He shrugged his small shoulders in a bird-like movement. “Okay.”
Bird-like and vulnerable, she thought. It would take a lot of patience to win his trust, but one look at those wary, seafoam eyes told her it would be worth the effort to bring some warmth to the life of a very lonely little boy.
“We shall begin our studies tomorrow, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me some more of the house right now? Would you do that?”
“Okay.” Then he corrected himself. “Yes, Miss Langley.”
Jane bent down close to him. “Perhaps you might call me Miss Jane. It sounds ever so much more friendly, and I do hope we will be friends.” She didn’t wait for him to respond but went on in a confidential tone. “One other thing. This is such a big house that I find it rather frightening. Would you mind holding my hand as you show me about?”
She reached out her own hand. He stared at it, then slowly placed his own palm within hers.
“Follow me.”
* * * *
Peter showed her the various rooms in the east wing, including the portrait gallery where Jane managed to coax the first tentative smiles from her young charge with funny comments on the dress or expressions of some dusty, long-gone ancestor. They were about to descend the main staircase when Peter pointed to the other wing. He was now putting more than two words together at a time, something Jane hailed as a major victory.
“That is where my Uncle’s rooms are.”
She was surprised—from all that she knew, she had surmised that his guardian was elderly. But then she realized that he must be using the term loosely. Great uncle, no doubt.
“Your uncle is your guardian?”
He nodded .
“Is he very old?”
The boy nodded again.
Just as she thought. “And where is he?”
“I think he is…abroad,” he answered vaguely.
Now that Bonaparte was safely tucked away on Elba, the rich and idle may play on the Continent again, she thought grimly, no matter what their responsibilities at home.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Peter thought for a bit. “A year, I think.”
“Well, perhaps he will visit again soon,” she said, thinking that naturally the boy must miss his only family. And if he does, she added to herself, she would let him know exactly what she thought of his behavior. Then she realized that of course she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
The boy immediately stiffened and said nothing.
Jane made another mental note. The boy didn’t care for his guardian, or maybe it was that he was afraid of him. Did the man beat him too? Was he one of those monsters who enjoyed hurting some defenseless thing? She vowed to learn more of the Marquess of Saybrook from Mrs. Fairchild, though of course she would have to be very circumspect. The lady was a relation, after all—though a distant, poor one—and as such would be loath to speak ill of him, especially to a stranger. But Jane was determined to find out just what was going on here.
As she descended the stairs, she realized that for the first time in days she felt almost gay. She had a challenge, and there was nothing like that to buck up her spirits. Lord Saybrook had best beware, she vowed to herself. He may have bullied a small child in the past, but if he showed his face here now, he would have to deal with her.
* * *
Chapter 3
Over the next weeks a pattern to their days emerged. After breakfast in the morning room—which Jane insisted Peter eat along with herself and sometimes Mrs. Fairchild, rather than alone in his room as had been the habit—they would repair to the schoolroom for the rest of the morning. The lessons were gratifying for both of them, for Jane found her pupil had a quickness of mind and inquisitive nature that made learning easy for him. And she noticed that some of the wariness began to fade in the enthusiasm of reading a certain passage aloud or of adding a column of numbers correctly.
Afternoons were spent exploring the vast gardens and home woods beyond the manor house. Jane found a spot she particularly liked, a stone bench protected by a yew hedge that overlooked a small pond. Sometime they would come with a book for Peter to practice reading aloud. Watching him giggle over a long and funny sounding word, she suddenly felt a glow inside, that she could bring a touch of happiness to the child. Why, she realized with a start, she had been so concerned with the boy that she hadn’t had time to miss her other life at all.
One day, after finishing a passage of Shakespeare, the sun was still bright and warm so Jane suggested they visit the stables, one of the few places they had not yet visited. She had been dying to see what manner of horses the Marquess kept but had held her impatience in check, knowing full well that it wasn’t expected in a governess. It was most difficult. More than once in her walks with Peter she had found herself longing to be able to gallop along the rolling fields and paths she saw.
The boy’s reaction shocked her.
His face took on a mulish look and he jammed his hands in his pockets. “I won’t go,” he announced. “I hate horses.”
“Why, Peter!” exclaimed Jane in disbelief. “I thought all boys were mad for horses. Don’t you like to ride?”
He shook his head doggedly. “I hate it.”
She reached over and gathered him into her lap. She had noticed that he wasn’t at all used to being touched or hugged, and even though he wouldn’t admit it, he seemed to like it very much.
“Now why is that?” she asked gently.
Peter didn’t answer her.
“Did a horse hurt you?”
There was another pause until finally he blurted out, “A horse killed my Mama. And my Papa.”
Jane pulled him closer while making a note to ask Mrs. Fairchild what had happened. “Oh, how terrible, Peter. I’m so sorry. But it must have been a terrible accident—horses don’t mean any harm. They are quite fun, actually. Would you at least walk there with me so I can see them?”
Peter stayed pressed to her chest. “Uncle Edward thinks I’m a very poor-spirited boy not to want to ride,” he said, fighting back tears.
Once again, Jane felt a wave of anger towards the callous guardian who was too insensitive to understand the boy’s natural fear for what it was and help him overcome it.
“Well, I think your uncle is a complete gudgeon,” she snapped. “Of course, you don’t like horses— I wouldn’t either, unless someone took the time to show me they aren’t all bad.”
Peter looked at her in surprise and a bit of awe as she spoke. Then in a small voice he said “You wouldn’t?”
“No. But I’ll show you some very special tricks for making them your friends, if you like. Maybe you’ll change your mind. What do you think?”
He looked at her doubtfully.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, and I will certainly not think you poor-spirited. In fact I think you’d be very, very brave to even take a look at them.”
He put his small hand in hers. “Alright. If you stay with me.”
* * * *
The stables were an impressive set of buildings arranged around a central courtyard. To Jane’s experienced eye it was obvious that they were well-tended by someone who knew a thing or two about horses. There wasn’t much activity at that time of the afternoon. A few nickers were heard from the horses inside their stalls and a stableboy could be heard whistling as he swept out the tack room. In an adjoining paddock, one lone horse stood placidly by the fence, twitching at the spring flies with its tail and browsing for bits of hay in the dirt.
Jane was relieved to see it was an old mare, one whose disposition was likely to be as peaceful as it appeared. She stopped, already sensing Peter’s tenseness, and felt in the pocket of her gown for the apple she had saved from lunch. She took it out, along with a small penknife and carefully cut it into quarters. She kept one out and put the rest back in her pocket.
“I’m going to make friends with this old mare,” she said. “One bite of this apple and she’ll loo
k forward to seeing me again! Why don’t you stay here and watch.”
She walked towards the fence holding the apple outstretched in her hand. The mare pricked her ears at the scent of food and gave a little whoosh of breath as she sidled right up against the rails. When Jane reached her, she eagerly gobbled the treat as Jane stroked the white blaze on her nose. and tickled her behind the ears.
“Would you like to give her a piece? Her mouth feels like velvet rubbing against your palm.”
Peter hesitated as he eyed the animal with some trepidation.
“It’s quite alright if you’d rather not. She is rather big, isn’t she. But she’s also very friendly, as you can see.”
The horse was now snuffling Jane’s cheek and she couldn’t help laughing at the tickling sensation.
That seemed to reassure the boy and he took a few tentative steps towards them. “You’ll stay right beside me?”
“Of course I will.”
That settled it. He came right to Jane’s side, shying back a little as the mare poked her nose inquisitively down towards him.
“Hold the apple flat in your hand, like this,” said Jane as she placed a slice in his palm. “Then reach out so she can see it.” She put her hand on his shoulder to encourage him as he slowly lifted his hand. The horse dipped her head and gently took the proffered fruit between her lips.
“OOOOhhhhh,” exclaimed Peter, jumping back. “It…tickled!”
“It does, doesn’t it,” Jane answered. “Do you want to try it again?”
Peter took another piece and this time he didn’t flinch when the mare took the treat. He even rubbed the tip of her nose as she chewed contentedly.
“It’s very soft,” he murmured.
“If I lift you up, you could scratch her ears.”
“Okay.”
Jane gathered him up and held him steady on one of the rails so he could reach the mare’s neck and head. He patted her forehead and ran his fingers through her mane. The mare turned and nuzzled his cheek.
“You see,” laughed Jane. “She likes you!”
The boy smiled broadly.
“And you know what horses like even more than apples?” she added in a low voice. “Carrots and lumps of sugar.”
“Do you think we could get some from Cook for tomorrow?” asked Peter, his eyes shining.
“I think that can be arranged. But now I think we had best get back before we are late for supper.”
* * * *
That night after she had read to Peter from Ivanhoe and put out his candle for the night, Jane went downstairs to where Mrs. Fairchild was knitting in the drawing room. She sat down and began to roll some of the loose skeins of wool in the work basket into neat balls. Mrs. Fairchild looked up from her work with a smile. “Why thank you, Miss Jane.” She, like all the rest of the servants, had copied Peter in calling her thus. “It fits,” Cook had announced with her characteristic forthrightness. “Miss Langley is much too stiff-necked for a nice, unpretentious lass like you.”
Jane returned the housekeeper’s smile. “I was wondering about something Peter said this afternoon,” she began. “He told me that both his mother and father were killed by horses. I don’t mean to pry in family history, but do you know what happened?”
Mrs., Fairchild’s needles stopped clicking in mid stitch. When she looked up, her face was pinched and drained of color.
“It was a terrible thing, it was.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “The two of them were so gay, so lively. Henry warned them not to ride over the West bridge that afternoon, that the timbers had been loosened by the storm. But apparently they didn’t heed him. They started racing each other. He tried to call to them—they reached the bridge together, urging their horses on. They were neck and neck in the middle of it when it gave way. The river was surging from the storm... Their bodies weren’t found for two days. Their feet were still tangled in the stirrups.” She shook her head repeatedly as if she could banish the whole incident. “And Mister Edward’s reaction… I…I still find it impossible to speak of. After all the other pain the family has had to endure...”
Jane lowered her eyes. She wished she could probe further and ask just what relation Peter’s mother was to the elusive Marquess, just what other “pain” it was Mrs. Fairchild spoke of. But she sensed the older woman could not be pressed any more.
“I’m sorry to have brought back such terrible memories.”
“You didn’t know,” replied Mrs. Fairchild. She continued her knitting, but after several exclamations of dismay at dropping a stitch, she placed the whole thing in her basket. “Forgive me if I retire early tonight. I find I am quite tired.”
She looked tired, thought Jane as the other woman hurried from the room. Tired and what was it—sad, perhaps. Most of the time she was so open and warm, yet other times Jane sensed there was a shadow over her and this house. Jane shook her head as she picked up the book she was currently reading. She would keep trying to figure it out.
* * * *
The next day, after lessons, Peter asked if they might get carrots and sugar from the kitchen and visit the stables again. Jane quickly acquiesced, glad to see the boy had lost none of his enthusiasm from the previous day. Indeed, when they spotted the mare—in much the same place as before—Peter let go of her hand and ran to the fence all by himself. Climbing to the top rail, he patted the horse’s nose with confidence while feeding it the treats.
“Oh look, Miss Jane,” he called as she approached. “She has eaten a whole carrot in one bite!”
“I told you,” replied Jane. “I see we shall have to bring more on our next visit.”
Peter was happily scratching at the horse’s ears while it snuffled at his jacket. He grinned. “I think she smells the sugar in my pocket.”
“Clever animal!”
Jane watched as the boy became engrossed in letting the animal gently mouth the lumps of sugar from his hand. All fear and wariness had disappeared and she saw only the buoyant enthusiasm that she felt a seven-year-old should have. She let him manage by himself for a few more minutes then went and leaned on the fence next to him, basking in the innocent delight radiating from his face.
“All gone,” he announced to the horse, holding up both hands for inspection. “I’ll bring more tomorrow.” He turned to Jane. “Can we, please?”
“Of course.” She gazed out past the paddock towards the copse of oak and pastures beyond. “You know, when I was little we had…horses around and I used to love to ride through the fields and woods. There must be any number of wonderful things to explore around Highwood. Would you like to do that?”
Some of the light went out of Peter’s face. “I can’t ride,” he answered, looking crestfallen, his hands clenched on the top rail. “I’m afraid.”
“Yes, and yesterday you couldn’t feed a horse.”
She saw that he was mulling over her words and when he looked at her there was a touch of hope in his eyes.
“You can’t ride, not because you’re afraid, but because someone didn’t teach you properly,” she continued. “We’re all afraid when we start—after all, they are such big creatures. But we get over it and then it is great fun, I assure you. Just like feeding this mare.”
Peter hesitated. “Uncle Edward would be very pleased.”
She had been wrong on one thing, she noted. The boy didn’t dislike his guardian, he was in awe of him and craved his regard. Again she felt a surge of dislike towards the man. Well, whether it made any difference to him or not, she was determined to help Peter overcome his fear.
“Yes, I’m sure he would, but even more importantly, you would like it. Do you want me to teach you?”
He nodded vigorously.
“Alright then, let’s go make arrangements with the head groom. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Henry, the head groom, agreed enthusiastically when the plan was broached to him.
“A very good idea, Miss. It’s time for the lad to get himself on a horse. But b
egging your pardon Miss, can you…handle a mount.
“Oh, yes indeed. I have been around horses all my life.”
“Well,” said Henry slowly. “I’d best see how you hold your seat afore trusting the young master to your care.”
“That’s an excellent idea. Shall we meet in the morning before breakfast and take a ride?” asked Jane, unable to keep the enthusiasm from her voice.
“At seven, then.”
Jane presented herself at the stables at the appointed hour. Her pleasure at the idea of a bracing gallop soon waned when she saw the mount that Henry led out for her.
“Are you sure you can’t manage something with a little more…spirit?” she asked.
“I don’t want it on my head if you fall and hurt yourself,” replied Henry as he regarded the lumbering old mare he had led out. “Bessie ain’t so bad. Nice gait.”
“I’m sure,” she remarked dryly. “Nonetheless, I assure you it would be best to try another animal.” She eyed the horse he had led out for himself, a full-chested bay stallion standing nearly sixteen hands. “This one would do nicely.”
“But Miss,” sputtered the head groom. “That’s a blooded stallion...”
“Would you kindly put the sidesaddle on him.” Jane smiled sweetly but unconsciously a tone of command had crept into her voice.
Henry opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. “Very well,” he muttered, motioning to a young groom. “It’s your own funeral, though Mrs. Fairchild will have my hide if she has to hire a new governess.”
When the boy returned with the stallion and a new mount for head groom, Henry lifted her into the saddle, then swung himself up.
“Lead the way, Miss. Let us see what you can do.”
An hour later the two of them walked their tired horses back into the courtyard.
“What fun,” exclaimed Jane as she was helped down. “I have so missed riding.”
“Fun!” remarked Henry as he wiped his brow. “Lord, Almighty, Miss. Where did you ever learn to ride like that?”
Jane laughed. “Do I pass your test?”
The Defiant Governess Page 4