Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
It was just after the noon hour. The sun was bright in the sky overhead and Lydia stood waist deep in the cool, clear water of the lake with Gemma prone across her outstretched arms, splashing and kicking her feet with much more enthusiasm than skill.
The first lesson, and the way she herself had learned to swim, was to master treading water first and then, after that, floating.
If those two skills were second nature, from that point skills could be refined.
“I do think we should probably return to the house soon,” Lydia stated as she noted the slight redness on Gemma’s pale shoulders. “If you become tan your grandmother will have my head.”
“Can’t we stay just a bit longer?” Gemma asked.
“Not today. But we shall come back again as soon as the weather permits, alright?” Lydia promised her. “I confess, I enjoy swimming a tremendous amount and miss getting to do so more frequently. We do still have other lessons we must complete today.”
Gemma pouted for just a moment but her naturally sunny disposition prevailed. “You promise we will come again?”
“I do promise. I swear it,” Lydia said, making her way toward the stone steps that led up the embankment from the lake.
It was a far simpler exit than most. How often had she gone swimming only to stumble and claw her way up a muddy bank?
This was far preferable. It also firmly cemented one fact, leaving it indisputable.
Amelia had not suffered an accidental drowning.
Even if entering the lake had been unintentional, remaining there had most certainly been by choice.
Once they had reached the small bench where they’d left most of their clothes.
Shedding their bathing costumes, they dried with the flannels she’d brought with them and donned their day dresses.
When that task was completed, she helped Gemma braid her wet hair.
Her own was tucked into a simple knot at the nape of her neck.
Once those tasks were completed, they made their way back to the house, walking in a leisurely fashion.
It was clear to her that Gemma had grown very weary.
An afternoon in the water could most certainly generate a not insignificant amount of fatigue.
“I think a nap is in order when we get back to the house,” Lydia suggested mildly. “I find myself quite exhausted after our little adventure. What about you, Gemma?”
“I think a nap would be fine. Can we do that after we have one of cook’s lemon cakes?”
Lydia smiled at that. “You certainly understand what takes priority, Gemma. Lemon cake and then a nap… after.”
Given their state, they entered through the kitchens, availed themselves of the remarkably tasty lemon cakes in question and were making their way upstairs when Lydia was halted by Stedmore. “Forgive me, Miss Wh—Mercer. A letter had arrived for you by afternoon post.”
Lydia accepted the missive. “Thank you, Mr. Stedmore.”
He nodded in acknowledgement and then slipped away, returning to his post near the entryway of the house.
Escorting Gemma to her room, Lydia helped her wash, don clean clothes and then climb into bed for her nap.
Afterward, she made her way down the corridor to her own room.
Only then did she open the letter, breaking the familiar wax seal belonging to Mrs. Baxter.
Miss Mercer,
I do hope this letter finds you well. I have had some time to consider all the things that have led you to your current position at Hartwell Hall.
I must confess, I find myself in a peculiar predicament.
I am unused to feeling the pang of my conscience, but I must offer you my apologies.
I fear I have done you a great disservice in sending you to that particular location.
The master of Hartwell Hall, Lord Hartwell, was most adamant that you were the only governess who would do.
He was equally adamant that you must never know it was he who was seeking your services.
The longer I have considered these conditions and demands, the more I have come to think that I may have placed you in an untenable situation.
Should you feel so inclined, Miss Mercer, I beg you to return to London.
I have your references from your previous employers and we can find another position for you immediately.
Given your skills and your remarkably capable nature, it will require no great effort to do so.
I will await your response. And again, I offer you my humble apologies.”
Sincerely and most contritely,
Mrs. Ermaline Baxter
In all her years of acquaintance with Mrs. Baxter, she’d never once heard the woman utter an apology.
Strangely, Lydia didn’t feel she was owed one.
The truth of the matter, as she reflected upon it, was that being forced to confront her past had freed her in a way nothing else could have.
And she had no desire to leave Hartwell Hall.
Not now. Possibly, not ever. It was premature, at best, to be thinking that she might be able to reclaim some small shred of the future she had once longed for and planned for, but she felt unaccountably hopeful.
If there was one thing the events of the previous night had demonstrated to her, it was that neither she nor Oliver had left those feelings fully in the past. They were still very much there, like kindling waiting for a match to strike tinder.
It was such a unique feeling—or at the very least one long forgotten—to be hopeful.
To feel that the future might hold something more than drudgery or sameness.
Different households, different children, but the same.
Awaken, teach lessons, correct manners, provide guidance, sleep.
Then do it all again. Excitement had been sorely missing from her life for…
twelve years. Twelve long years without having any sense of anticipation of good.
If nothing else, coming to Hartwell Hall had reminded her of that, reminded her what it felt like to be alive in a way that she had not for so very, very long.
With a decision made, she picked up her writing desk and placed it upon her lap. Taking quill in hand, she began to write, penning a response that would likely surprise Mrs. Baxter as much as it had her.