7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

" P lease, Florence, do not torment your sister," Colonel Hillmot said tiredly for what felt like the dozenth time that morning alone. At this rate, that will be on my gravestone , he grumbled inwardly.

The two short weeks after Mrs Byrd's dismissal had not been particularly easy. If he had been hoping that his daughters might show a little sympathy for having driven off yet another governess, he was sorely mistaken. He had attempted to implement a kind of regimental regularity to their routines, which only seemed to have worsened their impulses towards chaos.

The colonel had insisted that they all rise at the same time as he did now, greeting the day before the sun was even fully up. They were to be dressed, beds made, and prepared for the day by the time he came down for breakfast, which they would all eat together. He would brook no argument or shenanigans of any kind whilst at table, which they seemed able enough to comply with (though this could have been simply because they were not awake enough to cause much trouble).

The day's trouble would invariably begin when he left the table, and they were given a few moments to themselves as the colonel saw to the necessary business of managing the estate. There was no way out of it, as he could hardly involve them in such matters of business and tenants. It was necessary, therefore, to leave them to finish their breakfast in peace for a little while. Whatever peace had been established by his presence, however, was quickly thrown aside.

The rest of the morning was meant to be spent on some form of self-improvement, or at least Gregory's limited understanding of it regarding a young lady's education. They were meant to engage in some kind of reading, needlework, or musical endeavour. Eliza was content enough to read, but Florence resented being shuttled off to the schoolroom like a child still. Sophia was determined to master a song so that she might delight party guests, but her singing mostly consisted of warbling snatches of music and begging Florence to play for her.

As a rule, Gregory sequestered himself into the corner and was there to act as more of a game warden than anything. He'd hoped to be able to spend these mornings reading, but it quickly became apparent that he had to keep a weather eye out on proceedings, or else there'd be a quarrel within moments. He usually gave up quite quickly, having no patience or ear for their attempts at learning, and instead would herd everyone out of doors for a brisk walk.

Gregory was a firm believer in the merits of physical exertions, and he had always encouraged a degree of activity in his daughters. "One cannot cause mischief if one is too tired for mischief," was an idiom he was fond of repeating. This was by and large true for the girls; what he had not counted on, however, was rainy days.

So it was that they were all trapped indoors today. Normally, he would have left them at the mercy of the housekeeper or a maid, but he did not trust them. Florence in particular was having a rather serious sulk in the far corner of the drawing room where they had assembled, and Sophia was hovering over Eliza's shoulder, asking her a dozen times per minute what it was that she was looking at in her book.

"Would you please leave me to read in peace?" Eliza would demand, punctuating her demand with a little shove.

Incensed, Sophia would pout and flounce away, setting her sights on Florence instead. "What are you doing?" Sophia asked.

"Contemplating the merits of moving to a convent," she replied, shooting a look at her father, which the colonel pretended not to see.

"A convent? What's that?" Sophia asked, wrinkling her little nose up.

"It's a place where you live in the middle of nowhere, far away from everyone else, and you are not permitted to leave. You can only eat, make lace, and minister to the sick. You have no other life," Florence said in a biting tone. Gregory gave her a warning look, which she in turn pretended not to see.

"That sounds dreadful," Sophia said, one hand on her braid, petting it nervously.

"It would be an improvement," Florence muttered.

Bored, Sophia then ambled back over to Eliza, and thus the cycle would repeat ad infinitum . It was all repeated several times over, punctuated by the occasional sigh from Florence and a pointed clearing of the throat from Gregory. This continued for at least an hour, until Eliza finally snapped, prompting Gregory to bark at all three of them.

"Girls!"

This caused all three heads to look up and swivel in his direction. Perturbed, he set his newspaper aside, having completely given up on it now. Slowly, he uncrossed his lanky legs and rose from his chair. "Front and centre," he said, his voice low but sharp, clearly enunciating each word.

Sullenly, his daughters all grouped together before him, standing in a line. Various amounts of sulking and petulance decorated their countenances, with Florence going so far as to fold her arms defiantly over herself. Refusing to be bothered, Gregory folded his hands behind his back, elbows squared.

"I had hoped that we might be able to pass an afternoon in quiet companionship and industry, but now I see that is folly," he began, pacing before them as if they were soldiers lined up for a dressing-down. "I would like to inform you that your new governess shall be arriving today, and not a moment too soon," he continued, stopping to give a pointed stare at Florence. "Especially for those of you who would like to claim to be too old for such a consideration, but have shown no proof of this."

This pronouncement gave rise to a chorus of responses, ranging from a small sound of indignation from Florence, to protests from the others. Gregory raised one hand, cutting off their arguing.

"I shan't hear a word against it. Furthermore, if I hear even a whisper that you are attempting to frighten away this new governess, I shall—" Gregory stopped short, unsure of what the correct consequences should be. "I shall be obliged to keep all of you at home, with no sojourns to picnics or parties for the remainder of your lives," he finished decidedly. It was an absurd threat in reality, but he was feeling quite sincere about it. "Now, let us just hope that this new governess shall induce all of you to better behaviour."

"What's she like, Father?" Sophia asked, wide-eyed.

"I do not know precisely," he admitted. "But I am sure that she is a lady of good taste, impeccable manners, and genteel qualities that will ensure that you are trained into the good, respectable young ladies you are meant to be."

***

" M ove, you turnip-headed lout!" Beatrice shouted, hopefully for the last time. The rain was pouring down in such a quantity that it was unlikely that her intended target even heard her, despite the fact that they were sitting quite near each other.

She, like three others, was crammed together atop a postal coach. It had been a long, exhausting journey northward, and she was about at the end of her tether. The Duchess of Brandon had been good enough to provide her with a coach out of London at least, but that was the limit of the assistance that Beatrice would further accept. She was determined to make the journey on her own; she had no desire to incur further debt on her behalf.

It was not until she was standing before the post coach at the northbound station that she realised she was now entirely, completely dependent on herself only to get where she needed to be. There were no friendly faces, no friends that she might call upon to lend her a few pence.

"Be ye riding in or out?" a gruff voice demanded.

The driver was staring down at her, impatient, as she had this personal epiphany. The weight of her purse inside her pocket was suddenly very, very light. Glancing about, the weather seemed fine enough. Certainly it was chilly, as one would expect from a March day, but the sun was shining.

Resolved to be as financially responsible as she could be, Beatrice had firmly decided to ride atop the coach. It would not be her first time, though it had been some years since she had been reduced to such a thing; she was far more used to riding along in a rich man's finely sprung and upholstered carriage these days. Still, she was determined to hold onto her now-limited funds as much as she could.

Naturally, with the way that her luck had been running, the coach had gone only about a mile before the rain began. It was not a jaunty little spring drizzle, either—it was a veritable deluge. Her fellow rooftop passengers had all huddled within their cloaks, pulling scarves and blankets tightly about themselves.

Beatrice was quite suddenly very, very grateful for the practical new governess' wardrobe that she had been fitted for just before leaving London. Her travelling pelisse and cloak were not particularly stylish, but they were warm, thickly lined and made of a hard-wearing wool.

"Little bird like you ought to be inside," a man with a fleshy face and too many gaps in his teeth said, leaning in even closer to Beatrice. "Don't worry, little bird," he leered, putting a proprietary hand on her arm, "I will keep you from blowing away."

"Remove your hand this instant," Beatrice hissed between teeth clenched tight against the cold, "else I will stab it clean through with my hat pin."

That was all the encouragement that the other passengers needed to leave Beatrice alone. She felt that she had passed a rite of passage of some sort, and passed the next few days away with a smug feeling of satisfaction. It was not to last, however, for the last leg of the journey was punctuated by a farmer travelling homeward who kept nodding off to sleep, his sizeable head flopping onto Beatrice's shoulder.

"Why is it that turnip farmers all begin to look like their crops?" Beatrice asked aloud to no one in particular, not to be heard over the rain.

So it was that Beatrice was not in a particularly gregarious mood when she at last alighted in York. The famous cathedral dominated the skyline, but as the rain persisted, Beatrice did not dare to tip her head upward to take it in. She did allow herself to look about, scanning for a sign that someone was awaiting her, hopefully with a carriage and not simply a wagon to transport her in.

The moments passed, with the driver and station hands carelessly tossing her trunk down from the coach. It landed with a wet splat in the mud, and Beatrice gave them dour looks that went largely unnoticed. She sighed, seized one end of her trunk, and pulled it over to the paved pavement.

The minutes continued to tick by, with a clock from a nearby steeple chiming the quarter hour. Raising one hand to shield her eyes from the rain, Beatrice again cast a glance about. The crowd had thinned around the station, and regular traffic had resumed. It was quickly becoming apparent that there was no one waiting for her.

"Well, doesn't this just figure," she grumbled to herself. She was soaked, her wool cloak weighing her down; her hem was quickly becoming weighted with mud as well. She did not even dare to ascertain the state of her simple bonnet. There was little doubt in her mind that she formed quite a picture, and not the flattering kind that one might hang in a stylish parlour, either.

Passers-by were beginning to take note of her, curious faces peering at her through the rain. One or two leered at her, a young lady alone on the street with no maid or male protection. She stared right back at them, refusing to cast her eyes down or heavenward as young ladies were expected to. This seemed to unnerve the more curious of them...for now.

Right, well, I've no interest in becoming a character in a Hogarth etching, she thought firmly to herself. There's nothing for it: It seems I am walking .

With a determined set of her shoulders and mouth, she left her trunk with the station porter, and after ascertaining the correct directions, set off on foot.