A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

by Catherine Tinley

  Mary promised to do her best and left the vicarage with more determination than confidence. As she trudged along the lanes back towards Stiffkey Hall, her mind was beset with worry. Papa languished in gaol, accused of treason, and she—a powerless maid employed as a governess—was expected to save him. It was impossible! It could not be done.

  Yet, as she marched towards her current abode, with the weak warmth of a winter sun on her face, she could not help but feel a small sliver of hope. She was here in Norfolk, after all, and tomorrow she would see him. She must be resolute, and believe that good would somehow prevail.

  * * *

  Stiffkey Hall was located in the parish of Little Snoring, adjacent to Great Snoring, Houghton St Giles and the Barshams. Walsingham itself was only a matter of two miles away—an easy walk for a country-bred girl like Mary. Yesterday, she had turned west at the edge of Great Snoring, taking the Barsham road to Papa’s parish. Today, she continued straight on, towards the village where Papa was now incarcerated.

  The road was narrow and in poor condition at times, the mud made worse by last night’s rain. The way was flanked by unruly hedgerows where, Mary reminded herself, birds would soon begin to nest.

  There is always hope of another spring.

  In the darkest of winters, the world continued to turn and new life to emerge. It was almost miraculous that she was in Norfolk at all. Somehow, she would find a way to help her father. She must.

  Her absence this morning might well be remarked upon, particularly as she had been gone from the house for so long yesterday. She had made a point of expressing a love of brisk walking during dinner last night. Sir Nicholas and Mr Bramber had listened with polite disinterest.

  Oh, dear! she had thought. I must appear quite eccentric!

  Still, it did not matter what opinion Sir Nicholas or anyone else held. Her quest was more important. With Sir Nicholas’s sister due to arrive before nightfall, Mary might have little time after today with which to pursue Papa’s comfort and safety.

  Eventually, Walsingham came into view. It was a pretty village, with neat, half-timbered buildings, an old abbey and some interesting shops. At any other time, Mary might have enjoyed exploring its architecture and history. Today, however, she was in no mood to play the visitor, instead making directly for the gaol—Walsingham Bridewell.

  The building looked relatively new, which was something of a relief. As a vicar’s daughter, she had on occasion assisted him in his pastoral duties to care for the poor, the old, the hungry and the prisoners, and some of the older prisons had filled her with horror. This one was of brick, surrounded by high cobblestone walls.

  Papa is in there!

  Mary’s stomach turned just looking at it. Gathering her courage, she walked around it until she found the way in.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ she offered, with a confidence she did not feel.

  The guard behind the large wooden desk looked up. He was large and sullen, and unhealthy-looking.

  ‘I am here to visit the prisoners.’ Mary indicated the basket on her arm. Many was the time she had performed this same ritual, in many gaols. Just never before for Papa.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name is Miss Stanton,’ she lied, giving Mama’s maiden name. Hopefully he would instantly forget it. ‘I am working at Stiffkey Hall and have walked here in order to give succour to the unfortunate prisoners.’

  ‘Unfortunate?’ The man raised an eyebrow. ‘They are here because of their own misdeeds and as such are to be punished.’

  ‘Of course! And yet, the Bridewell is known as a house of correction, is it not? The Bible tells us to aid the sick, the hungry and the prisoner.’

  She quoted Matthew’s gospel at him, causing his eyes to narrow in suspicion. ‘Are you a Dissenter?’

  She laughed. ‘Not at all! Merely doing good works as I was raised to do.’

  Grumbling, he lurched to his feet. ‘I shall have to search your basket.’

  ‘Of course!’ She held it out, remaining motionless as he rummaged through the napkin containing various ends of food she had purloined from the scraps at the breakfast table. He ignored the New Testament at the bottom of the basket.

  Taking a piece of precious meat for himself, then stuffing a large piece of cheese into his pocket, the guard returned the basket to her. ‘We have but four prisoners at present, all waiting for the next Quarter-Day sessions.’

  ‘What will become of them?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sir Harold Gurney will decide their fate just before Easter.’

  She nodded briskly. ‘Are there any that might seek to do me harm?’ Papa had never allowed her to visit violent prisoners.

  He shook his head, absently scratching his groin. ‘Nah. A poacher, a pair of burglars and a traitor.’

  She feigned concern. ‘A traitor, really? Is he or she a desperate character, then? Must I be on my guard?’

  He laughed. ‘The traitor is the easiest of all of them. Until the Bow Street Runners caught him, he was a vicar, no less!’

  ‘A vicar? Truly?’

  He nodded vigorously, seemingly pleased by her incredulity. ‘So I was informed. Assisting enemies of the Crown at the very least. Treason at worst.’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘What a world we live in, that a man of the cloth should stoop so low.’

  ‘You are right there.’ He reached behind for a bunch of keys hanging on a nail. ‘Follow me.’

  He took her through two locked doors, securing each behind them as they passed through. Finally, they reached the cell corridor. Identical iron doors marched off at regular intervals to their right. Mary, scanning quickly, counted eight cells.

  ‘This one is the Dark Cell, where I put them if they misbehave.’ He pointed to the first door. ‘Our current bunch of ne’er-do-wells are in these four.’ He indicated the cells furthest from the way out. ‘I’ve put the traitor at the end and placed the poacher between the burglars.’

  ‘Very well. I shall begin here.’ She pointed to the nearest cell.

  Wordlessly, the guard unlocked the door. ‘Good day,’ she announced cheerily. ‘I am Miss Stanton, come to visit you today.’

  The prisoner, a thin man of indeterminate years, eyed her sourly. ‘What’s in the basket?’

  ‘Some food,’ she replied, ‘and a Bible that I may read to you some passages to ease your spirit.’

  ‘I’ll take the food,’ he muttered, ‘but you may keep your Bible reading.’

  She nodded and passed him a share of the food. He grabbed it eagerly, stuffing it into his mouth as though he were afraid she would change her mind and take it back. ‘Any more?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I shall try to return another day, though.’

  She stepped back to the corridor and the guard locked the door. The ritual was repeated twice more, save that the third prisoner, who told her that he was the son of the man in the first cell, asked her to read something from the Bible for him. She did so, choosing passages that she hoped offered him some ease.

  She spoke loudly, hoping that Papa might hear and recognise her voice. She needed him to be cautious when he first saw her, so that he would not reveal her true identity. If the guard realised she was the traitor’s daughter, he might not allow her to see Papa at all.

  Finally, it was time. The guard turned the key and opened the door to Papa’s cell.

  Pale winter light from the small window provided some illumination, yet at first Mary thought the cell was empty. The other prisoners, on hearing the key in the lock, had jumped up and were standing in the centre of the room when the guard opened the door. Papa had not.

  Her eyes eventually picked him out, lying on the straw-strewn wooden platform that served as a bed. Apart from the foul bucket in the corner and the long iron chains fixing Papa to the wall, the cell was empty. The walls were pale, plastered brick and th
e floor littered with dirty straw.

  As the door opened, Papa stirred, turning his head to face her. She knew him, of course, though shock rippled through her on seeing the change in him. His beard was long and unkempt, his cheekbones hollowed with hunger and the expression in his gaze one of utter hopelessness.

  ‘Mary? Is that you, child?’ He looked dazed, his speech slurred and unclear.

  ‘My name is Miss Stanton,’ she replied briskly, aware that her hands were gripping the basket so tightly that the knuckles were showing white. The guard remained behind her, listening to every word. ‘I have come to visit all of the prisoners in this hopeless place.’

  Papa raised himself up to a half-upright position, then swung his legs to the floor. When he looked at her again, his expression was guarded. ‘I see. “Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation”,’ he quoted slowly.

  ‘The letter to the Romans,’ she responded. ‘I am told you are a clergyman.’

  ‘I was, at least. I do not know any more who or what I am.’

  He is so thin!

  She could see his breastbone and the top of his ribs, where the grubby shirt gave way to the wrinkled paleness of his neck and chest. ‘I have brought some food.’ She offered him some bread and their fingers touched briefly as he took it.

  Papa!

  With some effort, she managed to conceal the anguish piercing through her. ‘I have also brought a Bible, in case you might welcome my reading it to you.’

  ‘Thank you, child. I should welcome it. I never thought to hear again—’ He broke off, then continued in a different tone. ‘I was used to being the one visiting those in prison. These tribulations have been sent to me for a reason. Perhaps I was too arrogant, too sure of my place. The Widow’s Mite is worth more than the rich man’s beneficence.’

  She could not argue, though it pained her to see him so broken, in spirit as in body. So she did the only thing she could; she read to him—carefully selected passages she had prepared to offer hope, and comfort.

  The guard had now been yawning in the corridor for quite ten minutes, so Mary was unsurprised when he called a halt to her visit. ‘Enough!’

  ‘Will you—can you return?’ Papa’s eyes were a mix of concern, fear and desperate hope.

  ‘I shall try my best. What is your name?’

  ‘Mr Smith.’

  She gripped his hand briefly, eyes meeting eyes. ‘I am working locally as a governess and I do not know when I shall have a day off. But I promise to try.’

  He nodded, his throat working with emotion. Turning, she stepped outside the cell, wincing as she heard the clang of it closing behind her.

  By the time they had returned to the guardroom she had her emotions under some control. It would, however, be reasonable for a gently-bred young lady to feel compassion for the prisoners and so she dared voice some of it to the guard. ‘It always upsets me,’ she offered, ‘no matter how many prisoners I visit. Today, the young burglar and the old clergyman have been particularly affecting.’

  He eyed her with incomprehension. ‘Quite so, miss.’

  ‘Since they will be here without even the benefit of a hearing for the next two months, I shall endeavour to visit as much as I may—which might not,’ she acknowledged, ‘be very often.’ She handed him a precious coin. ‘Thank you for allowing me to spend time with these unfortunate prisoners.’

  With a wide, gap-toothed smile, the guard concealed the coin somewhere about his person. ‘You will be most welcome, Miss. My name is Gedge, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gedge. You have been most accommodating and so I shall inform the magistrate if I ever should meet him.’

  With this final act, she hefted her basket and left the gaol.

  Chapter Six

  ‘A governess? But I already have a governess!’

  There was a brief silence. Sir Nicholas had just introduced Mary to his sister, who had responded with something like shock. Mary, expecting a polite exchange, was entirely bewildered. She stood immobile by the salon fireplace, transfixed by the exchange between brother and sister.

  Sir Nicholas seemed unperturbed. ‘And a most estimable creature she is! Miss Cushion has been a great support to you, I know.’

  Mrs Fenhurst’s face was flushed with anger. ‘Her name is Cushing, not Cushion! And she is going to be extremely displeased when she hears that you have appointed a second governess. As am I! You had no right to do it, Nicky. No right at all!’

  ‘I meant only to assist you, my dear Susan,’ he responded smoothly. ‘Since you were determined to bring all your delightful offspring with you—’

  ‘You make it sound as though I had a hundred children!’

  ‘It does sometimes seem like it,’ he murmured, then, in a louder tone, added, ‘Besides, I shall need you to act as hostess and I cannot have you too distracted.’

  This seemed to appease his sister momentarily. ‘Oh, so you mean to entertain? Well...’ she preened a little ‘...I dare say you shall need me in that case. I have developed quite the reputation for entertaining at home, you know. Although obviously my house is nothing like as extravagant as Stiffkey Hall. I assume soirées? Musicales? Perhaps some dancing? It would be good for Amabel and Beatrice to try their steps here before I take them to London after Easter. I mean to launch Amabel this year, you know.’

  Sir Nicholas was listening with all the appearance of interest. ‘Fascinating!’

  Mary could not help but be a little diverted. Despite the fact that her very future—and her ability to assist Papa—depended upon Sir Nicholas securing Mrs Fenhurst’s approval, it was clear that Sir Nicholas seemed confident he could manage his sister. The notion intrigued her.

  ‘So it is all agreed then? Capital!’ He rubbed his hands together, and turned to Mary. ‘Miss Smith,’ he said sternly. ‘I must ask you to follow Mrs Fenhurst’s directions to the letter. You have been employed as a governess, but if Miss Cushion—’

  ‘Cushing!’

  ‘If Miss Cushing can spare you, then I expect you to assist my sister in organising and hosting the various parties and entertainments.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Mary turned to Mrs Fenhurst. ‘I shall be happy to assist in whatever way I can.’

  ‘Hmmm. I suppose I shall find ways to make use of you,’ Mrs Fenhurst replied flatly. Sir Nicholas closed his eyes briefly.

  ‘Ah!’ Mrs Fenhurst smiled. The dining room door had opened to admit an elderly lady accompanying two girls. ‘Girls, come and make your curtsies to your uncle Nicky! Thank you, Cushing.’

  Mary eyed them with interest. Both were dark-haired and dark-eyed, like their mother and their uncle. The older, a tall girl of about sixteen, was wearing an entirely unsuitable gown in a strange shade of puce, over-trimmed with heavy Spanish lace. ‘Good evening, Uncle.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him and gave a false-looking smile. ‘I am delighted to see you again.’

  Sir Nicholas did not, it seemed, share the delight. Raising a quizzing-glass, he addressed his sister. ‘What is that get-up the girl is wearing, Susan? She cannot go out in society looking like a matron, when she is only sixteen.’

  ‘I shall be seventeen next month. And this colour is all the crack!’ the young lady declared defiantly.

  ‘Amabel! Do not use such coarse language! I have told you a hundred times!’ Mrs Fenhurst uttered the reproach in a mechanical way. ‘And, Nicky, what would you know of female fashions? Although—’ she cast a dubious eye on her daughter’s gown. ‘Is that your aunt’s old dress that you were reworking? I am not sure it is entirely suitable.’

  Miss Cushing, a thin, elderly lady in a dark grey gown, was wringing her hands in distress. ‘Oh, Mrs Fenhurst, I do apologise. She did insist on wearing it, even though I was not sure it was an appropriate gown. I knew we should not have brought it!’ She lifted a lace handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eye.
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br />   ‘Oh, fie, Cushing, it is delightful! Why, I spent hours adding the lace—and I copied it from something I saw in La Belle Assemblée, so of course it is right!’ Amabel, Mary noted, looked a little uncertain, despite the defiance in her tone. Meanwhile the younger girl—Mary had forgotten her name—was watching the exchange with all the appearance of terror.

  Sir Nicholas snorted. ‘Just because you saw it on a fashion plate does not mean it is suitable for a girl your age. Why, people will think your mother cannot afford to clothe you in printed muslins and colours suitable for a girl making her come-out! You would not want that, now would you, Amabel?’

  His niece, much struck, uttered a surprised, ‘No! Of course not!’

  He nodded. ‘Tonight, we have no visitors, so you may wear it with impunity. But you will need to be more appropriately clothed if I am to allow you to appear at the entertainments that I am planning.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle,’ Amabel replied demurely, her eyes lighting up. She thought for a moment. ‘Mama, I shall need new dresses!’

  Mrs Fenhurst’s expression turned a little sly. ‘Well, I do not know how I am to afford to buy them for you.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I thought we were coming to Norfolk for a quiet sojourn. I had no idea there would be so much entertaining. Besides, I cannot be taking you to dressmakers and the like, as I shall be quite exhausted from acting as hostess for my brother.’ She sighed. ‘But then, I am happy to sacrifice myself, for I understand the importance of family.’

  Sir Nicholas, listening to this exchange with a cynical expression, nodded. ‘Very well, Susan. I shall pay for a couple of dresses for the girls—and for yourself, of course. I would not like it to be believed that I failed to understand the importance of family.’

  Mrs Fenhurst was all delighted surprise. ‘Why, Nicky, how generous of you! Girls, do thank your uncle!’

  They did so, Amabel with clear glee and her sister with some awkwardness.

  She has not yet found her voice.

  Recalling herself at fifteen, Mary understood a little of what the younger girl might be feeling. Thankfully, Mary had had Papa to believe in her and help her believe that she herself was capable and strong.