by Jess Foley
‘To Trowbridge. To the station.’ Miss Baker’s voice came from behind her.
Dorothy Baker was thirty-six years old. The daughter of a clergyman, she came from Taunton in Somerset. She was red-haired, short and plump, and wore glasses. This was her sixth post and she earned thirty-five pounds a year. Like most of the thousands of governesses who advertised in The Times and The Lady she taught mathematics, English, geography, history, music and needlework. She also offered French and Italian – which additional subjects had helped her secure the post at Hallowford House. She had been there now for just two months, replacing Miss Sanderson, the previous governess.
Blanche wasn’t sure how she felt about Miss Baker. She only knew that she liked Miss Sanderson better. What Miss Sanderson’s shortcomings might have been, Blanche didn’t know; she only knew that Miss Sanderson had been warm and jolly, and fun to be with. Miss Baker was different. She was unfailingly pleasant and polite to Marianne, but with Blanche herself, Blanche felt, there was always something else.
‘And then what will happen?’ Blanche said.
Miss Baker gave a little sigh of irritation at Blanche’s questions. ‘Mr and Mrs Harrow will catch the train for London,’ she said, ‘– and there, I imagine, they’ll take the boat train for the Continent. From there they’ll go to Sicily – which is an island in the Mediterranean.’
‘Yes, I know. It’s part of Italy. I looked it up in the atlas.’ Blanche paused. ‘Is it a nice place?’
‘I have no idea. I imagine it is.’
Blanche sighed. Travel was exciting. She had learned that much from the little she had done. During each of the past three summers she had gone with Marianne and Mr Savill on holiday to the seaside for two weeks, once to Weston-super-Mare in Somerset, and on the other two occasions to Weymouth in Dorset. Before that, in 1887, she had been taken up to London to see some of the Queen’s jubilee celebrations, also with Marianne. And there had been other trips here and there. To go abroad, though, to another country, that would be something quite different. ‘I’d like to go to Sicily,’ she said with another sigh. ‘I think I will – one day.’
Miss Baker said nothing, just lifted her head and looked at her.
‘One day,’ Blanche added, with a little nod, ‘– if I like.’
‘Really? Well, perhaps you shall and perhaps you shan’t. It costs money to travel.’ There was no humour in Miss Baker’s smile. ‘And perhaps in the meantime you might like to complete your English exercise.’
Blanche moved back to the table she shared with Marianne, sat down and got on with her writing. After a few minutes the door opened and Marianne came in. As Marianne sat down and took up her pencil Miss Baker looked at her and smiled.
‘Have Mr and Mrs Harrow gone now, Marianne?’
‘Yes, Miss Baker.’
When the English lesson was over they turned to geography, after which it was time for lunch. The girls ate with Miss Baker up in the schoolroom. When lunch was finished they rested for a while before beginning the afternoon lessons, which they began by taking out their history books. After the history lesson they took up their needlework. They were learning to embroider, sewing squares of linen with brightly coloured silk thread. Now, with their embroidery still before them, Miss Baker began to talk of foreign languages. She would make a start with Italian, she said, beginning with a few simple Italian words.
Blanche pushed her embroidery away and sat up straighter in her chair. Listening intently as the governess began, however, she soon found that the lesson seemed to be directed solely at Marianne. She said nothing, but continued to listen, and then watched as Miss Baker turned and wrote on the blackboard. A few moments later Miss Baker turned back and said to Marianne:
‘Io.’ She stressed the first syllable. ‘It means “I”. Repeat it after me. Io.’
‘Io,’ Marianne repeated.
And then Blanche spoke up:
‘Io.’
‘No, no, Blanche,’ Miss Baker said. She frowned vaguely in Blanche’s direction then forced the hint of a smile to her lips. ‘This is just for Marianne, dear. You carry on with your embroidery.’
Puzzled, Blanche frowned in return. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why is it just for Marianne? Why isn’t it for me too?’
‘Now, Blanche,’ Miss Baker said. ‘Don’t begin with all your questions again. We really haven’t got time for them. Please – do as I say. Just go on with your needlework.’
‘But – but I want to learn to speak Italian too.’
‘Please, Blanche …’ Miss Baker eyed her for a moment then turned back to Marianne. ‘Now, Marianne, repeat after me the word –’
‘I don’t want to do my needlework,’ Blanche said. ‘I want to learn Italian like Marianne.’
Miss Baker ignored her. ‘Marianne,’ she began again, ‘please repeat –’ But Blanche broke in again, now with rising anger in her voice:
‘Why can’t I. Why?’
Then Marianne spoke up as well. ‘Yes, Miss Baker,’ she said, ‘why can’t Blanche learn it too?’
‘My dear child,’ Miss Baker said, ‘there wouldn’t be any point to it, would there? It takes time and there’s so much for us to learn, isn’t there? We can’t afford to waste time, can we?’
While Marianne frowned, not understanding, Blanche pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Why wouldn’t there be any point to it?’ she demanded. ‘Why not?’
Miss Baker took no notice. Blanche said sharply:
‘Miss Baker, I want to learn Italian like Marianne. I want to. Why can’t I?’
Miss Baker continued to ignore her for another moment, then she gave a sigh, turned back to Blanche and stepped towards her.
‘Sit down, Blanche,’ she said evenly.
Blanche hesitated for a moment then sat down.
‘The simple reason,’ Miss Baker said, ‘why there’s no point in your learning a foreign language is that you’ll never have a need for it. Do you understand?’ She turned and smiled at Marianne. ‘It’s different for Marianne, of course. She’ll travel to other countries when she’s older, so she’ll need to be proficient in other languages, won’t she?’
‘And I shall too!’ Blanche said sharply. ‘I shall too!’
‘No, dear,’ Miss Baker said with a humourless little smile touching one corner of her mouth. ‘You must remember that we should concentrate on learning only those things that will be useful to us in our lives.’ She bent and pushed towards Blanche the piece of embroidery the child had been working on. ‘Now you would do yourself a service,’ she added sharply, ‘by concentrating on your sewing.’
‘But I don’t want to do my sewing,’ Blanche said. ‘I want to learn Italian, like Marianne.’ She paused. ‘Why can’t I? I’ve got a right to.’
Abruptly Miss Baker’s demeanour changed. ‘Right?’ she rapped out. ‘You say you’ve got a right?’ Her voice throbbed with fury. ‘No! You do not have a right! You have no rights here!’ Her voice rose. ‘Now – get on with your sewing and let me hear not one more single word from you!’
For a moment Blanche just glared at the governess, and then suddenly her feelings of anger and injustice erupted. ‘No!’ she shouted into Miss Baker’s face. ‘I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!’
In the next moment, as the room still rang with the echo of Blanche’s defiance, Miss Baker stepped forward and, eyes blazing with fury, raised her hand and struck Blanche across the face.
The force of the blow rocked Blanche almost off balance and she reeled. Recovering herself, one hand moving involuntarily to her cheek, she gazed with stricken eyes at the governess. Then, impotent in her hurt and anger, she snatched up the embroidered linen from the table and began to wrench at it in an attempt to tear it in pieces. It wouldn’t be torn, though, and with a choking cry of fury and frustration, she drew back her hand and hurled the fabric into the governess’s face. Miss Baker gasped, recoiling in shock. Then, lashing out, she struck Blanche again, so hard this time that Blanche fell backwards onto h
er chair.
‘How dare you!’ the governess said, her face white with anger. ‘How dare you do such a thing!’
As Blanche faced the governess she could feel the pricking of tears in her eyes. She fought them back. She wouldn’t cry. She would not.
‘Now.’ Miss Baker’s voice was icy cold as she pointed down to the floor where lay the piece of embroidered linen. ‘Now come round here and pick this up.’
While Marianne, white-faced and sobbing, gazed from her friend to the governess, Blanche slowly stood up from the chair. On her cheek the marks of Miss Baker’s palm were clearly defined.
‘Now, come round here at once and pick this up,’ Miss Baker said, pointing again at the linen. ‘And then you will apologize to me for your behaviour.’
Blanche, not moving, remained silent.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Miss Baker asked.
Blanche said nothing.
‘Did you hear me?’ Miss Baker said.
‘Yes.’
‘Then do as I say.’
A little silence, then Blanche said:
‘No.’
There was a pause, then Miss Baker said quietly:
‘What did you say?’
‘No.’
‘Are you defying me?’
‘Yes! I’m not going to pick it up. And I’m not going to say I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m glad.’ The tears sounded in Blanche’s voice now, but still she fought them back.
Miss Baker glared at her while her lips twisted in a sneer. ‘Italian,’ she said witheringly. ‘Miss Blanche Farrar says she wants to learn Italian. And no doubt she would like to learn French too, and German and Spanish and Russian. She’s obviously intent on travelling the world.’ Her eyes cold, she bent slightly, leaning towards Blanche. ‘You are going nowhere, little girl. Nowhere.’ Her words were measured. ‘Nowhere. Who do you think you are? I’ve learned a little about you and your family, and that was enough for me to know that this is as far as you’ll ever go. You were born with nothing and that’s all you’ll ever have. Nothing.’
‘Stop it!’ Blanche cried, and suddenly the tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. ‘Don’t you say that to me. It’s not true. It’s not!’
‘Not true? Of course it’s true.’
‘Stop it!’
‘No, I won’t stop it. You’ll have to learn it one day, and the sooner you learn it the better.’
Choking on her sobs, Blanche cried, ‘I hate you, Miss Baker.’ Then, her voice rising, she added, ‘You’ve got frizzy red hair, and you’re ugly, and I hate you!’
White rage flashed across the governess’s face for a moment, then she gave a short, hard laugh.
‘And you – you come from the gutter, child – which is where you belong. You certainly don’t belong in this house, living here with Marianne, taking your lessons with her.’ Contemptuously she shook her head. ‘Mr Savill might insist that you wear as good clothes as Marianne, but don’t think for a moment that that makes you as good as she is. And it’s the same with your lessons. If I’d wanted to teach children like you I would have gone to the Ragged School. Which is where you should be. But, fortunately for you, Mr Savill, out of his kindness, sees it differently, and takes pity on you. And that’s all it is – pity. He feels pity for you. Still if that’s what he wants, then …’ She shrugged, leaving the rest of the words unspoken.
Blanche stared at her, eyes wide with horror. Miss Baker gave a little smile, then added:
‘You’ve got a shock coming to you, Miss Blanche Farrar – a very rude awakening. Someday soon you’ll be saying goodbye to this house and you’ll be going home. How shall you feel then?’
Speechless, Blanche gazed at her for another moment and then, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, she turned away, dashed across the room and out of the door.
Chapter Fourteen
John Savill was just coming from the library when he heard from above him the patter of descending feet. As he turned to the sound Blanche came running down the stairs. He waited as she reached the hall, expecting her to stop, but she did not. Without pausing she turned and ran on towards the rear of the house. She was crying. He called after her.
‘Blanche! What’s the matter?’
After a moment he crossed the hall and started in pursuit of her, making his way to the kitchen where he found Florence sitting at the table, scraping carrots. She looked round at the sound of his step.
‘It’s all right, Florence,’ he said. ‘I just looked in to see if Blanche was here. She ran by me in tears a moment ago.’
‘I heard someone go by just now, sir, though I couldn’t say who it was.’ She gestured with her knife.
He nodded, turned and left the kitchen. As he emerged into the rear passage he heard a sound from the scullery next door. The door was partly open and he moved to it and pushed it open wider. Blanche was standing by the large stone sink. Little crying sounds came from her.
‘Now, now, what’s this?’ he said.
She turned and looked at him, then turned away again, her crying growing stronger. Savill moved forward, bent to her and laid one hand on her shoulder.
‘Blanche – what’s the matter? What are you crying for?’
She shook her head.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’
She shook her head again.
‘– Where’s Marianne?’
She pointed up.
‘In the schoolroom?’
‘Yes.’ Her tearful voice was muffled against her arm.
‘Come on, then. Let’s go and join Marianne again, shall we?’ As he finished speaking he reached out but Blanche cried out, ‘No!’ and shrank away from him.
‘You don’t want to go back to the schoolroom?’
‘No.’
‘Will you tell me why not?’
Another shake of her head. ‘I – I can’t.’
He straightened, stood there for a moment then said, ‘Well, I’ll tell you what – you come with me into the kitchen and stay with Mrs Acklin for a minute – all right?’
She didn’t answer but allowed him to take her hand and lead her from the scullery into the kitchen. There he handed her over to Florence then went back to the front of the house and up the stairs.
At the top of the house he knocked on the schoolroom door and entered. Miss Baker looked up from her table and smiled nervously at him. He nodded to her and then his eyes went to Marianne who was sitting at the other table, bent over her school exercise book. As she looked up at him he saw that there were the marks of tears on her cheeks. He turned back to the governess.
‘Miss Baker, I just found Blanche downstairs – crying, and refusing to come back up here. And now it appears that Marianne has been crying too.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what’s been happening.’
‘Oh, sir,’ Miss Baker said, with a little shake of her head, ‘I’m afraid we had a little upset, and I found it necessary to rebuke Miss Blanche.’
‘I see. What had she done?’
‘Well, sir, she refused to do her work. And in addition to that she was very rude to me. I told her that I wouldn’t stand for it.’ Then, looking over at Marianne, she added, ‘And I’m afraid Miss Marianne got rather upset at all the fuss.’ She beamed at Marianne. ‘Still, I think we’re all right now. We’ve dried our tears now.’
‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Baker.’
‘Oh, not at all, sir. It’s time we stopped work, anyway.’ She turned to Marianne. ‘You may stop work now, Marianne, and go and wash your hands. Tea will be ready in twenty-five minutes.’
Silently Marianne put down her pencil and closed her school book. Savill held out his hand to her. Eyes downcast, Marianne got up from her seat, moved to him and took his outstretched hand. A moment later they had left the room together.
Savill took her down to the library where he sat her in a chair at the side of his desk.
‘Well,’ he said as he sat down facing
her, ‘perhaps you’d like to tell me what that was all about?’
She didn’t answer at once, but then after a little prompting she gave her story.
‘And apart from striking the child, I understand you also told her that she is here only because I pity her. Is that so?’
Marianne had gone from the library and now the governess stood facing John Savill as he sat at his desk. Miss Baker said nothing for a moment to his question but then, shaking her head, she said:
‘Mr Savill, sir, I’m afraid tempers got a little frayed. It all became rather heated and – and somewhat unfortunate.’
‘I didn’t ask you that,’ he said. ‘I asked you if it was true that you told Mrs Farrar’s daughter that she was only here owing to my pity. Did you tell her that?’
‘Mr Savill, she threw her embroidery at me. She threw it right in my face. And she was defiant. She wouldn’t do the work I had told her to do.’
‘Which was, I understand, according to my daughter, this piece of embroidery you speak of.’
‘Yes – that’s right.’
‘Whereas you were starting Marianne on Italian, I believe – beginning to teach her some Italian words. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
He was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘When I employed you, Miss Baker, I made it perfectly clear that Blanche was to be treated in exactly the same way as my daughter and that –’
‘Oh, but sir, I –’
He held up his hand. ‘Please, let me finish. As I said, I made it perfectly clear to you. It was not for you to decide that one child should learn one thing and the other something else.’
‘– I only did what I thought was best, sir.’
‘But I had made it clear to you.’
‘Yes, sir, I know – but I thought, in the circumstances, that I was doing what was best for her – Miss Blanche, and –’
‘Were you really thinking of Blanche, Miss Baker?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Judging by what I’ve been told by my daughter, it seems to me that you had no other thought in your mind but humiliating the child. If so you certainly succeeded in doing it.’