CHAPTER ONE #2
“I’m Thistle.” The girl showed no inclination to descend from her perch. If anything, she seemed to be considering climbing higher, perhaps to the ceiling itself.
“Do you like toads?”
“I don’t dislike them.”
“His name is Brutus.”
Mel regarded the toad, which was indeed a handsome specimen, if one were inclined to find handsomeness in creatures that were predominantly composed of warts and existential indifference.
“A strong name for a toad.”
Thistle’s face split into a grin of pure, unfiltered delight. She had been prepared for screaming, Mel realised. She had been prepared for the horrified recoil that most adults offered when presented with amphibians at close range. She had not been prepared for acceptance.
“He’s my best friend,” Thistle said. “After Anna and Viola, and Mr. Whiskers. But Mr. Whiskers scratched me yesterday when I tried to ride him, so maybe he’s not my friend anymore. Do you want to hold Brutus?”
“Perhaps after you’ve come down from there. I find that curtain rod negotiations are best conducted on solid ground.”
Thistle considered this, then released her grip and dropped to the floor with the casual grace of someone for whom gravity was merely a suggestion. She landed on her feet like a cat, with her long braids swinging, and presented Brutus with both hands extended.
“He likes to sit on shoulders,” she said. “But he doesn’t like Miss Kemp because she screamed at him… twice.”
“I shall endeavour not to scream.” Mel accepted the toad with the same gravity she might have accepted a letter of introduction from a viscountess. Brutus regarded her with his bulbous, unblinking eyes, and she regarded him back with what she hoped was appropriate solemnity.
“How do you do, Brutus.”
Brutus, being a toad, did not reply.
From her chair, Anna was watching this exchange with an expression that had shifted from scepticism to something approaching cautious interest.
“You’re not afraid of toads.”
“I have little energy for fear of things that cannot actually harm me.” Mel returned Brutus to Thistle, who immediately stuffed him into the pocket of her pinafore, where he presumably settled into whatever comfort a pocket could offer a toad.
“Curtain rods, however, can cause significant injury when climbed. We shall discuss alternative climbing opportunities later.”
“There are no alternative climbing opportunities,” Anna said. “I’ve checked.”
“Then we shall create some. A proper climbing structure, perhaps, in the garden.”
Thistle’s eyes went wide. “You can do that?”
“One can do most things, if one plans properly and asks the right people.” Mel turned in a slow circle, observing every detail as though committing it to memory.
The room was large and well-appointed, with tall windows that let in the grey Cornish light, walls lined with bookshelves that were stocked with more volumes than most lending libraries could boast, and furniture that had clearly been selected with both quality and durability in mind.
Someone had expected these children to be hard on their surroundings.
The chaos, she could see now, was not malicious. It was simply the natural state of three intelligent children who had been left too long without structure, without consistency, without an adult who stayed.
“Now then,” she said, turning back to face them.
“I have some questions. Anna, you are clearly the authority on household procedures. What time is tea?”
Anna straightened on her chair, visibly pleased to have her expertise acknowledged.
“Four on the hour Mrs. Kemp brings it up, but she always forgets that Viola doesn’t like the crusts on her sandwiches and Thistle isn’t allowed jam anymore after the incident.”
“What incident?”
“We don’t speak of it.”
“I see. And bedtime?”
“Eight on the hour. But Thistle never goes to sleep until at least nine because she says her brain is too full of thoughts.”
“My brain is too full of thoughts,” Thistle confirmed. “Important thoughts about bugs and climbing and what would happen if I dug a really big hole.”
“All vital areas of consideration.” Mel looked toward the table.
“Viola, what are you reading under there?”
A momentary stillness hung in the air; then, in a voice so hushed that Mel had to strain to hear it, she whispered: “Robinson Crusoe.”
“An excellent choice. Have you reached the part with the footprint yet?”
A second pause lingered, longer this time, and then in a tone scarcely audible:
“Yes.”
“That part made me check behind my door for three nights when I was young.” Mel said this conversationally, as though sharing a confidence between equals.
“I was convinced there were mysterious visitors everywhere.”
From beneath the table came a sound that might have been, in a more confident child, a giggle. It wasn’t quite that, but it was close.
Anna was staring at Mel with an expression of dawning reassessment, the look of someone who had expected one thing and received quite another.
“The last governess made Viola put the book away. She said reading in poor light would ruin her eyes.”
“Reading in poor light might strain her eyes temporarily. But forbidding books ruins the spirit permanently, and the spirit is considerably harder to repair.” Mel clasped her hands before her.
“Now. I shall need approximately one hour to speak with Mrs. Kemp about household routines and unpack my trunk. During that time, I expect the following: Anna, you will create a list of all current schedules and procedures as you understand them. Viola, you may continue reading, but I would appreciate it if you would note any particularly interesting passages to share later. Thistle, Brutus will need to visit the garden for his afternoon constitutional, and you will need to wash your hands afterward.”
“Brutus doesn’t have afternoon constitutionals,” Thistle said.
“All creatures benefit from fresh air and the opportunity to sit upon a rock. I’m certain Brutus would agree if he could speak.”
Thistle looked down at the pocket where Brutus presumably resided. After a moment, she nodded.
“He says yes.”
“Excellent. We understand each other.” Mel moved toward the door, then paused and looked back over her shoulder.
“One more thing. I do not make promises I cannot keep. So I will not promise to stay forever, because forever is a very long time and none of us can know what it will hold. But I will promise you this: I will not leave without saying goodbye. And I will not leave because you are difficult, or spirited, or prone to climbing curtain rods. I have managed far more challenging situations than three clever girls and a toad.”
She did not wait for a response. She simply walked out, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
In the corridor, she allowed herself one long breath, then another. The tight knot that had formed beneath her ribs during the journey, the familiar anxiety of entering yet another strange household, began to loosen.
They were not what she had expected. They were far better.
Intelligent, certainly. Starved for attention, obviously.
Desperate for someone who would see them as they actually were rather than as problems to be managed.
She had known children like this before, in grander houses and poorer ones, and they were always the same beneath the surface: small people who had learned too young that adults could not be trusted to stay.
I will not leave because you are difficult.
She had meant it. She had also meant it every other time she had thought something similar, and she had left those positions eventually, for one reason or another.
A house that could not pay. A master who looked at her too long.
A mistress who accused her of theft she had not committed.
The world was full of reasons for leaving, and Mel had learned to keep her trunk packed in her mind even when it sat unpacked in her room.
But something about Hartfell House felt different. Something about those three girls, with their chaos and their loyalty and their desperate need for consistency, felt like a lock she might have the key to.
Don’t be foolish, she told herself as she descended the stairs. It’s just another position. They’re just another family.
But she was already planning the climbing structure. Already considering which books she might introduce to Viola to coax her out from under the table. Already wondering what time of day was best for toad constitutionals.
Downstairs, she found Mrs. Kemp hovering near the kitchen door with an expression that suggested she had been listening for screams.
“Miss Grace,” the housekeeper said, relief and confusion warring on her face.
“You’re… still here.”
“I am. The children and I have reached an understanding.”
“An understanding?”
“Brutus requires afternoon walks. Climbing structures must be investigated. And no one is permitted to cry on Tuesdays.” Mel allowed herself a small smile, the barest curve of her lips.
“Now, if you could show me to my room, and then perhaps we might discuss the household routines? I find that efficient management begins with thorough information.”
Mrs. Kemp stared at her for several heartbeats. Then, slowly, her face transformed into something that looked almost like hope.
“This way, Miss Grace. I’ll have tea sent up.”
Later that evening, after the children had been fed and bathed and read to and finally, reluctantly, put to bed, Mel sat at the small desk in her room and composed her first report.
It was a habit she had developed over the years, a way of organising her thoughts and creating a record that might prove useful if questions arose later.
Day One, she wrote. Arrived at Hartfell House at approximately two on the hour, in the afternoon.
The triplets are as follows:
Annabelle, called Anna, approximately five years of age, the eldest of the three by her own account.
Highly intelligent, with natural leadership inclinations that currently manifest as authoritarianism.
Will require guidance in collaborative decision-making but should not be discouraged from her organisational instincts.
Responds well to being given genuine responsibility rather than empty authority.
Viola, approximately five years of age, the middle child.
Shy to an extreme degree, but observant and clearly gifted with literacy far beyond her years.
Self-taught reader. Communicates in whispers when she communicates at all.
Will require patience and space. Must not be forced. Trust must be earned.
Thistle, approximately five years of age, the youngest of the triplets.
Energetic beyond measure, fearless, and possibly the reason the previous three governesses departed.
Keeps a pet toad named Brutus. Shows no understanding of danger or propriety.
Will require firm boundaries delivered with humour and respect.
Cannot be managed through fear or force, only through engagement.
She paused, dipping her quill again.
The house is exceptionally well-maintained and well-funded. The children’s clothing is of high quality. The nursery contains more books than most schools. Someone with considerable means is investing significantly in their welfare.
I was informed they are the orphaned nieces of a reclusive gentleman named Mr. Langford, who serves as their benefactor. This may be true. It may also be a convenient fiction designed to prevent awkward questions.
I do not intend to ask awkward questions.
The children need stability, and they need consistency. They need someone who will stay.
I intend to be that someone, for as long as I am permitted to remain.
She set down her quill and looked out the window at the darkness beyond, where the Cornish rain had finally eased and stars were beginning to show between the clouds.
Somewhere in this house, three small girls were sleeping, or pretending to sleep, or in Thistle’s case, probably dangling from something she should not be dangling from.
They were not her children. They would never be her children. She had her responsibilities, and they did not include this, and she had learned long ago not to let herself love too deeply in positions that would inevitably end.
But as she extinguished her candle and settled into the narrow bed that would be hers for as long as this position lasted, she found herself thinking about Viola’s whispered voice, and Anna’s careful assessment, and Thistle’s delighted grin when Mel had accepted Brutus without flinching.