23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

T he table that Florence laid out (with Beatrice's assistance) could not be described as anything other than charming. She had chosen the front sitting room, which though small, was well-appointed. In defiance of the housekeeper's fretting about sunlight bleaching the wall coverings, they had thrown open the shutters again.

The tea table was laid with a fine white tablecloth with lace edging, and piled high with cucumber sandwiches and a selection of small but finely made cakes and buns. Beatrice had supplied the tea, having purchased it while in York, a fragrant jasmine blend that perfumed the room. Sophia and Eliza had been duly sequestered in the nursery with bribes of extra reading time and a promise of any leftover cake.

Florence, nearly beside herself with anxiety over the arrangements, took turns alternately pacing and standing beside the table. Every so often, she would brush her hands down the skirt of her white muslin dress, convinced that she had managed to soil it somehow while standing or pacing.

Beatrice observed all of this coolly, reasoning that if she was unruffled by proceedings, then Florence would naturally follow suit. She adjusted the settings a little, eyeing the table with a critical eye.

"Is everything all right? Do you think they will still come?" Florence asked for the dozenth time since luncheon.

"Everything is fine," Beatrice repeated automatically, "and of course they will come—Miss Fitzroy sent a note saying so."

"But what of the table? It is laid properly, isn't it?" Florence asked, wringing her fingers a little as she came to inspect it again. "I should hate for it to look like a children's party."

"Florence," Beatrice replied evenly, arching an eyebrow at her, "do you believe I would lay an unfashionable table?" When Florence shook her head vehemently, Beatrice nodded smugly. "Exactly so. Your table would fit right into the best drawing room in London."

Florence looked relieved for a moment, then began pacing again. Beatrice sighed a little, but did not waylay her. The door to the sitting room cracked open almost silently, unheard by Florence over her pacing. Beatrice glanced behind herself to see the colonel peeking in, surveying the scene. He caught Beatrice's eye, and with a lift of his brows, indicated that he wished to speak with her.

Beatrice, not wishing to alarm Florence, walked backward silently, finding her way surely with her toes as she stepped. "What is it?" she hissed at the colonel, knowing that his interfering would surely put additional strain on the fragile scaffolding of Florence's mood.

"How's it all going?" he asked, his eyes darting around again.

"Fine," Beatrice whispered back. "They haven't arrived yet, but the table is laid and everything is prepared."

"And Florence?"

"She's fine too," Beatrice reassured him. He gave Florence a significant look, and then turned his eyes back to Beatrice. "Yes, well, she's fine but for some nerves," Beatrice amended.

" Some nerves?" the colonel demanded. "I can hear her pacing from across the house."

"It's a good sign," Beatrice said, folding her arms over herself. "It means that she is concerned for her performance, and that she wishes to be a good hostess."

The colonel arched a brow sceptically, but did not say anything more. He turned to go, and Beatrice stopped him with a hand on his sleeve.

"Wait a moment," she asked, her own eyes narrowing. "What are you doing here? I thought you had disavowed being within a mile of this little party; I fully expected you to be holed up in some public house until it was over."

The colonel, covering the fact that he was obviously caught, lifted his chin aristocratically. "Well, I just—that is, it occurred to me that it would be the kind thing to do to ascertain that there weren't any...difficulties."

"Difficulties?" Beatrice repeated. She scrutinised him with narrowed eyes, and then a smile spread across her face as realisation hit. "You were concerned about Florence," she half-whispered, half-laughed. "You wanted to be sure she was a success. Oh, no, don't you give me that dour look," Beatrice admonished as the colonel's face creased. "You might be able to scare the maids with that face, but it shan't work on me. For all your protests and misgivings, you wanted today to go well."

"And what if I did?" the colonel demanded, turning his face aside a little so that the scarred half was away from Beatrice. "Shouldn't a father be concerned with his daughter's success?"

"Oh, to be sure," Beatrice agreed, letting herself soften just a bit in her teasing. "You should let your support be known more, however."

"You mean to Florence?"

"Yes, of course, but also I don't think it would hurt for everyone to know that you support her endeavours." Beatrice paused, feeling a little daring. "It's a charming thing to see," she concluded, casting her eyes down for a moment before withdrawing to tend to Florence again.

***

F or all of Florence's fretting, her guests arrived precisely on time. As promised, all came with a maid or governess in tow, as was only proper. The lone exception to this was Miss Constable, who had the great distinction of being Out in Society at sixteen years old, who brought her own lady's maid with her, much to the envy of the others.

Beatrice, hovering in the background, saw that the other governesses and maids were settled at a table of their own in the vestibule outside the sitting room. They were near enough to be able to see and hear their charges, but far enough away that they would not feel as if they were being minded like children. There was a selection of plain sandwiches and tea served in a ceramic pot, and the tablecloth was a plain white linen, but the servants were all pleased by the courtesy nonetheless.

With one ear attuned to the open door, Beatrice invited the others to sit. She was pleased to hear that conversation began to flow easily among their charges, and she released a breath she did not realise she had been holding. Looking about her own table, she wondered if conversation would be as easy between their own set.

Beatrice had not been a governess long enough to learn that servants will always find some common ground to open conversation over. In fact, it was far, far easier for them to converse with one another, as they all had some idea as to the nature of their lives.

"It is a real treat to be back at the manor house again," Miss Fitzroy's governess, a Miss Amelia Winchester, said politely. She was a woman of middling years, older than Beatrice but not in her dotage. Her face was thin, and she had the appearance of one whom life has washed all the colour out of.

"Ah, of course, you've been here before," Beatrice replied, pouring tea for all of them.

"Oh yes, the girls were thick as thieves when they were little." Miss Winchester lifted her teacup, sipped, and continued, "Of course, the missus and Mrs Hillmot were quite close as well."

"So you knew the late Mrs Hillmot, then? What was she like?" Beatrice asked, feeling secure in asking for gossip from a fellow servant.

Miss Winchester considered. "Well, she was a lively, spritely thing, I can tell you that much for certain. Hardly an occasion passed without her marking it with a picnic or a party."

Beatrice glanced about at the dark, largely silent house. It was hard to imagine it ever being full of people and laughter in its present condition. Miss Winthrop's governess, a Miss Samantha Jones, saw Beatrice's doubt and nodded her agreement.

"Aye, it's true enough, though it be hard to picture it now," she said in thick Northern accents. "Always a light shining from every window, with music and dancing—auch, the dancing! Can ye remember it, Miss Winchester?"

"That I can, Miss Jones. The furniture always pushed back, the floors nearly groaning from all the dancing feet upon them."

Both governesses sighed, their faces full of nostalgia and wistfulness. Beatrice listened with eager ears, always pleased to hear something of the past in this lonely house. She found her own feet itching to dance, longing to put her skills to use more and more lately.

"But of course, yourself and Miss Wright are new girls," Miss Winchester said, nodding toward Beatrice and the lady's maid.

"New to the Constable house, true enough," the maid replied in a feather-light voice, tinged with a Continental accent Beatrice could not quite place. "But I have been a maid for quite some time. Lady Jenkins sent me away for training, but passed shortly after I returned, God rest her," Miss Wright said with a sigh.

The others around the table all nodded sagely. They knew the precariousness of their situations—the death of a mistress was a fear they all lived with, as it would mean uprooting their lives in search of work elsewhere.

Beatrice's eyes darted from one to the other, for this was something that had never occurred to her. She had always assumed that her being a governess was something of a temporary position, a momentary embarrassment that she might shake off at a second's notice. It had never so much as crossed her mind that she would be doing this for the rest of her working life.

Miss Jones caught her looking about and nodded knowingly at her. "Aye, Missy, I see the truth of it dawning upon ye. You've not been in service long enough to know the fear of uncertainty, but I see some inkling of it has come spatter-dash on ye now."

"You've never had to find a new place?" Miss Wright asked, peering curiously at Beatrice, who shook her head. Miss Wright looked about the table to the others, her face a little disbelieving. "Do not tell me this is your first posting? Surely not!"

Beatrice nodded slowly, feeling a cautionary breath on the back of her neck. "I came to the Hillmots just at the start of the year."

The others sat back, staring openly and curiously at Beatrice. "I'd have taken you for a lady's maid, or perhaps a lady's companion for certain, with that shock of hair," Miss Wright said, nodding toward Beatrice's short locks.

"And with those soft hands and fine dress," Miss Jones added.

Not used to feeling self-conscious, Beatrice unwittingly folded her hands into fists and placed them in her lap. It seemed a little absurd to refer to her plain dark grey dress as "fine," but there was no denying that it was a cut above the other governesses'. In fact, as Beatrice looked about the table, the others all had an air of worn-out lace, something that had once been lovely, but had been put through too many washings. Miss Winchester's mitts, clearly once beautiful, were nearly threadbare in places. Miss Jones' white cap that peeked out from her bonnet was clean, but spartan in its plainness.

The only other who could boast such fashionably cut garments was Miss Wright, and even then, Beatrice suspected that they were cast-offs that she had cut down to suit herself—the colour did not entirely suit her.

"And you are from London," Miss Jones stated.

"I am," Beatrice said with a laugh that was meant to be self-deprecating. "I suppose there is no hiding that fact up here with this 'townish' accent."

The others all exchanged a glance. Miss Wright gave Beatrice a sympathetic look. "Not to worry, you aren't the only one who is a newcomer to this spot on the map." She paused as she took a dainty sip of her tea, frowned, and added a spoon of grated sugar. "I expect you must miss London."

"Sometimes," Beatrice admitted. "I can't say that I have ever understood the...ah, pleasures of country pursuits." She looked about to the faces staring blankly at her, and she hurried on, "Not to say the country is without its charms, of course. The air is so much purer out here, I am certain I must have added years to my life already. And of course, the scenery is lovely."

A round of nods met that statement. There was a silence then, and Miss Jones, still eyeing Beatrice with something that was both curiosity and suspicion, took an alligator-like bite of her sandwich.

"You're a latecomer to the job, then," she said at last, drawing a pained expression from Miss Winchester. "What? She is, ent she? She's come on when the job is nearly finished."

Beatrice glanced between the two, and Miss Winchester sighed. "What she is attempting to say is, it must be difficult for you, to have found a place when the children are so old."

"Sophia is only ten," Beatrice protested, feeling a little under bombardment.

"Precisely," Miss Jones said, nodding as if Beatrice had made the point for her. "She'll be out of the nursery in a few years' time; the eldest is already one foot out, with only her father keeping her in by an apron string. You'll be out on yer ear before you've even had time to really settle in."

"Hush, you bony vulture," Miss Wright said, glaring at Miss Jones. "There's no need to frighten the girl about that now. Besides, look how fashionable and fine she is," Miss Wright continued, "there's no reason Miss Florence mightn't take her on as a lady's maid. You seem adept enough at dressing hair," she continued to Beatrice directly, "at least, good enough that with training you could be quite successful. Have you any of the other lady's maid skills? Mending, specialised washing perhaps?" Beatrice shook her head, and Miss Wright's expression fell a little. "Well, the important thing is, Miss Florence seems very fond of you, and that's most of the job right there."

Beatrice gave only a thin smile, but stared down into her teacup. It seemed an age ago that she and some of the other young ladies of London would take turns reading their tea leaves, giggling and teasing each other about their portended futures. I need no tea leaves now to see my future , Beatrice thought grimly. It is all writ down before I even knew it.

Miss Winchester, clearly seeing the distress on Beatrice's face, attempted to lighten the mood. "I'm sure it will all come to naught—with a face that lovely, some farmer will snap you up for a wife in a trice, and then you'll be happily settled before you know it."

Biting down on a grimace, Beatrice offered up another bland smile. She was not entirely sure which future appealed the least, but the idea of whiling away her latter years in some farmer's cottage, cleaning his muddy boots and scrubbing floors was enough to turn her stomach.

"Of course, ye could always go back to where ye come from," Miss Jones said, staring at Beatrice from over the rim of her teacup.

Beatrice, startled out of her grim visions of the future, looked up and felt that same cold prickle of trouble on her neck. Miss Jones, naturally suspicious of all who came from points south, had clearly set her sights on Beatrice. She was not a fool; she knew that servants talked to each other, with a gossip network that rivalled any spy ring the king had at his disposal.

Careful, very careful, Bea , the corner of her mind concerned with self-preservation whispered. You do not know the steps of this particular dance...don't put a foot wrong.