by Abigail Agar
“It’s simply her age, Sir. It’s a rarity to have someone 20 years old in this house, surely.”
“Marybeth was around 20 when we met,” the Duke said, allowing himself this tiny vessel of nostalgia before stabbing it out. He shot up from his chair, reaching for his cane.
“Marybeth was a true beauty,” Jeffrey said, sounding agreeable for agreeability’s sake.
The Duke hated when he seemed to bend to the Duke’s every thought. His eyelids fluttered at this. But he shot out from behind the desk, ambling towards where he felt sure the doorway was. With the governess preparing to move into her new bedroom, he knew he had to meet with Claudia. He hadn’t allowed time to meet with her since the previous governess had scampered off in the middle of the night, without leaving a single note. When he’d enquired with Sally about what had happened, Sally had mumbled something that sounded ill-suiting for even his ragamuffin child.
As he’d arranged it, Claudia was awaiting him in the downstairs study. She reached for his arm, guiding him towards the large chair near the window. He could feel the slight sunlight, easing from behind grey clouds, and casting through the glass. He sighed, sitting across from his daughter.
“What are you doing here?” he asked her, trying to make his voice soft. “What were you doing while you waited?”
“I’ve been reading, Father,” Claudia said.
At this, the Duke heard the snap of a book closing. He imagined her perched across from him, on that dark purple chair, her legs crossed at the ankle. He wondered if his image of her was even correct. Four weeks could probably do a lot to someone’s face,. Especially a girl on the brink of turning twelve.
“That’s good. It’s good that you’re keeping up your studies, despite not having a governess the past few days,” the Duke said, trying to make his voice formal, stern. “Although you know I’ve come here to discuss the events of the previous weeks. I know that you and the other children have had a hand in ridding our estate of the governesses.”
Claudia didn’t speak for a long moment, and the Duke felt a strange rise in anger. He pressed his fist against his knee, leaning towards her. “Claudia. You can’t just not work with me, on this. Do you truly want me to send you and your brothers and sister to boarding school?”
“No!” Claudia blurted, showing how her voice quivered. “No, Papa. No. We don’t want that at all…”
“Then why can’t you possibly give these women a fighting chance,” the Duke stammered. “I know they’re not your mother. They’ll never be your mother …”
“Father, they’re absolutely atrocious women,” Claudia returned. “Christopher finds it absolutely impossible to get along with them. Always picking fights with them. Putting frogs in their bed. And Max, well. Some of them make him cry endlessly, deep into the night. I know he’s terribly sensitive, Father, but it simply won’t do, the way these women speak to him. Only I know how to handle them …”
“But when it’s only you, Claudia, they run wild around the house and around the business. Christopher breaking those instruments …”
“Father, I’m terribly sorry!” Claudia seemed to all-out weep, now. The Duke heard tiny smacks as if she were hitting her cheeks with her hands. “Father, I know it’s all my fault. But won’t you give me just a few more chances? I know I can get them under control.”
“Claudia, darling. You’re only eleven years old,” the Duke said, forcing his chin towards his chest. “It shouldn’t be on your shoulders to keep the children under wraps. That said, I’ve hired yet another governess, just now. And I must tell you. If she doesn’t work, I’m at my wits’ end. You, the four of you. You’ll be sent away until I’m well again.”
Claudia inhaled sharply. She let out a strange, almost volatile shriek. It seemed she sensed just how serious her father was at this moment. Claudia sho up from her chair, reaching for her father’s hands. Her skin was terribly soft, almost baby-like. The Duke’s head felt heavy with a sudden, crushing memory of him and Marybeth first teaching Claudia to walk. How they’d ambled along the edge of the field while the summer sun had gleamed overhead. They’d collapsed onto a picnic blanket, each of them nibbling on nuts and fruits. At the end, Claudia’s lips had been ruby red from strawberries. Marybeth had mopped her lips slightly with a napkin before giving up. “It’s just what having children is. One mess after the next,” she’d said with a sigh.
How often we have premonitions about our lives, the Duke thought. He blinked several times, attempting to remind himself that this was his reality—this darkness. This one in which he was meant to keep his children safe, even if he and the governesses couldn’t do it on their own. He had to make decisions based on the business. Based on the future. Because the future crept up to you far too quickly and made your memories a mockery.
“Father, I understand we’ve been a great horror to you,” Claudia began, her hands shivering atop his. “But please, know we love you. Know we want to do everything we can to keep our family together …”
The Duke couldn’t carry on like this. Whereas before, when he’d arranged this meeting with Claudia, he’d assumed that he could speak with her sternly, inform her about the rules of the next days (or hopefully months, with this new governess), he now felt stricken with grief. He turned his head further towards the window, unable to speak. Claudia began to weep outright, unable to control her little eleven-year-old mind.
Finally, when the Duke felt her tears might rip her in two, he heard the door. Sally Hodgins’ voice of authority echoed through the room. “Claudia. Can’t you see it’s time to leave your father alone?” she said.
The Duke could almost feel the caverns and wrinkles along Sally Hodgins’ face, always articulated all the more when she spoke in this way. Before, when Marybeth had been in their lives, Sally had been a far less dominating woman. But she’d attempted to pick up the slack, in the wake of Marybeth’s death. And she’d grown almost ferocious because of it.
But the Duke knew she had their best interests at heart. He couldn’t spurn her.
Claudia rushed from the room, scampering into the hallway. The Duke kept his face towards the window, hungry for any last beams of light the sun might lend him. Sally spoke in a way that told him he didn’t need to answer.
“The children will meet Marina Blackwater, now,” she said. “I’ll keep my eye on all of them, to ensure that everything goes smoothly. But know that I don’t have a good feeling about this woman. Not at all.”
“Jeffrey’s informed me that she’s not terribly beautiful,” the Duke heard himself saying, surprising even him.
“I suppose there’s a reason a woman of her age hasn’t yet found a suitor,” Sally said, sounding almost gleeful. “Who knows where she’ll run off to after this? Can’t imagine the world has its doors wide open for her.”
“She’ll do for now,” the Duke said, heaving another sigh. “She’ll have to. Otherwise, I haven’t a choice but to send them away.”
“You know very well they’d do quite fine away,” Sally said.
“I’m not having the conversation quite yet, Ms Hodgins,” the Duke said, his voice like a gate closing stiff between them. “I’ll have that conversation when we come to the conceivable end. Thank you. Please, see yourself out.”
Sally closed the door uttering a brief, “Very well, Sir.” In the silence that followed, the Duke could hear a sheep, baying out across the moor. Such a quiet, bleak sound—this sheep, who, he felt sure, could feel the coming weight of the winter months, when he would surely be slaughtered. How in-tune you could be with the world when you were faced with such devastation. Perhaps the Duke, himself, was on his deathbed—first the blindness, then, maybe, a bum leg, an aching stomach. But leaving this world behind didn’t frighten him the way it used to.
In fact, on this day that he’d made his oldest daughter cry yet again, he felt sure that he wasn’t doing much good for the planet. He’d hardly lifted his violin in the weeks since the blindness had overtaken him. L
istening to music had grown into a horrendous task, one that reminded him that he could no longer see the strings beneath his fingers.
“Take my hearing as well, won’t you?” he muttered to the heavens. “I don’t want to hear my children laughing. I don’t want to hear the music, as it belongs to another time. That time is no longer mine.”
Chapter 6
The teensy closet-sized room at the far end of the hallway was to be hers for the duration of her stay, said Ms Hodgins (stated in a way that reminded Marina she was very much not suspecting that Marina would make the cut for very long). Marina slid her suitcase along the floorboards and gazed at the sombre duvet—a strange, mustard brown colour, that wavered towards the floor and didn’t quite fit the twin-sized mattress. The room had an attic feel, with a slanted window. The window hadn’t been cleaned in some time, and it was hazy, lending sight to only the yonder moors and a dotting of barns at the far edge of the estate. Marina had heard tell that the Duke had a wide selection of horses, which he and his wife had often ridden. She wondered if the children had been allowed to ride in the wake of their mother’s death. Something that curdled in her stomach told her that the answer was very much a no.
“You’ll be meeting the children in a half-hour’s time,” Sally Hodgins told her before ducking out of the room and slamming the door. Apparently, she would return to find Marina and lead her to the children. Marina wasn’t to know what was going to happen next unless she was told. She wondered if she would ever be given that “free rein” to teach the children she so desired.
Truth be told, she had a few ideas of how this would go: that the children would be hesitant to like her, at first, but would soon warm up to her insistence that “play” should be a part of all studies. She would tell them jokes, lead them into the woods to scavenge for mushrooms, help them learn to read some of her favourite books from her youth …
And above all, of course, keep them out of their father’s way, until he was ready to see them again …
But she felt the reality of it, lurking like an ominous cloud. Why had so many governesses run away? Certainly, they’d been older than she, and probably with things to return to (like families, perhaps, or brothers and sisters who actually cared for them). Perhaps they didn’t need somewhere to turn, so readily. The thought of appearing back on her mother’s doorstep, to watch her grieve her father in a way that was far angrier, and less sad, than Marina felt was appropriate, formed a shadow on her mind.
Marina opened her suitcase and began to draw out her few belongings, stacking the books along the far wardrobe. The violin, which she’d kept in the bottom, was slotted beneath the bed. Something told her that she shouldn’t have brought it into the house of the great musical instrument maker, the Duke of Wellington. It felt like a secret she was meant to keep from him. She wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps it was because there was such a sombre feeling over the house, like not a note of music had been played in several months.
Within the hour, Sally Hodgins arrived back at her doorway, rapping her large knuckles against the door. Marina shot to the door, appearing and feeling soldier-like. Ms Hodgins cranked her head down the hallway, forcing Marina to follow. And she did, placing her hands across her stomach. Frequently, she realised she’d forgotten to breathe. She forced the air in, out. In, out. But still, the world seemed to shift to and fro as if she were standing atop a large ship.
Ms Hodgins led her down a long hallway, then another, then up a winding staircase. “The children spend their afternoons up here,” she said. “Reading. Writing. Studying. Of course, as mentioned, they haven’t had much study in the days since the most recent governess left. Although, that governess was a dud, herself. Can’t imagine she’d ever had a studious thought. Here it is. Children! Come along. Your new governess is here.”
Marina heard the shuffle of tiny feet as they turned the corner. They entered the brightly lit playroom, its walls lined with windows and its floorboards coated with rugs and carpeting of many different colours. Marina reasoned that whoever had decorated it had more of a flair for the creative spirit than anyone else she’d met that day. Certainly, it didn’t link up with anything she’d grown up with—with her mother’s styling, with her father’s opinions about how to raise children. This gave her heart warmth, albeit, just for a moment.
Four children straightened out into a line before her, their feet in stockings. Girl, boy, boy, girl. What had been the ages? He’d said, eleven, nine, seven, and four. She counted them out, assessing their faces, their temperaments.
“This is Lottie, the youngest,” Ms Hodgins said, tapping her hand against Lottie’s curls. “And Max, Christopher, and the oldest, Claudia.”
“I’m nearly twelve,” Claudia blurted, before smacking her hand across her lips—knowing she’d spoken out of turn.
Marina felt close to laughter at this overzealous action. But she kept her lips pressed tight, raising her hand to the children. Ms Hodgins wanted to do the speaking for her, and Marina knew she had to let her do it.
“This is Marina Blackwater,” Ms Hodgins said raising her chin. She looked almost like a peacock when she did this, proud and arrogant.
“You’re young,” the nine-year old—was it Christopher?—said.
At this, Marina wanted to laugh again. But she kept her face sombre, tight.
“Christopher. What did we say about speaking out of turn?” Ms Hodgins said.
Beside him, the younger boy blinked big, anxious eyes at Marina. Marina had this strange feeling to draw him into her, hug him tight. She could almost feel him quivering from where she stood. His anxiety met hers, she realised. The very same feeling that she’d had since her father had passed—and since she’d realised everything in her life was going to have to change.
“Well. I suppose I’ll leave the five of you to get to know one another,” Ms Hodgins said, strutting for the door. “Although, Marina. Please keep in mind that you’re not here to play. You’re here to teach. I know you’re not terribly much older than these children.”
At this Claudia snickered—with an unkindness that almost matched Ms Hodgins. Marina tilted her head towards Claudia, trying to gauge where this resentment was coming from. Perhaps—and this was projection—Claudia had taken the brunt of her mother’s death, having to care for her younger siblings. Since then, governess after governess had attempted to take her role. And now, there was Marina—only about eight years her senior.
Ms Hodgins closed the door, creating a bubble of tension between the five of them. Marina stepped closer, peering at each of them with curious, large eyes. Max’s were downturned, seemingly analysing every texture in the floor. Sensing that she had to be the first to speak, Marina turned towards Claudia.
“You said you’re nearly twelve?” she asked.
“In a month,” Claudia said. “In November.”
“Well, that’s remarkable. You know, I only just had a birthday myself,” Marina said.
“How old did you turn?” Claudia asked. Her face grew a bit more open with this question—glowing around the cheeks, her lips parting. As if, ordinarily, she didn’t feel allowed to ask such questions of her governesses. As if this kind of curiosity found no normal way out.
“Twenty,” Marina said. She reached the rug on which all four of them stood and, on instinct, sat at their feet, crossing her legs. She tapped the ground in front of her, giving them a wide smile. “Why don’t you all sit down here? I don’t want to stand unless we have to.”
“Ms Hodgins says we aren’t supposed to sit on the floor,” Christopher said, sounding accusatory.
“Well, I suppose she won’t know what we don’t tell her,” Marina said, shrugging. “And as far as I can tell, I’m in charge here. Unless the four of you want to tell me differently?”
It seemed the children had a secret dialogue. They exchanged glances, with Lottie’s little eyebrows bobbing up and down (perhaps she hadn’t gotten the silent communication down completely, as she was only four
years old). Max sat, first: a surprising gesture, given that he was easily the quietest out of the four. He brought his fingers together, linked his hands. He peered at Marina with a kind of genuine interest as if he’d never truly looked at another person before.