17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

T he weather turned colder, the warm start to spring lost beneath sheets of heavy clouds, biting rain that lashed the windows, and wind so fierce it made the house groan at night. Beatrice, never one fond of the cold, found it thoroughly intolerable in a house so old and prone to draughts. The Hillmot girls were largely unaffected, being hardy little Northern ladies. They viewed Beatrice with sympathy, allowing her to conduct as many lessons as possible near the fire.

Lessons were quickly becoming a tricky affair, as Beatrice had little in the way of geography or French (or at least, French that would be suitable for young ladies to learn). However, she was nothing if not adaptable: She instead turned her tutelage to more practical things, such as how to pick a good silk from a bad one, how to carry on a conversation even if your dinner companion was a horrid bore, and, on one particularly amusing afternoon, how to master the language of fan fluttering. It may not have been the most conventional education, but Beatrice was reasonably sure that it would be far more useful.

She also found that the girls were all great readers, if properly motivated. For instance, Florence had a real love of novels, the more saccharine and sentimental the better; Eliza preferred anything remotely scientific or informative; and little cherubic Sophia, the tender heart of the house, absolutely adored anything ghastly and grisly.

"Please, Miss Heart!" she had begged when Beatrice had expressed doubt over the suitability of The Castle of Otranto. "It's perfectly awful, and I must know how it ends!" She had even put her large brown eyes to use, fluttering her eyelashes beseechingly up at Beatrice.

Beatrice, staring down at Sophia, had relented. "I suppose," she sighed, rationalising that she should most likely simply be glad that the girl was reading something. "But I warn you, if it gives you nightmares, I'll not have you crawling into my bed all afright." Beatrice handed the book back, but did not release it immediately. "And please, do not let your father see you reading it. If he catches you, I will disavow all knowledge."

So that was how they spent their evenings, and then gradually much of their afternoons, too. The colonel had no reason to complain, for the girls were quiet and, as far as he was concerned, industriously engaged. Beatrice, however, worried that so much time in solitary study was doing very little to foster warm relations between the girls.

That was how she instituted a policy of reading a book aloud, all together, every night before bed. The girls reluctantly agreed, which was one challenge solved; the real task at hand was to find something that they would all find entertaining enough. Beatrice knew well enough from experience that when they got bored, they could quickly turn to mischief.

They began their endeavour on a rainy night, with the fire in the nursery stoked high behind the fire screen. Beatrice arranged herself near to the hearth so that she could use the light to read, and the girls sat around her in a little half-circle. Though the calendar read April, it felt more like November, with the wind howling outside and the house moaning disagreeably from the cold.

"Now, tonight we begin our little reading club," Beatrice said, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as she could. She surveyed the faces of the sisters, with all looking more than a little sceptical. Still, she soldiered gamely on, withdrawing the book she had chosen from a small velvet pouch and holding it up for inspection. The cover was simple, with gold embossed letters that glistened in the firelight.

Florence, who had thus far found the whole enterprise a little silly and juvenile, leaned forward, peering at the title in spite of her misgivings. " Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus ," she read, wrinkling her nose a little. "Is this one of those dreary philosophy books?"

Beatrice, bemused, shook her head a little. "No, I do not believe so. It is quite the Thing in some circles in London, and I had to take some trouble to get it sent all the way up here."

"What is it all about, then?" Sophia asked, shifting a little closer.

"I'm not entirely sure," Beatrice admitted, "but a—a friend of mine seemed convinced it would meet all of our requirements. Besides," she continued, leaning closer and speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone, "I've heard rumours that it was actually written by a woman ." Beatrice left it at that, thinking that it was likely not entirely appropriate to elucidate on the other rumours she had heard about Mrs Shelley and her companions.

"Let us begin," Beatrice said, opening the book and holding it aloft. "We shall take it in turns, that way none of us shall be overtired from the reading." She cleared her throat, and turned past the frontispiece page. " I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic... "

***

T hough she had hoped to ignite some enthusiasm for reading, Beatrice really had not intended to read for overly long, especially on this first night of their new endeavour. All of the girls found themselves quickly swept up in the narrative, however, all leaning forward with eager, wide eyes to listen as each took their turn to read. As they progressed, Beatrice had a momentary worry that it was not altogether proper, but little Sophia read the ghastliest passages with eagerness.

So absorbed were they that when the large clock downstairs struck midnight, there was a collective startle and squeak. Beatrice was not too proud to admit that she was exactly as surprised as her charges.

"Oh—oh my, is that really the hour?" Beatrice said, blinking rapidly. She rose, stiff from sitting in one posture for so long on the floor. "Quick, off to bed with all of you!"

It took a bit of herding, but the girls were prepared for bed and safely tucked under their quilts within another quarter of an hour. Beatrice, having been too preoccupied with preparing the girls for bed, found the sudden silence and solitude of her little room disconcerting. She was not one to give in to irrational fears or superstitions, but she couldn't help but feel a little on edge as she donned her nightrail and slid into her little brass bed.

With her own bedcovers pulled tightly up to her chin, Beatrice stared up at the ceiling, forcing herself to remain as calm as possible. Every squeak, every groan of the house seemed to suddenly be a phantom with nefarious purpose. Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep. It seemed to be more or less working, as her breathing slowed and her eyelids began to feel heavy of their own volition.

It was into this strange twilight somewhere between wakefulness and sleep that there came a small sound, a creaking quite distinct from the other noises of the house. In a flash, Beatrice's eyes flew open, and she forced them to focus in the darkness. Bleary from near-sleep, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust, a terrifying moment in which there was a small, dark shape stationed quite near her bed. It was only through pure force of will that Beatrice did not let out a shriek, containing her reaction to merely bolting upright.

"Miss Heart?" a tiny voice whispered in the darkness.

Beatrice, still blinking in the dark, pulled her blanket up over herself a little. "Who—Sophia?" she asked. She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of one hand, fumbling about on the little nightstand next to her bed for the tinderbox and spills. She was grateful for the cover of darkness, for it disguised the way that her hands shook as she struck the flint, at last lighting the little stub of a candle provided for her.

In the sphere of light that suddenly flared up, it was revealed that it was indeed Sophia standing beside Beatrice's bed. She shifted nervously on her feet, her hands twisted into the sleeves of her nightrail.

"Sophia, what are you doing in here? Are you unwell?" Beatrice asked, casting her eye over the girl.

"I thought I heard a noise in here, and I wished to make sure that you were alright," Sophia replied with all of the solemnity a girl of ten years could muster.

"I'm quite fine, Sophia, but you'd best get back to bed—if we are all asleep at the breakfast table tomorrow morning, your father will surely want to know why," Beatrice replied lightly, ready to snuff the candle back out and send her back to bed.

Sophia nodded, but looked at the floor and twisted her sleeves about some more. "You're alright now, but what if you aren't later?" she blurted.

"Sophia, I—" Beatrice began, a little exasperated, but paused. Oh , she thought to herself, realisation dawning. Oh, I see . "Would it make you feel better to sleep in here with me?" she asked. "Just to make sure that there is nothing amiss in my room," she added.

Sophia looked up, her face awash with relief. She nodded enthusiastically, and Beatrice lifted up the quilt so that she might slip into the bed as well. Beatrice had never been fond of sharing a bed, not even as a child, nor when she must room with other dancers in theatre dormitories; however, she found that she did not wholly mind Sophia's presence, as it made her room a little less cold and lonely.

They had no more settled into their own small slivers of the bed, with Beatrice leaning over Sophia to snuff the candle, when there came another creak from the door to the nursery. Beatrice could feel Sophia go stiff in an instant, and Beatrice automatically put out a hand to comfort her.

"Who is it?" Beatrice half-whispered, half-yelled in the direction of the door.

"It's only me," Eliza said, pushing the door open a bit farther and peering around it. "I...I saw a light from beneath the door, and I just... That is to say, I was concerned, and..."

Beatrice sighed. "We are fine, Eliza, but as you can see, Sophia did not care to sleep alone tonight."

"Ah, yes, that is...that is sensible, given the—" Eliza paused, coughing delicately into her hand. "The nature of tonight's reading. Yes." Another pause, as everyone stared at each other, waiting for the other to speak.

Beatrice, feeling more than a little defeated, fell back against her pillow, and put her hand over her eyes. Without removing it, she said, "Eliza, would you care to stay with us as well? It is so cosy in here, and I'm sure it's warmer than the nursery."

Beatrice peered from beneath her hand long enough to see Eliza nod. Beatrice flipped the other side of her quilt up, and Eliza awkwardly climbed over the bed, settling on Beatrice's other side. It was now impossible for any of them to move, but this did not seem so bad, given that it provided much in the way of security.

There was a general shuffling of legs and blankets as everyone settled. They had no more than gotten themselves arranged when there was another creaking of floorboards. All three swivelled their heads as one to look at the doorway.

Florence, hands on hips, stood there, the little glow from the candle barely touching her bare feet. "Well, I suppose I didn't warrant an invitation to this merry party," she sniffed.

Beatrice lolled her head over in Florence's direction, which was about all the motion she could manage. "You are more than welcome to join, provided you can find the space to do so. Of course, we would not wish to imply that you are also in need of company on such a dark night," she added.

Florence stood for a moment, her desire for maturity at war with her baser instinct for comfort. At last, the latter half won out, and she marched stiffly to the little brass bed, her head held high. She managed to wedge herself in, her feet between Beatrice and Eliza, and her head on a crooked arm at the bottom of the bed.

Beatrice could not move—she could scarcely breathe, they were such a crush—but she was not wholly irritated by the state of things. It was a strange turn of events, particularly as she was such a fiercely solitary creature by nature. And yet, there was a base sort of comfort in having those smaller than herself seek her out for protection. With another fondly tolerant sigh, she allowed herself to settle in, a tangle of arms and legs about one another.

***

S leep had never come particularly easily to Gregory, especially since he had lost his wife. He had grown used to sharing a bed rather easily, and the sudden emptiness had unsettled him in a way that he feared was permanent. It was also the product of his time in the army that every little sound roused him, his eyes simply snapping open and instant wakefulness being upon him.

The house was always full of creaks and squeaks, especially so when it was cold and windy as it was on this night, but it seemed to him that there was an inordinate amount of noise coming from the direction of the nursery. It was at the opposite side of the stairs, but in the dead of night, every sound carried. There were only two reasons for there to be such a litany of noises at this hour, neither of which gave him peace of mind: someone was unwell, or there was mischief afoot.

With a heavy sigh, he threw back his thick bedspread and swung his legs out of bed. He did not pause when his feet hit the cold floor, merely gritted his teeth and snatched up his quilted dressing gown from the chair near the bed. He made his way to the door as he threaded his arms into the sleeves, pulling the sash tightly about himself over his nightshirt.

Gregory walked quietly to the nursery, not by any real effort on his part, but simply by dint of the fact that he wore no boots for once. He paused outside of the door, his ears straining. The noises of movement had quieted, but there was still a slight glow from beneath the door. If he were being charitable, he could suppose that Miss Heart had simply been stirring the fire, hoping to keep her charges warm on such an unseasonable night.

He did not wholly trust this supposition, however, and holding tightly to the heavy brass lever, he opened the door as quietly as possible. The nursery was mostly dark, with only the faintest glow coming from the smouldering embers in the hearth. That was more than enough light for him to see that all of the beds were empty, their occupants nowhere to be seen.

His heart squeezed sharply in his chest, sudden panic seizing him. Irrational visions of his daughters being spirited away filled his mind, and he had to cruelly bite them back. Stepping farther inward, he realised that there was light coming from beneath and around the door to Miss Heart's little room. Frowning, he padded quietly across the thick rug to listen. There was nary a sound to be heard, apart from an occasional snore.

It was beyond the pale for him to consider breaching the sanctity of Miss Heart's room; servants' quarters, particularly of the female staff, were sacrosanct. It went against every guiding principle of the relationship between a master and servants to enter such a private space. Still, there was reason enough for him to demand entrance—his children were not to be found in their expected places.

So, with a gentle push, he nudged open the door a bit farther, widening the gap it was ajar. At first, he did not entirely understand what he was looking at. He glanced about the small room, which was dominated in the centre by a small brass bed, as was appropriate for a governess. Strangely, however, Miss Heart did not sleep alone. The little bed was crammed to overflowing, with Sophia tucked beneath Miss Heart's arm, Eliza on the other side, and even Florence wedged between them, facing the other direction.

Gregory stood stock still, afraid that he would break the spell of the peaceful scene before him. In the low, flickering light of the candle, all of their faces softened in sleep, it was like he had stumbled upon a cadre of angels that had nestled down for a rest. Sophia stirred a little in her sleep, and Miss Heart's arm tightened unconsciously around the girl. He could not begin to guess at the series of events that had led to all of them being stacked into one bed in such a manner.

Perhaps that does not matter, a far, infrequently-visited corner of his mind mused. Perhaps that is not the important thing here; perhaps the truly important thing is that you cannot take your eyes off Miss Heart.

Taken aback by this thought, Gregory subconsciously rocked back on his heels. It was an absurd notion, but one that persisted. As he stood there, his posture and heart softening pinch by pinch, he couldn't deny that his eyes slid time and again to Miss Heart's face. Gone was the mischievous, twinkling cast to her features; with her almond-shaped eyes closed, she looked far more gentle and soft than she did in the daylight.

Surrounded as she was by children, there was a vulnerable, unguarded gentility about her that Gregory had never considered that she might have. He was thus forced to consider her as a person anew, and found that she was slowly working her way into the cracks of his life.