nursery?"

Florence kicked at the dirt again, but her arms eventually loosened a little, and she placed her hands on either side of her on the tree. "I suppose not," she admitted begrudgingly. "I just want to use curling tongs on my hair and wear long gowns made of silk, not calico; is that so terrible?"

"Of course not," Beatrice said, smiling lightly. "But there is a great deal more to being a lady than that."

"Oh, I know," Florence said sagely, "Father tells us that we must learn to sing and play and dance and embroider—"

Beatrice held up her hands again, chuckling a little. "Those are all fine enough, I suppose, but I shall let you in on a secret: Men believe that they know what they want in a lady, but the truth is they haven't a clue. Conversation, a ready mind and a spirit of companionship, and a charming smile will get you farther than knowing how to darn socks."

Florence gave Beatrice another discerning look, and now it was Beatrice's turn to look away. Careful, very careful, Bea , she warned herself. Don't give too much away. It would not take much for someone to put the pieces of her story together if she let too much slip, and she truly could not afford that.

"Well," Florence said, "I suppose then that it would be very good for me to learn to dance, so that I might meet people on the dance floor."

Beatrice smiled again. This was familiar footing, and she felt quite sure of herself on this front. "There is a bit more to that, but we will get to that in time. If you wish to learn to dance, then I am happy to accommodate."

"Dance?" Sophia asked, her little head popping up again from where she had been squatted near the stream, picking blades of grass and setting them on the water. "Will you teach us to dance?"

"I might," Beatrice hedged with a sideways smile at Florence, "but you must promise to do very well in the rest of your lessons."

"Oh yes!" Sophia cried, scrambling up to her feet so that she could come kneel by Beatrice's knee. She blinked up at Beatrice with large, beseeching eyes. "I will do my very, very best if you shall teach us to dance!"

Beatrice chuckled, and turned to Eliza, who still stood some distance away, silently. "What say you, then, Miss Eliza? Will you be joining your sisters in learning to trod the ballroom floor?"

Eliza shifted from foot to foot, looking at her sisters. "If I must," she allowed, "but only to please them."

"What if we make a bargain, too?" Beatrice asked. When Eliza cautiously nodded, she continued, "I shall see if I can't find a way to help you learn more about the sciences. No," she said, seeing the question on Eliza's face before she spoke, "I already know your father will not approve—you let me worry about him."

All three girls engaged in a silent consultation with each other in an exchange of weighted glances. At last, they all nodded, and there was a good deal of giggling as they all attempted to figure out the particulars of a four-way handshake to seal their respective deals.

They all moved off again then, this time with Florence joining her sisters to see if she might gather some early blooming flowers to make sachets for her wardrobe. Beatrice was left on her own for the first time since yesterday, and she used the time to genuflect.

So far, she had simply gotten by on her wits, which was what she had been doing since she was eight years old. She had the advantage right now, in that she was still something of a novelty to the girls; the real trick would come when that novelty wore off. Still, she liked to think that perhaps she had struck some kind of accord with all of them.

What strange, sad little birds they are, she thought, not unkindly, as she watched them move about in the grass. With their white pinafores and smocks, they looked like a trio of goslings that were on the verge of becoming swans. Not an inaccurate comparison , she realised.

Beatrice would never have been described by anyone as particularly warm, nor maternal by any stretch of the imagination. Children had never had a place in her life, aside from the ones that passed through the dancing troupe. These had always been more nuisance than anything, requiring a good deal of goading to get them to perform even the smallest step correctly. Yet here she was, with three girls in her charge. What was more, was that Beatrice could feel herself behaving warmly toward them.

That was the truly confusing aspect. It wasn't that she was completely heartless (never mind the puns that had been made—both behind her back and directly to her face—about her surname), but rather that emotion, true sentiment, had always felt sort of secondary to enjoyment of life. It produced unfortunate entanglements, made one's life unbearably complicated and messy; Beatrice could tolerate none of those things. Any warmth that she showed was, almost entirely without fail, the result of careful study. She applied the appearance of feeling like some applied face powders, and always so that she might achieve her own means.

She'd imagined that she would be in a similar situation at the Hillmot house: she would pretend, ably enough, to have some sort of regard for the children, and by and by, would secure her position accordingly. It was not coldly done, and it was clear to her that even if she were merely pretending, it would likely be more affection than they had received from a governess or nurse before.

It was a great surprise then, to find that the affection that she had imagined herself to be, well, imagining , was quickly blooming into genuine feeling. She could not help but feel for these girls, as she understood them all in a way: she knew what it was to crave independence like Florence, to feel out of step with what was expected of a "proper" young lady like Eliza, and to simply be allowed to experience the joy of life like Sophia.

What a strange, untoward place for a realisation , Beatrice mused, laughing a little at herself. It was true, and she could not have begun to picture herself in such a place even a month ago: sitting on a rotting, damp fallen tree, her neat leather boots caked in mud, while a trio of girls played and cavorted together.

I suppose it is not a bad way to spend one's afternoon , she allowed, feeling her heart thaw bit by bit. Not a bad way at all.