8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I n Gregory's estimation, there was very little that was a worse social sin than to be anything less than punctual. Tardiness of any sort rankled him, so when the new governess did not arrive at the appointed hour, he was already in a foul humour. It was not helped that the rain had not eased at all, thus precluding any sort of sojourn for his daughters. They had all been forced to sulk in a thoroughly surly fashion in the house together, which was feeling smaller and smaller by the hour.

"Mrs Turvy," Gregory said to the housekeeper, who was beginning to wring her hands as they waited, "did you not receive word that she would be arriving at half past ten this morning?"

The housekeeper, a solid little barrel of a woman, nodded her head. "Yes, sir. I did, sir. I cannot imagine where she is." She paused, then added another, "Sir," for good measure. She had taken up a nervous vigil in the front hall as she waited, pacing below stairs occasionally; it was unclear if the governess would arrive by the front door or the servants' entrance. It was a constant problem with governesses: They were not entirely servants, but they certainly were not part of the family, either.

Gregory was becoming less and less kindly disposed to the new governess as the day wore on. His face, not precisely the most inclined toward smiles and good humour to begin with, was becoming positively lined with dourness. It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, and his limited patience was quite spent when there at last came a knock at the front door.

Such was his irritation that he did not wait for the footman to come and answer the door; instead, he strode to it brusquely, fully prepared to greet the governess in exactly the manner he felt necessary to establish that he was already perturbed by her tardiness. He reached the door in a few quick steps, his steps reverberating across the polished wooden floor. He jerked the door open, lungs full of beratement as to the nature of punctuality, but the sight of the personage on the other side was enough to halt him entirely.

In his mind, he had already conjured the image of the expected governess: Another middle-aged spinster, solid and grey-faced, with all the personality of a bowl of porridge. The profession seemed to attract That Sort, and he had seen enough pass through his door to know what to expect...or so he had thought.

Instead, it was a young woman, perhaps twenty-five years of age, who stood there. Her figure was slim, and though her face showed signs of weariness, her eyes and expression were not dull. In fact, her bright green eyes fairly blazed as they met his straight on, for she did not duck her head as one would expect of a single young lady, particularly a governess. She stared straight back at him, fairly challenging him to speak first.

"You are Miss Heart?" he managed at last.

"I am," she confirmed. "You are Colonel Hillmot, then?"

"Yes," he replied stiffly. "You had best come in," he continued, but could not resist adding, "for now."

Miss Heart, her sodden cloak dripping, followed him into the hall. "What, precisely, does that mean?" she demanded, her tone clear, not the modulated quietude he expected.

"You are several hours late in arriving," he pointed out, folding his arms behind his back again. "That is not the most propitious way of beginning. I am undecided if this infraction is enough to dismiss you out of hand."

The governess, having been distracted by pushing back her heavy hood, whipped her head in his direction, her green eyes glittering. It was perhaps not the wisest course of action to needle her before she had even stepped fully inside, but something about Miss Heart unnerved Gregory. He attempted to lay the blame for this unease at the feet of her odd manner, strangely proud for a woman of her position.

"I am late," she said slowly, "because there was no consideration given to my transportation out here from York. As it was, I had to leave my trunk at the coach station. Is this the manner in which I might expect to be treated as a member of your household? When not even a wagonette is to be provided to ensure my safe arrival, in this weather?"

Gregory stared at her for a moment, and she stared right back at him. The truth was, it had simply not occurred to him that it might be necessary to do so. The other governesses had been local women, who had plenty of acquaintances about the area. They would have had no qualms about hitching a ride in the back of a farmer's wagon headed from town, or lived near enough that it was a moot point.

Miss Heart, however, spoke with the clipped accents of London, the words coming quickly and confidently. Her admittedly correct accusation about a lack of consideration only served to put Gregory on the back foot, which in turn furthered his irritation.

"Well, you've finally made it here; I suppose there is no harm in allowing you to stay the night at least," he finally said magnanimously.

Miss Heart looked as if she were doing her level best not to bark out a laugh at that. She settled on giving him a curtsey, which managed to somehow be ironic. With one hand, she reached up and unfastened her cloak, which fell with a wet splat onto the hall floor. Beneath, her sensible charcoal-grey spencer was likewise wet, though not quite as soaked.

"Mrs Turvy, if you would be so good as to show Miss Heart to her room so that she might refresh herself," Gregory said, motioning the housekeeper forward.

Mrs Turvy, who had been watching the exchange anxiously, immediately bustled forward. "Poor thing, we'll send Johnny—he's the footman, just there—down to the station for your trunk forthwith. We must get you out of those wet things before you catch your death."

"Thank you, Mrs Turvy," Miss Heart said. She allowed herself to be led away, but not before casting another simmering glance over her shoulder to Gregory. "Thankfully, I've a strong constitution."

***

F or all of her brave words, Beatrice was immensely grateful to rid herself of her wet garments. The wool cloak had weighed so heavily on her shoulders that she nearly cast it off by the side of the road as she walked. Even without it, her shoulders still protested any movement. Her poor legs, not weak by any measure, were numb not only from the cold and damp, but from the exertion.

The moment that the housekeeper showed her to her room, she cast off her bonnet, shaking droplets of rain from the front of her hair. Mrs Turvy, watching the action, sucked in air when she caught sight of Beatrice's closely cropped hair. That had honestly escaped Beatrice's consideration, and she reached up to touch the short locks, smoothing them properly.

"Have you recently had a fever, then?" Mrs Turvy asked, blinking rapidly like an owl.

Beatrice had to resist the urge to respond as she normally might, with sardonically spiced words. "Ah, no, I have not," she explained. "It is simply the fashion among some of the more... aesthetic set."

"I see," Mrs Turvy replied, eyeing Beatrice.

Careful, Bea,There will be eyes on you here, too, and they shan't put up with even a whiff of scandal.

"They were very liberal at your last place, then?" Mrs Turvy asked, helping Beatrice to unbutton her pelisse.

"You might say that, I suppose," she answered vaguely. "I suppose the Colonel is not, then?"

"Oh, heavens, no," Mrs Turvy said, her round little face serious. "We've no use for modern airs and—" She paused, her eyes flicking up to Beatrice's short hair again. "—modern fashions out here."

Beatrice exhaled a sigh through her nose. She had been startled when the colonel had opened the door, not simply because he was far younger than she had expected, but because he had answered the door himself. Her first impression had been of a stern, stoic sort of handsomeness, though one side of his face was marred by a scar that ran from just above one eyebrow, down his cheek. It gave him a far more sinister air than Beatrice would have credited him with if his face had been bare.

No time to muse on handsome officers now, she admonished herself. She glanced down, taking in the state of herself. Her dress beneath the pelisse was dry enough, though the hem was thoroughly clumped with mud. Tutting, the housekeeper helped her out of it, promising to have one of the maids tend to it the next morning. She disappeared, then reappeared with a dressing gown for Beatrice that had been dug up from a spare wardrobe. She also passed a drying cloth to Beatrice, who briskly towelled her hair off with it, which Mrs Turvy watched with pursed lips. Feeling a little less bedraggled, Beatrice sat in a chair next to the low fire in the little grate of the governess' room. Mrs Turvy excused herself, promising to find Beatrice something to eat.

This allowed Beatrice her first real look about the small room, more of a glorified closet really, that attached to the nursery. Presumably, that is where the other door led, the one opposite her bed that she had not entered through. There was a tiny window, a luxury, which looked to one side of the house, but it was too high to see anything from without standing on a chair. Above the bed, a tiny framed watercolour of a pastoral scene of green rolling hills, complete with little white fluffy sheep dotted about.

Beatrice stared at the painting for a moment, vaguely offended by its blandness. She stood, hoping to stretch her legs a little before the housekeeper returned. It was impossible for her to take her eyes from the bed and the painting over it, however: It was such a perfect encapsulation of the way in which her life had changed so radically.

The bed was narrow and stiff, with a spartan brass frame. Beatrice had some doubt as to whether she could safely turn over in it at night without tumbling out. She gripped the frame at the foot of the bed, balancing on one foot and leaning forward, her other leg stretching behind her. This necessitated hoisting her petticoat a little, but as she was alone, she didn't see the problem with this.

Unfortunately, this brought her face-to-face with the thick but faded quilt on the bed. It was one of those items that was cobbled together with leftover bits of whatever happened to be lying about, which people described as "quaint" when they wished to conceal their true feelings on its nature. Beatrice could not help but think longingly of her own bed in her London apartment: A sturdy oak frame, polished so that it shone like honey in the sunlight, piled high with silk sheets and damask covers, and most importantly, so wide that she could nearly lay across it crosswise.

She did not have long to feel wistful, however, for Mrs Turvy returned with a tray with some sort of soup and a cup of tea.

"I'm afraid you've missed luncheon proper, but luckily Mrs Standish always has a pot of soup on the go when the weather is—eep!" Mrs Turvy let out a small squeak of alarm when she caught sight of Beatrice, one leg out straight behind her as she balanced on one foot.

Quickly, Beatrice put both feet firmly back down on the ground. She arranged her features carefully into a mask of calm confusion, as if she could not understand Mrs Turvy's distress. "Yes, Mrs Turvy?" she asked calmly.

"What on Earth were you—that is, I am unfamiliar with...what do you call that?" the housekeeper replied, her eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared beneath her white starched cap.

"Oh, nothing really," Beatrice replied with a casual wave, as if it were beneath consideration. "It's simply a form of exercise some of the ladies undertake in London. It keeps one limber, and helps prevent...gout," she said, scrambling a little to find a suitable complaint.

"Gout?" Mrs Turvy repeated, glancing from Beatrice to the bed frame where she had been hanging on for balance.

"Yes, and...ah, rheumatism," Beatrice added.

"Oh, I see," Mrs Turvy said, nodding sagely. Beatrice suspected this was very close to home for Mrs Turvy, and tucked away that bit of information.

At the housekeeper's direction, she sat again, and allowed Mrs Turvy to place the tray on her lap. Though the soup looked humble enough, it smelled wonderful, though Beatrice was unsure if that was because it was actually good or because she was so hungry. It was warm and filling, however, and that was good enough for now. It did seem a perfect metaphor for her new place, however: Simple, with none of the flash or style that she was used to.

She could not help but sigh again, thinking longingly of the life she had left behind. Still, the food was tolerable, and she at least had a roof over her head...for now. She frowned, remembering the colonel's implied threat as to the permanency of her position. Beatrice would have to make a good impression on the children this evening, there was no mistake about that.