24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

I t had become customary for Gregory to take dinner with his daughters. Though the practice was at first a little strange, he had quickly grown accustomed to it. He found that they were much more inclined to civility with a bit more conversation. Moreover, he had found himself more interested in their own hobbies and interests than he had been for quite some time.

It was with a pang of guilt that the realisation of how deeply his own grief had affected them that he also understood how little he had credited them with any real feeling. He had been raised to be seen and not heard, and had simply taken it for granted that his daughters would be reared similarly. It was a complete surprise to find that they were real, thinking people, with a depth of feeling and intelligence he had never suspected.

All of this was to say, that he found he was rather enjoying their company. Sophia was always ready with a smile and affection; he could discuss crops and soil health and animal specimens with Eliza as if she were far older than she was; and Florence could be charm itself when the mood struck her, or debating vociferously and keeping Gregory on his toes.

He believed in giving credit where it was due, and their success at table was due in no small part to Miss Heart. In the early days, when she had first arrived, she did much of the work in directing the conversation and keeping it to topics that would not induce arguments, gently nudging everyone away from that which might prickle or prod. Now, she took a step back, letting them manage much of their own affairs regarding proper flow of conversation. Still, her presence was a mediating factor, helping to keep everyone in order.

Even so, on the evening after Florence's tea party, Gregory found Miss Heart to be more subdued than usual. She did not look as if she were pouting or upset in any way; she looked more pensive than anything, thoughtful even, as she nudged her peas about on her plate. Gregory, with a soldier's intuition for when trouble was brewing, kept one weather eye on her even as Florence filled the dining room with endless talk about the joys of entertaining.

"...and Miss Winthrop said that there was to be a garden party given over at Foxhall to celebrate the strawberry season, though that is much later in the year. I find parties given out of doors to be so charming, don't you, Father?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, continued, "Of course, I imagine that hosting one would be quite the thing, and much more convenient as all of the guests are without instead of within—no need to worry about spills or stains on your upholstery." She turned expectant eyes on her father, who, unmoved by this pragmatic assessment, returned her gaze evenly.

"No," he replied simply, cutting into his roasted mutton.

"I didn't ask anything," Florence protested.

" No ," Gregory repeated, spearing a bit of mutton on his fork and chewing it slowly. He did not raise his voice, nor alter his expression in any manner.

Florence, seeing that this was going nowhere fast, slumped back in her chair a little, her lower lip pouting out a little. Gregory continued to ignore this, which as a strategy, worked much better than giving her further attention. As predicted, she quickly perked back up again.

"Miss Constable is attending her parents' annual masque this year," she announced to the table at large.

"What's a masque?" Sophia asked, her tongue sticking out a bit from the intense concentration of attempting to spear some peas on the tines of her fork.

"It's a party where everyone wears costumes and masks," Eliza answered. "It's meant to be fun, but I personally do not see the appeal."

"Well, what does sound appealing to you , then?" Florence asked, sarcasm positively dripping from her words.

"A trip to Lyme Regis," Eliza answered without hesitation.

"Lyme? What on Earth do you want to go to Lyme for?" Florence inquired sceptically. "It's a fashionable place to take the sea air, which does not strike me as something you would care for."

"That is correct," Eliza affirmed. "But I've heard that they are pulling the most extraordinary things from the shores down there."

"Extraordinary things? Such as?" Florence folded her arms over herself, still eyeing her sister doubtfully.

"Remains of creatures no one has seen the like of," Eliza said. "Monsters, or something, but I'm not sure I believe that. Skulls that look like they belong to crocodiles, but bigger."

"Monsters?" Sophia asked, perking up immediately. "Are there monsters in the ground? Can we go see them?"

"I, for one, would be curious to see them as well," Eliza agreed.

"No," Gregory answered, still unruffled. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, mechanically eating.

"It would be quite edifying," Eliza countered. "I'm sure Sophia would like it as well, and Florence could see all the fashionable people."

Silence reigned for a moment, and Gregory, feeling three pairs of eyes upon him, looked up from his plate. With a sigh, he placed his fork and knife down with a small clatter. "No one shall be taking a journey across the whole of England just to see some bones. I've no doubt you would enjoy yourself," he continued, cutting off a protest from Eliza before she could get started, "at least, until you realise that it is cold, damp, and not nearly so romantic as any of you suppose." He reached for his glass of wine and took a swig before replacing it. "Besides which, we should all surely go mad and murder each other on the way down, being all packed into a carriage together for days on end."

"This is beside the point," Florence interjected, a little exasperated.

"Which is?" Gregory prompted, taking up his fork and knife again.

"Miss Constable has invited Miss Winthrop, Miss Fitzroy, and myself to attend the masque as well," Florence announced.

"Certainly not," Gregory replied without hesitation.

"Whyever not? I understand that you are invited every year, but never attend," Florence huffed. "And it is not as if the Constables live so very far away—Foxhall is practically next door."

"Because you are not out yet," Gregory replied. God help me, that phrase is going to be engraved on my tombstone at this rate.

"And whose fault is that?" Florence shot back.

"It is unsuitable for a young girl," Gregory replied, his fingers tightening around his cutlery.

"How is it unsuitable if Miss Constable, the daughter of the hosts, will be attending?" Florence countered. "Surely you do not mean to say that it is improper for her to attend as well."

"She is older than you." Gregory could feel his jaw tightening, his irritation growing with every passing moment.

"By a matter of months!" Florence cried. "Surely you cannot imagine that a few months makes a difference. Besides, there shall be other young ladies there my age: Miss Fitzroy and Miss Winthrop both mean to attend!"

"That is—they can do—I am not their father!" Gregory retorted. He glanced down the table to where Miss Heart, still clearly in a world of her own thought, sat ignoring them all. "Miss Heart, would you please see what you can do to bring this wild harridan under control?"

Miss Heart, startled, blinked and sat up, looking about the table at the sullen, sulking faces. "How should I help? I do not find her request so outrageous. Besides which, there is a simple solution."

"Which is?" Gregory demanded.

Miss Heart offered up one of her customary little shrugs. "Why not simply attend with her? You may keep a paternal eye on her as you see fit then, and she might still have a bit of frivolity with her friends. Really," Miss Heart said, clearly getting into the spirit of her argument now, "it's the perfect opportunity for her to practise her manners and dancing with no worry about embarrassment."

"How do you come to that conclusion?" Gregory asked, feeling himself losing his argument in rapid succession.

"It's a mask," Miss Heart answered easily. "Who should ever know if she puts a foot wrong?"

Gregory stared down the table at Miss Heart. This is what comes of having a governess at the table , he groused inwardly. Or at least, one that has never understood her place. Never mind the fact that she was sitting down to dinner with them at his request, a serious breach in protocol.

Silently, he sent her several significant looks, by which he tried to communicate that he had no desire to do any such thing, which she ignored soundly. Florence, meanwhile, was looking at him with a face full of dejected longing, as if the very act of hoping for his approval were enough to make her miserable.

Gregory heaved a great sigh, knowing that he was well and truly beaten. It was impossible to pretend otherwise, and he would never get any peace unless he allowed them some frivolity. Attending a masque was so far down on his list of things that he wished to do, that it did not even rank.

"Very well," he relented begrudgingly. "We shall attend, with two provisos," he said, holding up two fingers on his right hand. "The first is that you shall be a model pupil in your studies between now and then." Florence nodded eagerly at this request, which only soured Gregory more: There was little doubt that Miss Heart would see to it that she was successful in this regard.

"And the second?" Florence asked.

"If you act up in any way, if you put a single hair or toe out of line while we are out, then I shall be obliged to lock you up until you are old and grey," he finished.

"Oh Father," Florence laughed, not cowed in the least. "That shan't be any trouble at all, as I am going to be the best and most charming girl in the whole county," she said, rising from her chair. She came around the table and threw her arms around Gregory's neck and planted a kiss right on his cheek.

"Manners, Florence," he grumbled, but was secretly delighted by the spontaneous show of affection.

Florence only laughed again, and asked permission to be excused under the auspices of perusing some fashion plates that Miss Heart had sent up from London. Gregory waved her off, sitting back in his chair and taking the opportunity to glare at Miss Heart again.

"I can feel you glowering from here, Colonel," Miss Heart commented, finally digging into her own plate.

"This is all your fault, you know," Gregory said, jabbing his fork in Miss Heart's direction.

"I imagine it is," Miss Heart replied without a care in the world.

"She is turning into a miniature— you ," he groused. "You are exerting undue influence on her."

Languidly, Miss Heart smirked at the colonel in such a manner that suggested she was not only aware of the fact, but that this was a preferable state of affairs. Gregory scowled in return, which only made her smirk deepen. It was positively infuriating when she got like this, particularly as when she looked at him so, it made his heart skip a beat in a most alarming manner.

***

W hen the younger two Hillmot girls had been securely tucked into bed, Beatrice sat up in bed, her mind racing too much to sleep. Her encounter with the other servants during the tea had put her ill at ease. She had felt secure, anonymous even, so far removed from everything. Now it felt as if a noose were slowly but surely closing around her.

A small tap came at the adjoining nursery door, startling Beatrice a little. She shook her head, and pulled the quilt a little higher over herself. The door cracked open just a bit, and Florence peered around it.

"I saw the candle and figured you were still awake," she said, opening the door wider. She stood there, clutching a pile of fashion plates tightly to her chest. "I was hoping you might help me consult these, and... I know it's weeks and weeks away, but I want to get my gown ordered as soon as possible."

Beatrice couldn't help but smile in spite of her troubles. She of all people could understand the excitement of ordering a new dress, particularly for a ball. She beckoned Florence in, patting the bed next to her.

Eagerly, Florence bounded inward, pausing only long enough to close the door again. She knelt next to Beatrice's legs, facing her so that they might spread the fashion plates out between them.

"I am fond of this one," Florence said, "but I am not sure that I wish to be a...what is that, a swan?" She turned the fashion plate about so that Beatrice could see it.

"More likely a chicken," Beatrice said, curling her lip up. "Shall I tell you how the ladies of London and Paris order gowns for a masque?" When Florence nodded eagerly, she flipped right on past the costumes and settled onto the formal gowns. "Select a gown that suits you best, and then create some sort of costume around it. Really, all you need is a matching mask, or a domino at the least."

"Ooh, cast your eye on this one!" Florence said, seizing onto a drawing of a gown in white, richly trimmed about the bottom with swags of fabric and silk flowers. At the bust, shaped becomingly, were more flowers, and at the sleeves too. It was youthful and playful, the very essence of spring captured in a dress.

"That is lovely," Beatrice agreed. "It would positively shine in a duchesse satin," she added. Already, she could see it, the way it would glow and shimmer under candlelight.

"Do you think Father would approve?" Florence asked anxiously, her small white teeth biting her lower lip.

Beatrice considered. "Possibly, with some adjustments to the—ah, the neckline."

"It really is too lovely," Florence sighed. "What would I possibly claim to be?"

"Don't think too much on that," Beatrice said with a wave of her hand. "The most important thing is to pick a dress that you love, which you have already done. We'll put some flowers and ferns in your hair, and say that you are Spring, or some such thing."

"Oh, that is clever!" Florence said, brightening for a moment again before her face fell again. "How can I possibly do such a dress justice? I just know that I will trip over my feet and fall on my face, and be humiliated forever."

Beatrice understood this fear all too well. "You've never tripped whilst practising your steps at home," she reminded her.

"Yes, but that is not the same! There's no one here that I should care if I fell in front of." Melodramatically, Florence flopped backwards onto Beatrice's bed.

"Now, come away with all that," Beatrice chided her, reaching over and pulling her back upright by one arm. "Do you imagine that you will suddenly forget that you have feet on the ends of your legs?" Beatrice asked. It was the same question that her first dancing mistress had asked her whenever she expressed her own nervousness about going on stage.

Florence shook her head, but Beatrice could tell that she was still bothered. Not insensible to the girl's feelings, Beatrice rubbed her forearm reassuringly. "This is what we shall do," she said with all the confidence she could muster, "we shall practise morning and night so that you can do steps in your sleep. I will teach you all of the tricks that the great dancers of London use. By the time I am done, you shall be ready for even the finest ballrooms."

"Oh, yes, Miss Heart! Thank you so much!" the girl cried, her face breaking into a smile. A beat of silence, and then Florence's eyebrows knitted together a little, and she tilted her head. "You've always seemed so fond of dancing," she mused. "All of our other lessons, you seemed...well, not unenthusiastic, exactly, but whenever we turn to dancing, you come to life."

"Oh, well," Beatrice hedged, busying her hands by gathering up the fashion plates into a neat stack. "I must confess that it was the subject I really excelled at. I cannot claim much skill with French or watercolours, but I can say that I've always been able to find my way around a dance floor."

Florence seemed to accept this, nodding. Beatrice could not help but feel a little craven for this half-truth, a lie of omission, to someone who trusted her so implicitly. She hadn't ever had someone rely on her so much before, and it was a little unnerving. If—when—the day came that the truth was revealed, Florence was likely to feel more than a little hurt.

More than that , Beatrice realised. If it is revealed that her governess was nothing more than a dancing girl, she will be ruined forever. She will have no chance at a good marriage, and she will be the laughing stock of society. Oh, no, what have I done?

"Miss Heart?" Florence asked, peering at her closely again. "Are you quite all right? You've gone pale all of a sudden."

"I'm fine," Beatrice replied automatically. Florence drew back a little, and Beatrice shook herself slightly. "No, really, I am fine—just a bit tired, I think. Worn out from chasing you lot hither and thither, I imagine," she said with a rueful smile. "Now, be off with you; you must get plenty of sleep, for we have much to do tomorrow."

Florence accepted this, sliding from Beatrice's bed reluctantly. She withdrew from the small bedroom, turning back to cast an inscrutable look to Beatrice, who waved her on with a cheery smile.

When the door was closed again, Beatrice's face crumbled and she pressed it into her hands. Her life as a governess thus far had been a lark, a way to while away the months until she might show her face in London again. It had seemed far removed from reality, her reality, and she had treated it inconsequentially as a result. It had completely escaped her notice that there were very real, very serious consequences for her actions.

The longer I stay, the greater risk I am at for discovery , she realised. And yet, if I leave and my name is in the London papers again, it will not be long before someone puts it all together. I cannot stay, and I cannot go.

Quietly, so as not to draw attention to herself, she pulled her knees up in bed and rested her forehead on them. She had never expected being a governess would be so fraught, nor that she would care so much for the feelings and well-being of another living person. Moreover, she could not bear the thought of Gregory finding out, the disappointment on his face...

"Well done, Bea," she muttered to her quilt-covered legs, "you've escaped one trap for another. You are well and truly stuck."