Chapter 10
Charlotte woke the next morning and, for a moment, forgot where she was—the unfamiliar plaster ceiling, the faint chill of damp stone, the distant creak of floorboards.
Then it all came rushing back: her borrowed name, her borrowed life.
Eagerness and anxiety warred within her as she dressed quickly, fastening the plain black gown Anne had chosen before their escape.
It hung loose on her now-slighter frame, and she threw a shawl over her shoulders to disguise it.
It was sturdy, serviceable, and as unremarkable as porridge—the sort of gown no one would ever recall.
The schoolroom was only a few doors down the hallway.
Charlotte heard him before she saw him—the scrape of a chair, the muffled thud of something being thrown. She braced herself before stepping inside.
A small, slight boy stood at the centre of the room, unruly black curls falling into his eyes, his chin set in stubborn defiance. His stockings sagged about his ankles, and a streak of charcoal marked one cheek.
He turned.
Charlotte noticed his eyes at once—large, blue, and intensely expressive. Not soft, but keen and watchful, full of wary intelligence and mischief. The eyes of a child determined to trust no one.
He regarded her as though she were an especially dull arithmetic problem.
Mrs Wilberforce stood nearby, composed as ever.
‘Now, Tom, what did we just discuss?’ she said curtly. ‘I do not want you frightening this governess off.’
Charlotte frowned slightly. Frightening? He looked as though a strong gust might carry him away.
‘I am sure Master Tom and I shall be great friends, Mrs Wilberforce,’ she said kindly, dipping a curtsey.
Tom pulled a face behind his mother’s skirts—an elaborate grimace of disgust.
Charlotte ignored it.
Mrs Wilberforce, whether accustomed to such behaviour or simply unwilling to notice it, did not so much as turn her head.
Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘Perhaps you might tell me what he has been taught thus far?’
‘Oh, I do not know about all that,’ Mrs Wilberforce replied, waving a jewelled hand. ‘If you can teach him anything at all, it will be a miracle.’
‘Can he read? Write? Count?’ Charlotte pressed.
Mrs Wilberforce tittered—a light, musical sound that did not reach her eyes.
‘Miss Lucas, we have trouble managing his behaviour.’ Then, leaning closer with a loud whisper, she added, ‘He is a little slow. Barely speaks—let alone reads or writes.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Charlotte said quietly. ‘That does make it rather—’
‘Trying?’ supplied Mrs Wilberforce with a smile that suggested she had not personally tried anything in years. She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Look, if you can get him to behave, sit still, and do as he is told, that will suffice.’
High aspirations indeed, Charlotte thought dryly.
Mrs Wilberforce adjusted her bracelets with a faint clink.
‘Our nursery maid has not come in today. That is the third in twelve months. Lucy mentioned you brought one with you? I usually select the maids myself, but William thought it best that you have someone you trust.’ She leaned in again.
‘You may need to work together to manage him. Can I rely upon you to direct her as needed?’
Charlotte hesitated—what sort of tyrant sent nursery maids fleeing in droves? Still, she replied sweetly, ‘Of course, ma’am. Sarah—the nursemaid—is sensible and dependable.’
‘Excellent,’ Mrs Wilberforce said. ‘She will need to be.’
With a graceful sweep of her skirts, she departed, leaving behind a faint trail of perfume—and an unmistakable sense of impending doom.
Charlotte watched her go, that nagging sense of familiarity returning.
Where have I seen her before?
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Charlotte turned back to the boy.
He was glaring at her as though she had personally offended him by existing.
‘Well,’ she said gently. ‘Here we are.’
No reply.
‘I am Miss Lucas,’ she offered, rolling the borrowed name carefully on her tongue. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
He shrank back at first—fear flashing briefly across his face—before it hardened once more into defiance.
‘Oh heavens,’ Charlotte muttered. ‘He is going to bite me.’
She withdrew her hand.
Tom proved her wrong—only to kick her sharply in the shin. He darted for the door and vanished down the corridor like a shot.
Charlotte yelped, clutching her leg. ‘The little imp!’
It was not the most genteel beginning she had imagined.
The following days were... challenging.
The boy left spiders in her bed. Frogs in her chair. He glued marbles to the soles of her slippers and filled her teapot with soil. He refused to sit still, fidgeted incessantly, and ignored every attempt she made to engage him.
Whenever she turned her back, he bolted through doors, down corridors, and into the gardens. Charlotte and Sarah spent hours pursuing him, their gowns snagging on rosebushes and their patience wearing ever thinner.
When they asked the gardener if he had seen the boy, he merely chuckled.
‘Ah, Miss, he is most likely in his tree house, by the big house,’ he said, as though that explained everything. ‘When he is hungry, he will come back.’
Charlotte had no idea what he meant by the “big house”, and when she pressed him, he only chuckled again, muttering that it was best to leave the boy be until he chose to come down of his own accord—otherwise scenes of a less delicate nature might ensue.
Charlotte remained none the wiser.
What on earth would he do if they attempted to retrieve him? Launch an attack from above, perhaps?
They searched the grounds for this elusive tree house but found nothing. Charlotte was at her wits’ end, and Sarah looked ready to throttle the child.
‘At least he has a good appetite,’ Sarah grumbled as they trudged back to the house, deflated and dishevelled.
When he finally returned—usually just before nightfall—he was almost always covered in mud, and Sarah spent an inordinate amount of time scrubbing the dirt from him.
On the rare occasions he remained indoors, Charlotte discovered there was only one thing Tom truly enjoyed: drawing.
He scribbled obsessively for hours, head bent low, tongue peeking out in concentration. Lines, loops, swirls—chaos to anyone else, but there was intent there, a pattern hidden within the disorder.
‘What are you drawing, Master Tom? It looks like a maze,’ Charlotte ventured for the umpteenth time.
He scowled in response.
Reading earned her only blank stares and rude raspberries.
Arithmetic beads were flung across the room the moment she introduced them.
It was hopeless.
The boy was entirely ungovernable.
To make matters worse, their attempts to socialise or dine with the other staff were met with frostily polite resistance, and when Mrs Wilberforce learned of it, she insisted trays be sent upstairs instead.
Charlotte could not help wondering whether she feared the servants might encourage her to leave.
If not for Lucy, they might have withered away entirely. Her cheerful smile somehow managed to brighten even this forbidding house.
After seven exhausting days, Charlotte collapsed onto her bed—after first checking carefully for spiders—and groaned into her pillow.
Lucy arrived soon afterwards with their breakfast to find Charlotte face-down and emitting a muffled scream. ‘Are you quite all right, Miss Lucas?’ she asked, alarmed.
Charlotte lifted her head, hair wild, eyes full of despair. ‘No, not particularly. I cannot get through to him.’
Lucy sighed, setting down the tray. ‘He is a little terror, that one. Do not be so hard on yourself, Miss Lucas. No one can manage him. He only listens to his mother, from what I have seen.’
Charlotte groaned. ‘He hates me.’
Lucy lowered her voice. ‘No... I do not think he hates you. He is just... well. He has been through a lot.’
Charlotte sat upright. ‘Go on, Lucy. Please.’
Lucy crossed the room, checked the door, and perched on the edge of a chair.
‘His first governess—he adored her. Thick as thieves, they were. She was young, pretty... like a mother to him. Then one day—poof—she was gone. Left only a note. Mrs Wilberforce was furious.’
Charlotte stilled. ‘Gone?’
‘Vanished,’ Lucy replied softly. ‘And that is not all. In houses like this, the parents barely see the child. Perhaps an hour a day, if he is lucky. His mother loves him, I am sure, but... she is not around much. And Mr Wilberforce is always in Parliament.’
A heaviness settled in Charlotte’s chest.
The poor boy—neglected, abandoned, and blamed for it all.
No wonder he built layers of defiance around himself. He was testing whether anyone would stay.
Perhaps she had been going about this entirely the wrong way.
Perhaps he did not need a governess.
‘Perhaps he needs a friend,’ Charlotte said quietly.
Lucy nodded slowly, as though she had reached the same conclusion herself. Then she added shyly, ‘I was wondering if...’ but turned beetroot before she could finish.
Charlotte tilted her head, intrigued by her sudden reserve. ‘Go on, Lucy.’
‘Well... I have been teaching myself to read and write. I wished to write letters... to my beau. But—well—I wondered if you might instruct me? I shall not be any trouble, I promise. I only require a little guidance.’
‘Of course. We might spare half an hour when you come up with the tray.’ Charlotte smiled, pleased by Lucy’s eagerness to improve, even if it was only for the sake of writing love letters.
‘I may as well teach you instead. It is clear Master Tom is not interested in my instruction,’ she added with a self-deprecating laugh.
‘Oh, thank you, Miss Lucas,’ Lucy replied excitedly.
Charlotte decided to put her new plan into action immediately and strode into the schoolroom after breakfast.
Tom sat at his table, hunched over his paper, entirely absorbed.
Charlotte approached with the caution one might use when handling gunpowder.
She pulled up a stool beside him. ‘Oh, Tom, what an—interesting drawing. Is it a map?’
He shot her a suspicious look. ‘It is a secret,’ he said, snatching the paper away.
Charlotte smiled. ‘Very well. Perhaps you could teach me how to draw like you? I am dreadful.’
He eyed her warily.
At last, he handed her a crayon. ‘Just draw lines,’ he grumbled.
Charlotte took it—half expecting a trap—but he merely resumed his work.
A moment later, inspiration struck. ‘Would you let me draw your portrait? I need practice—and I cannot very well draw myself.’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘I promise, you may draw mine afterwards,’ she added conspiratorially.
He sighed dramatically and slumped into place.
Charlotte hid a smile as she began.
The result was dreadful—a lopsided, squashed creature bearing more resemblance to a startled primate than a small boy.
Tom leaned over, studied it, and smirked.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Looks like a monkey.’
Charlotte clutched her chest. ‘You wound me, sir!’
Tom laughed—a quick, bright sound that startled her.
And at that precise moment, Mrs Wilberforce swept into the room.
‘Ah, Miss Lucas—making progress, I see!’ She snatched up the paper before Charlotte could intervene. ‘Did you draw that darling boy?’
She squinted. ‘Is it... a bear?’
Charlotte bit back a smile, sharing an amused glance with Tom. ‘Yes, he is doing very well.’
Mrs Wilberforce beamed. ‘Excellent. I wished to invite you to dinner this evening—my brother is visiting.’
Charlotte stared. ‘Dinner, ma’am? With guests?’
‘Of course. We do not stand on ceremony here. I find it intolerable that you should be forced to dine alone simply because you are the governess. It may not be the usual arrangement, but I have never seen the sense in such distinctions. I would much prefer you dine with us. Do not be alarmed—it is nothing grand, only family and a few friends from nearby.’
‘Then I shall be delighted,’ Charlotte replied, curtseying—though inwardly she sighed, dreading an evening of insipid conversation amongst strangers.
Mrs Wilberforce paused at the door. ‘Six o’clock. Do wear something cheerful—none of that dreary black.’
Once she had gone, Charlotte turned to Tom.
‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘what do you think? Shall I survive this dinner?’
Tom smirked. ‘Maybe. I quite like your black. It makes you look like a ghost.’
A brief smile touched Charlotte’s lips before fading again. She wore black for her father’s mourning, but Anne was not in mourning, so she must comply with Mrs Wilberforce’s request and choose another dreary colour instead.
Sarah had altered a few of her gowns so that they fitted her better. Charlotte selected a sober dark blue and, at the appointed hour, made her way downstairs towards the murmur of voices drifting from the drawing room.
It would be useful, she reasoned, to observe their social circle.
After all, she had not forgotten why she was truly here.
The Odd Fellows could be anywhere.
They might even be in attendance that very evening.