Chapter Four
Thump-Thump-Thump.
Thump-Thump-Thump!
Maggie started awake to the sound of furious knocking.
She sat bolt upright, tangled in her sheets, yesterday’s events flooding back—the imposing house, the grim Duke, Mrs Thornton, Miss Emma, all of it.
For one heart-stopping instant, she was certain it was him at her door, hammering to be let in, come to make her pay.
After all, he had always promised that she would pay if she ever tried to leave.
“Miss Winter, are you in there at all, or have you absconded in the night!”
It was Mrs Thornton. Relief swept through Maggie so sharply that she might have embraced the formidable woman on the spot.
“Coming!” she called, clambering out of bed.
Her room was on the floor above the nursery, where a good many of the female servants slept.
It was spacious but not large, neat and plain and entirely unremarkable.
There were no decorations, no rugs, or even brightly-coloured curtains at the windows, but there was nothing lacking.
Mrs Thornton had shown her here the previous day after discovering her lost in the corridors.
Lost indeed she had been, after that interview with the Duke.
It would not be the last time, she suspected.
Mrs Thornton had declared it too late for lessons and sent her to her room until morning.
She had unpacked her modest belongings, paced the floor, and wished for a book.
Supper had been brought, along with fresh candles and linens; all told, she had been treated well.
Now she yanked open the door, breathless, to find Mrs Thornton standing there, expression grim.
The grimness deepened.
“Good gracious, Miss Winter, you are still in your night-things! It is a quarter to eight—breakfast is at eight!”
“I—I did not know.”
“Did his Grace not provide you with a schedule?”
“He did not.”
“Hm. Well, I shall fetch you one. But really, Miss Winter, every household is astir by eight. Can you not wake yourself of a morning?”
A lie would have been easy beneath that disapproving gaze.
What should I say—‘Forgive me, Mrs Thornton, but I am used to having a maid rouse me, or else I sleep till noon because I danced till dawn’? Hardly.
Yet a lie might prove worse if she overslept again. Maggie straightened and met the older woman’s eyes.
“Actually, I do have some trouble waking,” she admitted softly. “I am sorry, and shall do better.”
Mrs Thornton stared at her for a long moment.
“Well, I appreciate your candour,” she said at last. “I shall send Joan to knock at seven each morning. Will that suit?”
Maggie’s heart lifted. “Thank you, Mrs Thornton. That would suit me very well.”
“Hmph. Then dress quickly. I shall return with your schedule. I will instruct the kitchen to hold breakfast fifteen minutes—but no longer, do you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
Mrs Thornton inclined her head and departed down the corridor.
Perhaps she isn’t so bad after all.
Maggie shut the door and dressed in haste. She really could not afford another late start.
***
When the second knock came on the door, Maggie was just pushing the last pin into her hair. She hurried to open, and sure enough, there stood Mrs Thornton. She wordlessly pushed a neat, thick piece of paper into Maggie’s hand.
“Daily Schedule for Miss Emma Hartwell,” Maggie read aloud.
“Rise at seven. Breakfast at eight sharp. Lessons at a quarter to nine, continuing until eleven-fifteen, when—‘elevenses will be served.’ From eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty, Miss Emma will take a small sleep. From twelve-thirty—wait, does this mean she takes a nap?”
“That is so, Miss Winter.”
“From half-past eleven to half-past twelve, precisely?”
“His Grace read a treatise extolling the benefits of a short daily nap for children of Miss Emma’s age,” Mrs Thornton explained. “He has incorporated it into her routine.”
“I am sure a nap is beneficial,” Maggie ventured, “but should children not sleep when they are tired, rather than by appointment?”
“Oh? So Miss Emma should decide to be tired at six o’clock, just before her bedtime at half-past eight? Do you think she would then sleep?”
“Well, no, but—”
“What is to stop her from ‘feeling tired’ just before her least-favourite lesson?”
Maggie pressed her lips together. “I only mean that perhaps one cannot schedule sleep. Could you, at seven, have fallen asleep because the clock commanded it?”
Mrs Thornton sighed. “Yes.”
“Oh. Well, I could not.”
“The schedule exists for a reason, Miss Winter. And as we are already late, might we walk and talk?”
“Of course,” Maggie said quickly, colouring.
She followed as they descended the servants’ staircase—broad, well-carpeted, nothing like the perilous narrow steps of lesser houses.
“I don’t mean to be troublesome,” she said after a moment. “I only wish to do what is best for Miss Emma.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Mrs Thornton replied. “Which is why I indulge your suggestions instead of telling you to hold your tongue and do as you’re told.”
Maggie bit her lip, and they walked on a little way in silence.
“You will take breakfast and luncheon with Miss Emma and Jenny in the nursery,” Mrs Thornton resumed. “Your evening meal may be taken in your room or below stairs, as you prefer.”
“I think I should like to dine with you below stairs,” Maggie said after a pause.
Mrs Thornton shot her a surprised glance. “Indeed? All the previous governesses chose to eat alone.”
Curses, Maggie thought. Have I blundered already? Am I not being aloof enough?
Aloud, she only said, “I find it rather lonely to eat in my room.”
The tone had been meant careless; it emerged far too sad. She felt Mrs Thornton’s eyes upon her but kept her gaze ahead.
Steady, Maggie. You’re not established yet. Mind every step.
“Well, as I say, you are welcome,” Mrs Thornton said at last. “We dine at six. You may take a light supper later if you choose.”
“Thank you. I shall.”
They halted at the nursery door. Mrs Thornton glanced at her.
“I trust you have prepared a plan for tomorrow’s lessons?”
“Yes. Ought I to have submitted a copy to you and to his Grace?”
“Yes, you should—but never mind.”
Maggie smiled faintly. “I meant to begin with literature—an easy start, you know. Today I shall assess Miss Emma’s progress in the other subjects and plan accordingly.”
Mrs Thornton looked almost impressed. “Sensible. A word of warning—his Grace dislikes the modern habit of learning everything by rote.”
“So do I,” Maggie said. “We’ll begin with literature, then arithmetic, geography, and the sciences in the morning. After luncheon: history, Latin, and of course Art. I made certain to allow time for Art.”
Mrs Thornton smiled properly at that. “I am glad to hear it. And be sure to let Miss Emma paint properly. Mrs Ruthborne—the last governess—disapproved of painting altogether, insisting that young ladies confine themselves to delicate water-colours of genteel landscapes. Be sure to do better. Now, we have left them waiting long enough. Let’s go in. ”
Without waiting for a response, Mrs Thornton opened the door and walked in, leaving Maggie to follow.
Jenny and Emma were already at breakfast, Emma’s legs swinging beneath her chair. The little girl brightened instantly.
“You’re here!” she cried. “I thought you might have gone. Did Uncle not frighten you away?”
“He must try harder if he hopes to do that,” Maggie said, taking the third chair.
Emma beamed. Mrs Thornton had already slipped quietly from the room.
“We fetched out some of Miss Emma’s schoolbooks,” Jenny said. “So you can see her progress.”
“How kind of you, Jenny. Thank you,” Maggie smiled. “I can tell already that you and I shall be friends.”
Jenny beamed back. “I’m glad you say so, Miss Winter. The last governesses didn’t like me much. Miss Swaddle especially—because I told her off for flirting with Mr Middleton, and I’ve no regret for it.”
Maggie laughed. “Good for you. And who is Mr Middleton?”
A faint flush crept over Jenny’s pale cheeks.
“That would be Mr Simon Middleton, Miss Winter—his Grace’s cousin and the estate steward. A very important gentleman. When his Grace is absent, Mr Middleton’s word is law.”
“I like Uncle Simon,” Emma announced. “You will too.”
“I have no doubt of it. Now then—let us see these books.”
Maggie lifted the arithmetic primer first, remembering the Duke’s insistence on a proper education. That alone had surprised her. Many gentlemen thought a daughter’s learning a needless trouble. What use, after all, had a future wife and mother for algebra or Latin?
She flipped through the pages, her brows lifting.
“Is she very behind, Miss?” Jenny asked anxiously. “In the absence of a governess, I’ve been educating her as best I can, but his Grace taught her the Arithmetic.”
“Behind?” Maggie exclaimed. “Not in the least! Why, Miss Emma, you are quite advanced! See these sums here? This is basic Algebra. I cannot believe you are learning all this already!”
Emma beamed from ear to ear. “Uncle is a very good teacher.”
“He must be,” Maggie said, setting the book aside. “Now, choose a favourite storybook. Literature will be our first lesson.”
The little girl leapt down and ran to the bookcase, rifling through its shelves.
While she searched, Maggie leaned closer to Jenny. “You should call me Maggie, if it won’t get you into trouble. I dislike being ‘Miss Winter.’”
Jenny’s smile softened. “A governess ranks above a nursemaid, but I should like that—if you’re sure.”
“Quite sure. Tell me, why did the other governesses leave so quickly? Was it the duke? I have heard he can be formidable. And these absurd schedules—”
“Those ladies did not understand what His Grace is trying to accomplish,” Jenny interrupted, her tone firm. “He protects this household in the only way he knows how.”
Maggie blinked, taken aback by the vehemence of her defence. “Forgive me if I have given offence.”
“You haven’t,” Jenny said gently. “But a word of advice, Maggie—no matter what outside opinions may say, all of us in this house are very fond of his Grace, and we don’t take kindly to outsiders having their say about him. I hope you take my meaning.”
Maggie nodded thoughtfully. “I think I do. And I appreciate your warning, Jenny. Really, I do.”
At that moment, Emma came scampering back, arms full of books, and the conversation ended.
Still, as Maggie helped the child settle with her stories, she could not help turning Jenny’s words over in her mind.
This place grows stranger and stranger, she thought.