9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

F rom the moment that the children were led into the sitting room, Beatrice could feel their eyes on her, assessing. They walked in politely enough in a tidy little procession, hands folded at their waists and faces downturned, but a dozen tiny glances were sent her way like darts. She refused to be cowed by such a diminutive audience—she'd had far too many years of being on the stage to not know how to convincingly fake confidence.

The sensation was not helped by the fact that it seemed as if the walls themselves were staring down at her, judging her. The décor was thoroughly rustic, with rows and rows of mounted deer heads and racks of antlers ringing the room; all of them seemed to be pointing directly at Beatrice somehow.

"Girls, this is Miss Heart," the colonel said, standing between the line of his daughters and Miss Heart like a diplomatic mediator. "Miss Heart, this is my eldest daughter, Miss Florence Hillmot," he said. The eldest, a girl who shared her father's lanky build and light brown hair, stepped forward, bobbing a curtsy that was just deep enough to be considered barely polite.

"Miss Hillmot," Beatrice said, responding with a dip of her own head. She looked the girl over as Florence did the same to her, both assessing. The oldest daughter lifted her head defiantly, a womanly expression incongruous with her pinafore and long braid down her back. Beatrice allowed her gaze to linger on the pinafore, and Miss Hillmot blushed deeply, glancing away.

Ah, so she is embarrassed at not having been allowed to put her hair up , Beatrice surmised. I can turn that to my advantage.

Next, Colonel Hillmot gestured toward the middle girl, a picture of adolescent awkwardness. "This is my next-oldest daughter, Eliza. You will have no problem with her when it comes to studies."

Beatrice felt a little dip in her stomach at that. She had very little formal tutoring she could offer the girl. There was indeed a bookish look about Eliza, and she had difficulty in meeting Beatrice's eye. Her head remained ducked, so all that Beatrice could really see of her was pink cheeks and sandy-coloured hair.

"And this," the colonel continued, "is the youngest, Sophia." The girl in question had one hand on her dark brown braid, pulling it over her shoulder nervously. She did not speak either, and looked a little afraid. The colonel put his hand on the girl's back and gently pushed her forward.

"Hello, Sophia," Beatrice said, attempting to appear soothing and matronly. "I do hope that we shall be great friends."

Sophia perked up a little at the word "friends." The colonel, however, frowned. "I did not bring you here to pay a social call on my daughters; they are in great need of instruction, not friendship."

"I'm sure, Sir, that may be the case for boys and men such as yourself, but it is my experience that women—girls—need companionship every bit as much as they need tutoring," Beatrice said with a defiant toss of her head.

The girls had all looked up to watch this exchange, curious. Beatrice could feel them watching her, and she couldn't help but wonder if they had ever seen anyone stand up to their father before. She had to admit that it was something of a daunting prospect, for though she was not a diminutive woman by any means, the colonel towered over her. His rigid posture only emphasised this perception.

Still, Beatrice would not back down. She could see him weighing what she had said, and knew that the scales could go in either direction.

"It would be nice to have a governess with some fellow feeling for once," Florence threw out into the strained silence.

Beatrice watched as the colonel's eyes flicked to his eldest daughter. His expression shifted as he clearly was trying to decide if she spoke in earnest. For her part, Beatrice was not entirely sure if Florence was being sincere in her desire for companionship with a governess, or simply wished to contradict her father.

"Well," the colonel said at last, "let us hope that we all might move forward to better days." It sounded less like a desirous expression and more like a warning.

More silence followed that statement, and Beatrice could nearly feel the girls' sullen expressions. She did not smile, keeping her mouth pressed into a determined line. Secretly, she was grateful to the colonel: Whether he knew it or not, he had just drawn a line between himself and the girls, and Beatrice was currently on their side of the fence.

"I suppose it is only fair to ask if you have any questions for me, since we are to be spending so much time together," Beatrice said to the girls directly.

There was another silence in which she could see a myriad of questions flitting across their faces. None of them spoke up, however, and she suspected that the questions were likely not altogether polite.

"Why is your hair like...that?" Sophia, the youngest, blurted into the silence. Though she spoke no louder than was normal, her question cracked out like a gunshot. Florence craned her neck to stare down the line at Sophia, and even Eliza was roused enough to join in the staring. "Have you been sick?"

Beatrice took a deep, steadying breath, realising that she would likely be answering this question quite a bit in the coming weeks. The colonel, too, frowned at Beatrice's hair as if noticing it for the first time.

"Oh no, I am quite well, but you are a considerate little thing to ask," Beatrice said, smiling tightly.

"Don't you know that's what the fashionable ladies of Paris are wearing?" Florence said, rolling her eyes a little at her younger sister.

Beatrice caught the colonel's eyebrow arching at the mention of Paris. Being an officer, Beatrice suspected that this might be a sore subject in the household.

"I would like to think that you have more pressing concerns than the latest fashions from Napoleon's citadel," he said, just shy of a sneer. "You will have more pressing matters to attend to, and to teach my daughters."

Beatrice rounded on the colonel, stretching her mouth into a wider smile. "Oh certainly," she agreed, all congeniality, "which is precisely why the women of Paris, some of them at least, have chosen to crop their hair thusly: They all realised they had far too much to be getting on with to be spending hours with the hairdresser. I, for one, am always in favour of a practical solution—aren't you, Sir?" she asked, resisting the urge to bat her eyelashes.

The colonel, clearly taken aback, shifted his weight back on his heels a little. He blinked once or twice, and Beatrice couldn't help but feel a little triumphant at his confusion.

"I—it is a good thing that you will be having more time to focus on my daughters," he replied, meeting Beatrice's eye. "I shall expect even greater things from them, and you, as you will be so devoted to their studies."

Though her smile never faltered, Beatrice inwardly cursed at herself. Clever man , she thought. She dipped into an elegant lady's bow, acknowledging both the direct hit he had scored, as well as accepting the challenge. The colonel, his own face stony, returned her salute, clicked his heels, and left the sitting room.

For a solid minute after he departed, Beatrice honestly considered sticking her tongue out after him. It was clear from the outset that he was not a man who would be taken in by a few smiles and a flash of her ankle; but then, she was a force to be reckoned with as well, and she fully intended to put all of her mettle into ensuring that she was not at the mercy of any man ever again.

"Do you have a red coral necklace?" Florence asked abruptly, breaking into Beatrice's reverie.

Off-guard, she turned to the girl. "What?"

Florence folded her arms over her chest, lifting her chin imperiously. "I've heard that those women in Paris, the ones that crop their hair like yours, they wear red coral jewellery around their necks too."

Beatrice tilted her head a little, considering. "That is true," she said. "And yes, I do have one," she added.

Florence considered this, then exchanged a glance with her sisters. There appeared to be a moment of silent conference among them. Florence turned back to Beatrice, and nodded as if reaching a decision.

"Well," she said with another toss of her head, "I suppose you're here to stay a while."

"Decided that amongst yourselves already, have you?" Beatrice asked archly.

Florence shrugged one of her narrow shoulders. "We've never had a fashionable governess before. It could be interesting."

And with that, they all turned and marched from the room like a row of ducks. Beatrice was left alone on a field of some sort of victory, but she could not remember feeling more out of place in a long, long time. She glanced about at the furnishings again, sighed, and went to search out the housekeeper; if anyone knew anything about the previous governesses and would be willing to share, it was her.

***

C olonel Hillmot paced restlessly throughout the house, his boots making the floor fairly echo with the sound of his steps. His hands were folded tightly behind his back, and his brow was furrowed; anyone who came across him in this attitude quickly turned about and found some other way to go, including a footman and at least two maids.

He attempted to lay the blame for this unsettled feeling on the fact that he had not been able to take his constitutionals around the estate. This was true enough, he did get peevish when he could not stretch his legs, but it wasn't as if this was the first time inclement weather (or other inconveniences) had kept him indoors. No, the only real difference in routine was the arrival of the new governess, Miss Heart.

Gregory's frown deepened when he thought of her. She was young, far younger than he had anticipated. Though she came with an impeccable reference from the Duchess of Brandon, he did not see how she could possibly be old enough to be truly experienced. He suspected that, much like a maid fresh from the farm, there would be a breaking-in period where she learned the routines of the house and her trade.

This did not particularly please Gregory, as he was quite sure that his girls required the most experienced of hands. Florence, in particular, was at a troublesome age, and near to making her debut in society; he could not fumble her training now, as there was nearly no time left to correct it.

But it wasn't just her inexperience that unsettled him. There was something in Miss Heart's face, a kind of lively wilfulness that challenged him and pecked at his sense of order and command. She was quick-witted and quick-tongued, holding her own with him in a way that the other governesses would surely never have dared.

His pacing slowed in the hall as he passed a large, framed mirror, catching his own reflection. He was not a dandy or a pink by any stretch of the imagination, but he did firmly believe in a neat and orderly presentation. He paused, pulling down his amber-coloured jacket so that it lay more correctly over his shoulders. As always, he avoided looking at his face directly, but his musings on Miss Heart had distracted him.

On one side of his face, the scar pulled his brow up a little on that side, giving his face the appearance as if it were always half-caught in a deviously sinister expression. He turned his head this way and that, catching not only the scar but each and every one of the lines his face had earned over the thirty-five years of his life.

Miss Heart, though something like a servant, had scarcely a crease on her porcelain face. It was incongruous, her hands and face as smooth as a fine lady's. Her pert expressions and phrases were clearly to blame for his agitated state of mind, and were easy enough to blame.

It was most assuredly not because the combination of her refusal to wear a cap and her short hair meant that her swan-like neck was quite on display. Even now, he could picture the white flesh turning this way and that, which managed to somehow please and irritate him.

He was determined to never think of another woman as a flesh and blood woman; the fact that Miss Heart was cracking the foundation of that resolve within hours of her arrival did not do anything to improve Gregory's mood. This realisation only further troubled him, and he resolved to avoid her unless strictly necessary. He intended to monitor her progress with his daughters closely, but he would avoid looking upon her again.

Satisfied with this resolution, he nodded to his reflection as if he were dismissing himself. He turned on his heel sharply and made for his small dressing room without hesitation to fetch his oilskin greatcoat. Rain or no rain, he was determined not to be trapped in this house any further. It did not occur to him until much later, as he ambled about a thicket not too distant from the house, that he had fled from every encounter he'd had with Miss Heart so far.

Try as he might, he could not fully convince himself that he had not done so again, this time escaping to the outdoors in order to avoid another encounter with her. He paused, staring back at the square shape of the house sitting proudly atop a rolling hill. A few of the windows were beginning to be lit from within, shining out like beacons across the otherwise sparsely inhabited landscape.

His home had ever been a refuge for him, though he was seldom dwelling within it as a younger officer. He'd harboured hopes that he might find some kind of domestic peace there, tending to his tenants, perhaps serving as magistrate one day. Visions of a household full of children, sweet girls that would only gild his life. With the arrival of each new governess, this hope was rekindled, that he might spend at least some of his years knowing a little peace.

And yet, somehow, I have a growing suspicion that this hope will be in vain yet again , he thought resignedly. He watched as another window flared to life on the back of the house, a small one towards the east. It was the room in the governess' quarters that abutted the nursery directly.

The day was drawing to a close, daylight beginning to wane in earnest; it would be time for dinner soon. Indeed, it was likely that the gong had already been rung, announcing that it was time to dress for the meal. His valet would no doubt be restlessly pacing back and forth in his little dressing room, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the colonel.

Gregory sighed and began a clipped march back to the house proper. Dinners had become an exercise in patience and rigidity the past couple of years, and he did not expect this one to be any different. Even if, by some miracle, the new Miss Heart managed to wrangle the girls into perfect obedience, he doubted that it would be a peaceful, silent affair. In fact, he rather doubted that any meal with Miss Heart would be a tranquil experience.