Chapter Two #2
Lady Maria smiled as if she had arranged the morning solely for the pleasure of watching two people pretend not to know each other.
“Miss Winthrop,” she said, “allow me to present my nephew, His Grace the Duke of Ashbourne. Edmund, this is Miss Petalia Winthrop, of whom I have already spoken.”
Miss Winthrop curtsied with perfect correctness. “Your Grace.”
Ashbourne bowed. “Miss Winthrop.”
A brief silence followed. Lady Maria looked between them with unconcealed interest.
Miss Winthrop’s gaze remained steady. “I am obliged to you for receiving me. Her Ladyship has been most generous with her time.”
“My aunt is generous with many things,” Ashbourne said, “including prompt conclusions.”
“Edmund,” Lady Maria said lightly.
Miss Winthrop’s mouth softened, though she kept the smile from forming fully. “A prompt conclusion is not always an unsound one, Your Grace. Sometimes it is merely the first sensible answer to an existing difficulty.”
Lady Maria looked delighted. Ashbourne looked at Miss Winthrop more closely.
“You speak boldly for an applicant,” he said.
“Only when asked into a room where boldness appears more useful than flattery. I can provide flattery if required, though I cannot promise it will be convincing.”
“We do not require flattery.”
“That is a relief. I am out of practice.”
Lady Maria gestured for them to sit. “There. We are already all being honest. Miss Winthrop, do take the chair by the fire. Edmund, you may sit as well.”
Ashbourne sat because refusing would have made him look ridiculous. Miss Winthrop sat after he did, her posture straight, her hands folded loosely in her lap.
“My aunt tells me you have experience as a governess,” he began.
“Six years with the Halverston family in Hampshire, Your Grace. Before that, I assisted for two years in the schoolroom of Mrs Bell’s seminary near Bath, where I taught the younger pupils reading, handwriting, basic arithmetic, and enough French to manage a menu.”
“That is useful experience,” Ashbourne said. “It may not be sufficient.”
Miss Winthrop did not bristle. “Because of the children?”
“Because of what they have endured, and what that has made them.”
Lady Maria’s expression sobered, and for once she did not intervene.
“My daughter, Mary, is six,” he said. “My son, Declan, is nine. Their mother died shortly after Mary’s birth. Since then, they have had governesses, tutors, nursery maids, and well-meaning relations in such number that every new face now looks to them like another departure waiting to happen.”
Miss Winthrop listened without interrupting.
“Mary is clever,” he continued, “which she uses poorly when she is frightened or displeased. Declan is gentle, which people mistake for obedience until he refuses to move, speak, eat, or acknowledge the existence of Latin.”
“Latin is a severe test of anyone’s goodwill.”
Lady Maria’s mouth twitched.
Ashbourne ignored it. “Mary has a temper. Declan withdraws. Between them, they have discouraged most attempts at instruction.”
“And you wish me to instruct them anyway.”
“If you take the position, yes. But I would rather you know now that the work will not be easy.”
“I did not expect easy work, Your Grace. Easy households rarely advertise for governesses.”
“No. But difficult households sometimes disguise the extent of the difficulty.”
“Then I am grateful you do not mean to.”
That checked him for a moment.
“I mean to be plain,” he said.
“Then I shall try to be plain in return.”
“Good. Do you wish to make them obedient or educated?”
“I should like to make them secure enough to become both.”
The answer unsettled him by being better than the question.
“Secure,” he repeated.
“Yes. Obedience obtained through fear seldom lasts once the adult leaves the room. Education offered to a child who expects abandonment is not always received as education. Sometimes it is received as another test to fail.”
Lady Maria looked down at her teacup.
Ashbourne kept his gaze on Miss Winthrop. “You speak as though you have seen such failures.”
“I have seen enough families to know that adults often call a child difficult when they mean inconvenient.”
The word struck him harder than it should have. Miss Winthrop seemed to realise it only after she spoke.
“I did not mean—”
“It is a fair word,” Ashbourne said.
“It is not always a kind one.”
“No.”
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Miss Winthrop folded her hands more firmly. “May I ask what you expect of a governess beyond lessons?”
“Order,” he said. “Consistency. Reports on their progress. Protection from foolish indulgence.”
Lady Maria’s brows rose faintly, but she was wise enough not to interrupt.
“And authority?” Miss Winthrop asked.
Ashbourne looked at her more closely.
“If I am to be responsible for the schoolroom,” she said, “I must be permitted to govern it. I cannot have instructions overturned because a child weeps prettily, a relative pities her, or a servant dislikes being corrected by a governess.”
“You ask a great deal for a woman not yet engaged.”
“No, Your Grace. I ask now because I am not yet engaged. Afterwards, asking becomes complaint.”
The answer cut through him with unsettling neatness.
“You would have my support,” he said at last. “If a rule is set, I will not overturn it without speaking to you first. I will expect reports, and I will expect honesty in them.”
“You shall have both.”
“If the children distress you, you will tell me before matters become unmanageable.”
“I shall tell you before matters become theatrical. Unmanageable is sometimes a stage one must pass through on the way to improvement.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It is honest.”
He almost smiled. “You value honesty highly.”
“I have often had too little money to afford comforting lies.”
The room quieted.
Lady Maria’s expression gentled. Miss Winthrop seemed to regret the plainness of what she had said.
“The salary will be paid monthly,” Ashbourne said. “An advance may be arranged if needed.”
Miss Winthrop’s chin lifted by a fraction. “That is kind, Your Grace, but I would prefer to earn what I am paid.”
“An advance is earned against future service.”
“Then, if it is not improper, I would accept one week’s wages upon beginning. My lodgings must be settled, and I would rather not leave debt behind me.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Thank you.”
Lady Maria gave Ashbourne a look he chose not to acknowledge.
“You may begin tomorrow,” he said, “unless you require more time.”
“At Wrenfield,” Lady Maria added. “The children are not in town.”
Miss Winthrop looked between them. “Wrenfield?”
“My principal seat,” Ashbourne said, “in Devonshire.”
“It is a journey of three days, if the roads are in a cooperative humour,” Lady Maria said. “They seldom are, but one must allow them their little vices.”
Petalia absorbed that in silence. “And we set out tomorrow?”
“At half past seven,” Ashbourne said. “Bellamy will send the carriage for you and bring you here first. From Ashbourne House, you will travel on with my aunt.”
“Tomorrow is… possible, I suppose.”
“You have little to pack?”
“Very little that is mine.”
He disliked the answer. More precisely, he disliked that he noticed it.
“Bellamy will send the carriage for you. Give him the direction before you leave.”
“That is not necessary. I can hire—”
“You cannot hire anything if your eleven shillings were stolen,” Lady Maria said. “Do not be proud at the expense of dry shoes.”
Miss Winthrop looked startled, then glanced at Ashbourne.
He kept his face still. “My aunt is correct, though I regret encouraging her. The carriage will come.”
For the first time since he had entered the room, Miss Winthrop looked genuinely uncertain.
“Very well,” she said. “Thank you.”
“You will meet the children when we reach Wrenfield,” Ashbourne said. “I would not advise beginning with Latin.”
“I had thought to begin with names.”
“You know their names.”
“I meant that I should like them to tell me what they prefer to be called. Children enjoy being consulted in small matters before being guided in large ones.”
Lady Maria smiled. “You see, Edmund? Sensible.”
“I did not say otherwise.”
Miss Winthrop rose, and both Ashbourne and Lady Maria stood.
“Your Grace, I am grateful for the opportunity. I will do my best for your children. I will not promise miracles, because children generally dislike being treated as miracles in need of management, but I can promise attention, consistency, and patience.”
“Patience may be tested.”
“Then it will have exercise.”
He bowed. “Until tomorrow, Miss Winthrop.”
She curtsied. “Until tomorrow, Your Grace. Lady Maria.”
Lady Maria took her hand. “Bellamy will see you out and arrange the carriage.”
Miss Winthrop’s smile escaped then, quick and warm before she mastered it. Ashbourne saw it and, for reasons he had no wish to examine, found the room less airless for the space of a breath.
Bellamy escorted her out. Her footsteps receded across the hall. A moment later the front door opened, voices murmured, and the house settled into the quieter state that follows a decision no one can pretend has not been made.
Lady Maria turned to her nephew. “Well?”
Ashbourne returned to the mantel. “She is impertinent; and she asks inconvenient questions.”
“Yes.”
“She will not be easily managed.”
“No.”
He looked at his aunt. “You are pleased by all of this.”
“Extremely.”
“Of course you are.”
Lady Maria walked to the window and looked out at the rain. “You did well, sending her to me.”
“I did not send her. I gave her an address.”
“Yes, dear. A distinction of enormous importance.”
Ashbourne said nothing for a while.
“Tomorrow’s journey may be difficult,” she said softly.
“Most journeys are.”
Lady Maria looked towards the door. “This one may matter more.”
Ashbourne said nothing, but he did not disagree.