Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The following morning, Amelia entered the schoolroom armed with determination and a carefully structured lesson on the alphabet.
She had prepared cards, practiced pronunciation, and even arranged a small reward system that she hoped would appeal to David’s unpredictable nature.
Unfortunately, David had already decided that education was optional.
He sat on the floor with Grover, pulling at the animal’s ears in a manner that made Amelia’s nerves twitch.
Every time she gently attempted to redirect him, he simply rolled away as though gravity itself were a suggestion rather than a rule.
“David,” Amelia said patiently, holding up a wooden card painted with the letter A. “This is A. Can you say A?”
David glanced at her, then promptly ignored her in favor of rolling across the rug with Grover, who appeared delighted by the entire situation.
The dog barked happily and joined in the chaos, chasing David in slow, lumbering circles around the room.
Amelia watched them both for a long moment, trying to convince herself that this still counted as teaching.
The alphabet, she reflected grimly, had never before felt like a battle of endurance. She lowered the card slowly.
“David,” she tried again, “if you learn your letters, you will be able to read stories.”
“I am busy,” David announced without pausing.
“Busy doing what exactly?”
“Playing.”
Grover barked in agreement. Amelia stared at the ceiling as if it might offer divine assistance.
It did not. After several more failed attempts involving songs, storytelling, and what she suspected was an increasingly desperate impression of enthusiasm, she finally lowered herself onto a chair and exhaled.
David continued racing around the room. Grover followed him faithfully like a particularly enthusiastic shadow.
“I give up,” Amelia announced at last.
David paused mid-run. “Already?”
“Yes.”
“That was fast.”
Amelia ignored the insult. “Tell me honestly, David. What changed? When we first met, you seemed to like me.”
David stopped completely, breathing slightly harder from his exertions. Grover sat beside him, tongue lolling, equally attentive. For a moment, Amelia thought she had reached him. Then the boy frowned.
“I do not want a new mother,” he said bluntly.
The words landed with unexpected force. Before Amelia could respond, David turned and ran from the room, Grover following, leaving her alone with scattered alphabet cards and a profound sense of defeat.
Amelia stared at the empty space where the boy had been, slowly processing the simplicity and brutality of his statement.
A new mother. Of course. That was what he feared.
She pressed her fingers against her temple. “Well,” she murmured to herself, “that could have gone worse.”
Although she could not imagine how, a soft sound at the doorway made her glance up.
Valerie stood there, as though she had materialized from thin air.
The girl always had that unsettling habit of appearing silently, like a well-dressed ghost with impeccable posture.
Her expression was composed, her hands folded neatly before her.
“You should give up,” Valerie said calmly.
Amelia blinked. “Pardon?”
“You do not belong here,” Valerie continued. “You will not succeed.”
Amelia slowly set down the alphabet cards. “That is a rather direct assessment.”
“It is accurate.”
“I see.”
Valerie tilted her head slightly. “You are temporary. It would be easier if you accepted that.”
Amelia studied her for a moment. There was no malice in the girl’s tone, only certainty. That made it worse. “Tell me,” Amelia said carefully, “why exactly are you so determined that I should leave?”
Valerie did not hesitate. “Because you are not what he needs.”
“And what precisely does he need?”
“A proper governess,” Valerie replied. “Not… whatever you are supposed to be.”
Amelia raised an eyebrow. “Whatever I am supposed to be?”
Valerie’s expression did not change. “You know what I mean.”
Amelia folded her arms. “Do you not want your brother to receive a proper education?”
Valerie frowned slightly. “That is not what I said.”
“It is what you implied.” Amelia rested her hands on her hips. She could not shake the stance of authority she had already adopted as governess.
“He deserves better,” Valerie said.
“Than me?”
“Yes.” Valerie’s answer was quick and blunt.
The honesty was almost impressive. Amelia exhaled slowly. “Regardless of your feelings on the matter, you should still show respect and proper manners.”
Valerie gave a faint, almost dismissive look. “Good manners are what people use to hide what they truly think.”
Amelia paused. “That is a rather cynical view for someone your age.”
“It is an accurate one.”
Valerie stepped further into the room, her gaze unwavering. “I already pretend enough in front of my uncle. So does he. Everyone in this house pretends.”
The words struck unexpectedly close. Amelia felt something tighten in her chest because she understood that too well.
Too well indeed.
For a moment, she considered simply letting the conversation end there. It would have been easier. Simpler. Safer. Instead, she straightened slightly.
“Perhaps,” Amelia said carefully, “but people can achieve far more through kindness while still being honest.”
Valerie narrowed her eyes slightly, as though testing the idea.
Amelia continued before she lost her nerve. “I will begin myself. I have spent too much of my life allowing others to control my future. I am no longer interested in continuing that habit.”
The room felt quieter after she spoke. Even the distant sound of Grover barking seemed to fade. Amelia swallowed once, realizing she had just spoken more truthfully than she had in years. She had no idea where the courage had come from. It certainly had not been invited.
Valerie regarded her differently now. Not softer. Not kinder. But more thoughtful. For the first time, the girl looked uncertain. Amelia took that as progress.
After a pause, she cleared her throat. “Now,” she said more lightly, “since we are being honest, do you have any advice on how to win over David?”
Valerie blinked. Once. Then again. Amelia watched her expectantly.
Finally, Valerie sighed. “He likes custard.”
Silence. Amelia stared. “Custard?”
“Yes, very much so,” Valerie said.
Amelia’s mouth twitched. “Well,” she said slowly, “that is something I can work with.”
Amelia found Mrs. Jacobs in the corridor and declared, with far more confidence than she actually felt, that she required access to the kitchen. The housekeeper blinked at her as though she had suggested setting fire to the drawing room for entertainment.
“The kitchen, Miss Shirley?” Mrs. Jacobs repeated slowly, as if testing whether she had heard correctly.
Amelia nodded with brisk certainty and added, “I intend to cook.” That statement alone seemed to travel through the house faster than gossip at a village assembly.
Mrs. Jacobs herself followed Amelia down the corridor with the expression of a woman escorting someone toward certain disaster. “Your Grace did not mention anything about culinary experiments,” she said carefully.
“I am not experimenting,” Amelia replied brightly as she tied an apron around her waist. “I am simply making custard.”
“I see,” Mrs. Jacobs murmured.
A maid fumbled with a spoon with wide eyes.
The kitchen was warm, bustling, and filled with the comforting scent of bread and herbs.
It felt more honest than the rest of the house.
Amelia rolled up her sleeves with determination and began gathering ingredients.
If she could not win David with authority or arithmetic, she would at least attempt sugar.
Sugar had never disappointed her before.
Valerie appeared shortly after, standing in the doorway with the expression of someone observing a carriage crash in slow motion. “This will not work,” she said flatly.
Amelia stirred the mixture calmly, keeping her movements steady and unhurried as though the entire matter were of no greater importance than the weather. “That is a rather pessimistic opening remark,” she observed without looking up, her tone light enough to avoid direct confrontation.
“It is realistic,” Valerie replied at once, her voice clipped with certainty.
“Those are often confused,” Amelia said, still focused on the bowl as she worked the mixture into a smoother consistency.
Valerie stepped closer, arms folded tightly across her chest in a posture that suggested she had already decided how this would end. “David will not be won over by custard to learn his lessons,” she stated flatly.
“Then I suppose we shall both be surprised,” Amelia replied with an easy brightness that she did not entirely feel but was determined to maintain.
Valerie gave her a look that carried the quiet confidence of someone who had already dismissed the entire endeavor. “You are wasting your time.”
Amelia continued stirring without pause, refusing to acknowledge the weight of the judgment. “As long as you remain here watching, I shall take it as support.”
“I am not supporting you,” Valerie corrected, her expression tightening.
“Of course not,” Amelia agreed smoothly.
A brief silence followed, filled only by the soft sound of the spoon against the bowl. Amelia allowed a small smile to form as she kept her attention on her work. “But you are still here,” she added lightly.
Valerie did not respond, though she did not leave either, which Amelia privately considered a meaningful distinction. The girl remained near the doorway, watching with guarded interest as if unwilling to admit she was invested in the outcome. Amelia filed that away as a small but useful victory.
From the corridor beyond came the faint sound of footsteps, small and uneven, followed by the unmistakable presence of hesitation.
Amelia did not look up at first, knowing from experience that children approached uncertain situations like skittish animals; too sudden a movement would send them retreating.
Instead, she continued stirring the custard with deliberate calm, as though nothing in the world required her attention beyond it.
She could feel David before she saw him, a small, stubborn presence hovering at the threshold of the kitchen. Grover’s tail thumped somewhere nearby, and the dog’s immediate shift in attention confirmed his position without need for visual confirmation.
Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the bowl as though entirely unaware of being observed. “Could you hand me that spoon, please?” she asked casually, her voice steady and unforced.
There was no reply. No movement. No sound. Amelia hummed softly to herself as she continued stirring, maintaining the illusion of complete disinterest. “Or perhaps you are too busy,” she added after a moment, as though the absence of response had not been particularly noteworthy.
Still nothing followed. She waited just long enough for the silence to feel deliberate, then set the bowl down with a controlled sigh that suggested mild disappointment rather than frustration.
“That is unfortunate,” she said lightly.
“I had planned to make custard, but since no one seems interested in helping me, I suppose I shall prepare vegetables instead.”
A very small, very distressed sound came from the doorway, as though the suggestion itself had caused personal offense.
Amelia turned her head only slightly, just enough to acknowledge presence without appearing to pursue it, and she saw David standing there with the cautious stillness of someone uncertain whether he had already made a mistake.
He had taken one step into the room, then another, his expression tightening into something deeply suspicious.
“Vegetables?” he asked, the word sounding almost accusatory.
Amelia nodded with solemn seriousness, as though discussing a matter of great culinary importance. “Yes,” she replied. “Very healthy. Extremely boring. Perfect for people who dislike joy.”
David frowned harder, clearly offended by the concept on principle.
Grover sensed emotional turbulence and nudged him forward with encouraging enthusiasm, nearly breaking the boy’s resolve through sheer optimism alone.
Amelia turned back to her custard as though she had entirely lost interest in the matter, resuming her stirring with careful indifference. “Of course, custard would have been much more enjoyable,” she added almost idly, as though speaking to herself rather than to anyone present. “But alas.”
David hesitated again, visibly caught between suspicion and curiosity, before taking another step forward.
Amelia did not look at him, though she was acutely aware of his gradual approach and the small shift in atmosphere that accompanied it. She felt a quiet spark of satisfaction but kept it carefully hidden, knowing instinctively that pressure would undo everything.
“Custard?” David said at last, more quietly now, as though testing the word itself.
Amelia glanced at him at last, allowing a hint of consideration into her expression. “Possibly,” she replied.
That single word was enough. David moved closer to the counter while Grover followed with obvious delight at the apparent resolution of tension.
Valerie remained at the doorway, watching the scene with an expression that suggested she could not decide whether she was witnessing strategy or chaos.
Amelia returned to stirring, the faintest trace of satisfaction settling within her as she recognized, for the first time that morning, that she might not be entirely failing.