CHAPTER ONE #3
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.