Chapter 9 #3
“I was uncertain of him,” Augusta said. “I had seen something frightening before I met him, and when I saw his cane, I thought he might have been connected to it, so I judged him before I knew him properly.”
“Did Father know?”
“Oh, yes,” Augusta replied, and despite herself, she smiled. “I announced my suspicions in front of a church full of people, so there was very little chance of keeping them from him.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “You said it in church?”
“I did,” Augusta admitted. “It was not my finest moment, although I believed I was protecting someone, and when I think a person may be in danger, I do not always remember to consider whether my manners will survive.”
“Was Father angry?”
“He was furious,” Augusta said, and then she lowered her voice as though sharing a secret. “He looked at me as though he had never encountered anyone so troublesome in his life.”
Sarah’s mouth trembled at the corners.
“Did he shout?”
“No,” Augusta replied. “He became very quiet, which was considerably worse.”
Sarah smiled then, although it was small and quickly hidden.
“He does that,” she said.
“He does,” Augusta agreed. “Still, I have learned that his silence does not always mean what people think it means, and sometimes he says nothing when he is uncertain, while everyone assumes he is displeased.”
Sarah’s smile faded, and she looked at the book again.
“He is always quiet with me,” she said.
Augusta let the words settle before answering.
“What would you like him to say?” she asked.
Sarah shrugged, although the movement appeared too careful to be careless.
“I do not know,” she replied. “He asks whether I have behaved well, and he asks whether my lessons are finished, and sometimes he asks whether I need anything.”
“And what do you tell him?”
“I tell him I do not need anything,” Sarah said.
“Is that true?”
Sarah did not answer.
Augusta waited, and when the child continued staring at the illustration, she spoke again.
“You may tell me that you do not wish to answer,” Augusta said. “I will not be offended.”
Sarah’s fingers moved over the faded castle.
“I want him to stay longer,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. “He comes to the schoolroom, and everyone stands up, and then he asks questions, although he does not sit down. When he finishes, he says he has work, and then he leaves.”
Augusta felt a heaviness gather in her chest, although she kept her expression calm.
“Perhaps he does not know that you want him to stay,” Augusta said.
“He should know,” Sarah replied, and then she looked up with a faint trace of frustration. “Fathers are meant to know things.”
“They know some things,” Augusta said. “They know when roofs must be repaired, and they know which tenant has not paid his rent, and they know how many horses are in the stables, although they can be remarkably foolish about the people who love them.”
Sarah’s brows drew together.
“Father is not foolish.”
“Not in most matters,” Augusta replied. “However, I think he may be foolish about you.”
Sarah looked almost offended by the suggestion.
“He knows I am his daughter,” she said.
“Yes, he does,” Augusta replied, and she shifted slightly closer.
“He knows that you are his daughter, and he knows that he is responsible for you, and he knows that he wants you safe, educated, and properly cared for. Yet knowing those things is not the same as knowing what you hope for when he enters the room.”
Sarah lowered her voice.
“I hope he will sit beside me,” she said. “Sometimes I leave a book open when I hear him in the corridor, and I think he might ask what I am reading, although he usually walks past.”
“Do you call to him?”
Sarah shook her head quickly.
“Why not?” Augusta asked.
“Miss Morton says I must not call after him,” Sarah replied. “She says it is not respectful, and if he wished to come inside, he would.”
Augusta’s mouth tightened, although she took care not to criticize the governess directly in front of the child.
“Miss Morton may believe she is teaching you good manners,” Augusta said, “although I do not think your father would object to hearing his own daughter call his name.”
“He might be busy,” Sarah said.
“He is often busy,” Augusta replied. “That does not mean he wishes never to be interrupted, and it certainly does not mean that his work matters more than you.”
Sarah looked doubtful.
“He has papers,” she said. “There are always many papers on his desk, and people come to speak to him, and the housekeeper says no one should enter unless he asks.”
“Your father hides behind his papers,” Augusta said, and then she smiled slightly when Sarah looked surprised. “He may deny it if you ever repeat that, although I have seen him do it. When he does not know what to say, he becomes very interested in whatever is lying on the desk.”
“Father always knows what to say.”
“No, my dear,” Augusta replied. “He only sounds as though he does.”
Sarah considered the idea with great seriousness.
“Does he not know what to say to you?” she asked.
“Quite often,” Augusta said. “Sometimes he says the wrong thing, and sometimes I say something sharp in return, and then we both pretend we meant the conversation to become an argument.”
“Do you fight?”
“We disagree,” Augusta replied. “Your father would probably call it a discussion, although that is only his way of making it sound more dignified.”
Sarah’s mouth curved again.
“Does he get angry with you?”
“Sometimes,” Augusta said. “I also get angry with him, although neither of us runs away from the conversation, and that is important.”