Chapter 9
Charlotte and Sarah rolled on and on along the bumpy country roads. They changed horses at two inns, where they also rested for the night. Sarah slept like a rock, but Charlotte hardly dared close her eyes in such strange surroundings.
By the third day, Charlotte was utterly exhausted, but also deeply relieved.
She was far away from her mother now, from the Ice Baron, and from the gallows that had seemed to loom too close.
Even the thought of her own bedchamber had become oppressive now that her father was no longer there.
The whole house had become foreign to her—somewhere she was not even sure she could return to.
She swallowed against the ache rising in her throat at the thought and forced herself to look towards the future.
She pulled out the appointment letter again, smoothing its folds carefully. Having read it so many times, she had nearly memorised its contents.
The position was to instruct a young boy of eight.
The letter had warned: ‘As mentioned in our earlier correspondence, the boy has challenges, and past governesses have found it too difficult to remain long-term.’
Well, Charlotte thought grimly, I shall have to stay—no matter how difficult it proves. I have no choice.
Briefly, she wondered how many governesses had come and gone. It hardly sounded ideal.
But it was too late now to ask questions. She would find out soon enough.
The carriage rattled up a narrow country lane, slowing at last to a stop.
Charlotte leaned out of the small window, the chill of evening creeping through the glass.
Before her stood a sprawling dark-stone house, its narrow windows glinting dully in the fading light. A few lanterns flickered at the entrance, but otherwise the house was shrouded in deep shadow. The sky above had turned a heavy violet.
Her limbs creaked and groaned as she unfolded herself from the carriage. Every bone in her body ached from the sleepless journey.
Waiting by the servants’ entrance stood a young, sunny-faced girl in plain grey clothing and a white apron.
‘You must be Miss Anne Lucas,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I am Lucy, the housemaid.’
Charlotte balked, forgetting her new identity for a moment, but quickly recovered.
‘Good evening,’ she replied.
‘This is Sarah, the nursemaid,’ Charlotte added, as Sarah tumbled out of the carriage rather less gracefully.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Lucy responded with a warm smile as she ushered them inside and directed the footman to carry their luggage.
They moved briskly through the dimly lit servants’ corridors with their mahogany-panelled walls. The house smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax, reminding her painfully of her father.
Stay focused, Charlotte.
‘This is the most direct path from the kitchens to the attic rooms,’ Lucy explained. ‘Your room is next to Master Tom’s.’
Master Tom. That must be the boy.
After climbing several staircases, they reached the attic level—a narrow corridor lined with doors beneath the sloping roof.
The first appeared to be a schoolroom, and Charlotte caught a brief glimpse within: shelves, slates, and a scattering of books.
Beside it stood the closed door to Master Tom’s room, while hers and Sarah’s waited at the far end of the passage.
When they reached a worn wooden door with peeling white paint, Lucy opened it without ceremony.
‘Settle in. I shall send refreshments and let you know if Mr and Mrs Wilberforce wish to see you tonight.’
With that, she departed, leaving Charlotte and Sarah alone.
Her new room was sparse and austere.
A narrow bed stood against the wall, with a battered wardrobe beside it. A single writing desk sat beneath a tiny window. A modest fire crackled in the grate, but it did little to warm the space.
The air in the attic was damp and faintly musty.
This was to be her life now.
For a year.
A heaviness settled in her chest.
She sank onto the bed.
‘Well, the mattress is comfortable,’ Sarah offered, attempting cheerfulness.
‘I suppose it is,’ Charlotte replied, managing a faint, weary smile.
They began to unpack slowly, taking stock of their new surroundings. Sarah’s room proved equally sparse, though the schoolroom appeared well stocked for a boy of his age—at least from what Charlotte had glimpsed.
A tray of plain bread, cold meat, cheese, and lukewarm tea was sent up, and they fell upon it with relish. After some rest, Charlotte felt more herself again.
Later, Lucy returned.
‘I am so glad you are both here. Do let me know if you need anything,’ she said in her lilting Yorkshire accent as she tidied the room and coaxed the fire into life. ‘It has been most difficult tending to Master Tom on top of everything else. I do hope you stay longer than the last governess.’
‘Can you tell me a little about Master Tom?’ Charlotte asked, intrigued and a little apprehensive. ‘I know so little of him.’
Lucy hesitated. ‘Er... it is difficult to describe him. He is a spirited young fellow. Only—do not let him intimidate you, and you will be fine.’
Charlotte and Sarah exchanged looks of quiet dread.
‘Come. Mr and Mrs Wilberforce will see you now.’
With that less-than-comforting assurance, Charlotte followed her through the winding corridors once more, down to the study—a richly appointed room filled with dark wood, heavy drapery, and faintly scented with old leather and smoke.
Waiting there stood a man of medium height, with keen, intelligent eyes and a kindly, expressive mouth. His smile appeared genuine—a welcome sight.
‘Miss Lucas,’ he said warmly. ‘I am so delighted to make your acquaintance. I am Mr Wilberforce.’ He bowed as Charlotte curtseyed. ‘I trust your journey was not too arduous.’
‘It is a relief to arrive,’ Charlotte replied, mustering a smile of her own.
Mr Wilberforce posed a few polite questions—whether her room was comfortable, whether she required anything—and Charlotte was struck by his apparent kindness.
And yet, there was something restless in the way his gaze strayed, again and again, towards the sofa.
Charlotte followed it.
Seated there, in perfect elegance, was a woman.
‘My apologies,’ Mr Wilberforce said. ‘This is my wife.’
Charlotte curtseyed as the lady stood.
Mrs Wilberforce was beautiful.
Her dark hair was styled into an exquisite chignon, her fine evening gown draped elegantly over her slender figure.
Her Grecian features were almost classically perfect.
Charlotte felt an odd prickle of familiarity—as though she had seen this face before—but she could not place it.
Perhaps she resembled some marble figure Charlotte had once admired in a museum.
‘How do you do, Miss Lucas,’ Mrs Wilberforce said with a dazzling smile. ‘We are so glad you decided to take the post. We were quite anxious about Tom, were we not, William?’
Mr Wilberforce’s smile faltered—only for a moment.
‘Yes... indeed we were.’
Charlotte itched to inquire further after the boy, but dared not appear too forward.
‘I should have liked to meet him,’ she said tentatively.
Mrs Wilberforce’s smile tightened.
‘He keeps to a strict routine. Otherwise, he may become... restless.’
Her voice trailed off, her glance flicking towards her husband.
Charlotte’s instincts sharpened.
Something here was amiss.
Mr Wilberforce stepped in at once.
‘You will meet him tomorrow. For now, rest—and do let us know if you need anything.’
He all but ushered her towards the door.
Charlotte hesitated.
‘Just one more question, Mr Wilberforce. How many governesses have... preceded me?’
A pause fell—heavy and expectant.
Husband and wife exchanged a glance.
Then, after a moment, Mr Wilberforce replied—
‘Five.’