Capturing the Governess’s Heart by Sally Forbes
Chapter Eleven
Emma decided to skip over the arithmetic problem asking the student to estimate the speed of a galloping horse. Just the thought filled her chest with a heavy, cold fog of dread. She tried to take a few deep breaths to dispel the panic. It helped to concentrate on Henry’s lesson. After another moment’s deliberation, Emma chose a problem involving perfectly harmless chickens.
“You said the first lesson would be easy, Miss Emma! I thought it’d just be adding and taking away.” Henry sailed past the schoolroom’s round table and refused to sit down.
“Subtraction is part of it,” Emma said.
Henry groaned but eventually came to sit at the table next to Emma. He painstakingly read the question, started to write down one numeral, and then scribbled it out. Emma tried to give him an encouraging smile, but he scowled at her and threw an elbow on the table to block her view of his work. There were more hesitant scratches, but no actual calculation apparent.
“I don’t know where to start!” Henry got up and took another lap around the schoolroom. He was full of breakfast and full of more energy than concentration. But his excellent breeding won out in the end, and the young lord circled back and sat down with a thump.
Emma showed him where to start. Together they worked slowly through the problem, but their success did not cheer Henry up. And when Emma suggested another issue, he looked about, ready to cry.
“What about Abigail?! Why can’t you check up on her lessons?” Henry shot his quiet sister an angry look. “She doesn’t like doing sums either.”
“I know,” Emma said, rising. “Why don’t you run down to the kitchens and ask Lucy Brown for a few apples. Perhaps while you are there, the cook can speak to you about measuring spoons.”
“What are the apples for?” Henry asked, intrigued.
“For a riddle, you will have to answer when you get back,” Emma said. She raised an eyebrow at the young lord and was pleased when he could not resist the game. The upsetting arithmetic lesson was forgotten, and Henry raced out the schoolroom door.
Throughout, Lady Abigail had stood, still as a post, at the easel. The sunlight streamed in behind her, and her face was just as much lost in shadow as she was in her thoughts. Emma lingered over tidying up Henry’s work and then slowly made her way over to look at the young lady’s progress.
The first thing Emma noticed was the washed-out, ethereal colors Abigail had chosen. It gave the mournful impression of something that was fading and brought tears to Emma’s eyes. The subject of the painting only hurt her heart more; a lone woman stood in an overgrown rose garden, her back to the viewer. It made Emma veer to the window and give her emotions time to settle before she spoke to the artist.
“You use such lovely, light brushstrokes, Lady Abigail. The effect is quite wistful,” Emma said at last.
Abigail looked up, surprised. Then she looked at the painting, and her eyes softened. She nodded. “Wistful is a good word for it.”
“I wish you were only wistful for going dress shopping with the dowager. That, we could make happen as soon as you are finished.” Emma told the young lady.
“No, thank you.” Lady Abigail gave a perfect curtsy. “I am glad Uncle Robert puts a high value on lessons.”
Emma was certain her young charge was avoiding preparations for the Season, unlike every other young debutante, but it was much easier to discuss painting. “Your focal point is so lovely. And your placement of the rose beds is very balanced.”
“I find that painting roses are very calming,” Lady Abigail admitted.
“I see no reason they should not run riot over every inch of the remaining canvas,” Emma said.
“I’d rather do that than go dress shopping,” the young lady confessed softly. “Not that I don’t appreciate Grandmother’s attention and generosity.”
Emma nodded and paused before she spoke. It was important for her charges to know they could tell her anything, but she was also bound to her employers. The dowager already seemed to dislike her presence, and Emma had to be careful not to raise her ire any farther.
“Perhaps you’ll find the fabric of this very color,” she said, finally. “Then you could be reminded of your peaceful painting while you are out and about in the whirl of the Season.”
Lady Abigail sighed. “Do you think it’s peaceful? I mean, after?”
Emma knew she was talking about her mother’s passing, and the soft question squeezed at her heart. “Certainly. You must have felt it in your heart as you painted, or such a peace would not come across so clearly on your canvas.”
There was an almost imperceptible sniffle from Lady Abigail. She stepped back from her painting, blinked her eyes quickly, and then moved forward to start painting once again. Emma let her fill in the bottom corners with riotous bunches of roses and gave her privacy by returning to look out through the sunny window. There she sought some other way to cheer the young lady before her brother returned.
Emma’s eyes sought the horizon far over the outbuildings and gardens. She tried hard not to think of her own mother or the ache such thoughts caused in her heart. Every person had their own grief, and she did not want to intrude with thoughts about her own. So, how could she lift the young lady’s spirits?
“Have you explored the gardens?” she asked Lady Abigail.
“Yes, Henry dragged me all around them a few days after we arrived here.” It did not sound as if she was eager to repeat her younger brother’s whirlwind tour.
“I can imagine he must have raced you through them.”
There was a faint laugh. “All I remember is the overflowing spearmint bed. Henry must have crushed a few leaves as he went past, and the smell was wonderful.”
That was it! Emma suddenly remembered a way to connect roses with happy memories. “Did you know your own Lucy Brown, the housekeeper, is quite good at making tinctures? I’m certain her medicine box must be quite amazing.”
Lady Abigail turned around. “Really? I would like to learn how to capture such wonderful scents.”
Emma smiled. “Your uncle, the duke, allows Lucy Brown to gather roses from the bushes by the front gates and make rosewater. She gave me a vial when I first arrived, and it is divine! Though I do not find many occasions to wear it. Perhaps you would like it? Then the scent of roses might revive you throughout your shopping trip.”
The young lady’s face brightened. “You would make a gift of it to me?”
“Of course! Then, I shall ask Lucy Brown to give us lessons in making such tinctures. By spring, you will be able to blend any lovely scent you want,” Emma told her.
She moved to the door of the schoolroom and Lady Abigail eagerly followed. Emma was almost embarrassed by the splendor of her own bedchamber until she reminded herself that the young lady was used to such luxurious surroundings. She had so few toiletries that the small vial of rose water was easy to find. Lady Abigail took it and sighed happily over the scent.
“How wonderful,” she said. “You mustn’t part with it.”
“It is yours,” Emma assured her. “And the first batch we make together will easily replace it.”
“Then I hope to be an apt student, or else you’ll be wearing sour petals,” Abigail laughed, and Emma joined in.
They returned together to the schoolroom, and Emma was relieved to see Abigail turn her attention to the books rather than returning to her melancholy painting. Together they found a book on plants and learned all about the life cycle and propagation of roses. Emma had never been much of a gardener. Their plot at Whitehaven had been small and covered with hardy perennials which largely took care of themselves, so the subject was new and exciting. Abigail’s mother had obviously loved gardening, but the further information was enough to keep the young lady’s mind on happier subjects.
“Do you think I sent your brother too far on his errand?” Emma asked after they had finished perusing the book together.
Lady Abigail grinned and shook her head. “No. A good run is exactly what Henry needs if he’s going to have any hope of studying.”
“He doesn’t seem to like arithmetic much,” Emma noted.
Her young charge’s face turned serious again. “His first tutors were much too indulgent, so Henry was late learning his numbers.”
“So, it has always been a struggle?”
“No. He is very bright, it’s just. . .” Abigail seemed reluctant to share another sad memory, but sighed heavily and said: “He always saved his numbers for last because my father loved those lessons the best.”
Emma nodded, softly encouraging Lady Abigail to speak of her father. “Henry simply wanted the best teacher. Very wise.”
Lady Abigail’s sad countenance was interrupted by a quick smile. “Don’t let Henry hear you call him wise, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t think I am a suitable tutor for his arithmetic?” Emma asked.
“No, of course not,” Lady Abigail was kind enough to assure her. “He has just gotten into the habit of avoiding those particular lessons, and it is hard for him to concentrate. A good run out to the kitchens and back is just what he needs.”
“Our lessons are flexible, my lady. If Mister Henry is unhappy, we can easily switch to something else for the morning lessons.”
Lady Abigail shook her head. “It would be worse in the evening. Our father used to invite Henry into his study in the evenings, and they would stay there late together working on his sums. I remember because I would always be sent to remind them of the time, and I would find them, heads together, at Father’s big desk.”
The loving memory and the realization of what the children had lost were too much for Emma. She rushed to the window to try to hide her tears, but she was not quick enough. Lady Abigail joined her in the sunshine and studied her face with worry.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I will have better control of my emotions before your brother returns,” Emma told her.
“You have either a very generous heart or a similar sadness within it,” Lady Abigail intuited.
Emma shook her head. “A generous heart would never add to your grief with extra tears. I do apologize, my lady.”
Lady Abigail laid a soft hand on Emma’s arm. “No, please, don’t hide your tears. You have no idea what a relief it is actually to speak of grief! All these long months and our parents are hardly ever mentioned.”
“No one wishes to bring you pain, my lady.”
“But that means the happy memories have been silent as well,” Lady Abigail said. Her own bright eyes were awash with tears. “The dowager only invokes my mother when she wishes to discuss my potential matches. She forgets how little my mother cared for dresses and balls and such.”
Emma gave her a tearful smile and could not help but admit: “My mother was the same. And when she was gone, it was years before my father spoke her name again.”
Lady Abigail’s hand pressed a little harder on Emma’s arm. “You lost your mother too?”
“Oh, my lady, you do not need my grief as well!”
“No, please! I have no one else to share such things with, and I am so tired of being alone in my mourning. Please, tell me.”
Emma laid a hand over Abigail’s. “I was fifteen years old when my mother passed. She had been very ill, and I attended her wants myself. The pain of it has lessened, but I still remember holding her hand as she died.”
“Oh, Emma! I do not know which is worse: my mother left one day and never returned, but you were there holding your mother’s hand.”
“Either way, my lady, I know our mothers are still with us, and they would want our hearts full of their love and our heads filled with happy memories,” Emma told her.
Tears flowed freely now between the two women, and they both separated to fumble for their handkerchiefs. At that moment, Henry burst back through the door to the schoolroom. He skidded to a stop in the center of the room and dropped two bright, red apples. They rolled across the floor and stopped at the hem of Emma’s dress. She dabbed at her eyes one last time, tucked her handkerchief away, and leaned down to pick them up.
“Thank you, Mister Henry,” she said.
Her voice must have wavered enough that the young boy noticed because his eyes flew to her face, widened in horror, and then looked to his sister. “You’re both crying?” he asked, aghast.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Henry. We were just waiting for you,” Lady Abigail told her younger brother with only a slight sniff.
He narrowed his eyes and studied his sister’s face. “Then why do your eyes look all red and puffy.”
“Now, really, Mister Henry. Good etiquette means you never discuss another’s looks, especially not in such unflattering terms,” Emma scolded him.
The young boy frowned at them both. “You sent me away so you could talk about me, and now you’ve both been crying.”
Lady Abigail took the apples from Emma and put them on the table. “Of course, he assumes we’ve been talking about him.”
“All is well, Mister Henry. Nothing to worry about,” Emma said.
Henry looked from his sister’s face to the governess’s and decided he was not being told the whole truth. The stomp of his foot emphasized the look of hurt and indignation on his face. “Then what were you talking about?”
Emma looked to Lady Abigail whose eyes had strayed to the painting of her mother. For a moment, the young lady was far away, back in her memories and her grief, then Lady Abigail looked at Emma. The two women exchanged a look of sympathy and sadness that the young boy did not miss.
“We discussed my painting,” Lady Abigail said.
“And your lessons.” Emma intended to change the subject and spare the young lady anymore sadness, but Henry took her meaning the wrong way.
“I swear I’ll do better with my arithmetic. I will! Please, don’t cry. I promise to study harder,” he exclaimed.
Lady Abigail burst out laughing and rushed across the room to embrace her brother. “Oh, no, my dear. That wasn’t it at all. You are doing well with your lessons, and I am so proud of you.”
“I see great promise in you, Mister Henry. Soon you will outpace my own learning, I am certain,” Emma reassured him.
He sniffled at her from his sister’s arms. “Then why did you send me to the kitchens?
“Nothing helps the mind as a good run after a lesson,” Emma said.
Lady Abigail kissed the top of her brother’s head and finally released him from the embrace. “And what are the apples for?” she asked.
“Ah,” Emma hesitated, but she couldn’t resist the openly curious faces of her charges. She had shared enough with Lady Abigail to feel they could grow close, and she knew that only honesty would help their relationship get stronger. “The apples are actually to help me with something. I’d like us to take them to the stables so we can meet your uncle’s horses.”
“Have you never met a horse before?” Henry was incredulous.
Emma shook her head, feeling shy. “Yes, though I was very young and it was not the most pleasant of experiences.”
She headed for the door, and the children followed, peppering her with questions:
“Did it bite you?” Henry asked.
“No, but they do have large teeth, don’t they.” Emma led the way down to the grand staircase.
“But, did it scare you very badly?” the boy asked.
Lady Abigail scolded him: “Henry! Don’t ask such questions. We’ll just show Miss Emma that there is nothing to be afraid of. Horses do like apples, and they’re sure to be friendly once they see them.”
Henry stopped on the stairs and gave both women an ominous look. “Except for Uncle Robert’s horse. No one is to give him treats unless it is the duke.”
Lady Abigail tugged him onward. They crossed the Great Hall and down the corridor to the south wing. From there, they could exit the doors closest to the stables and only have a short jaunt across the sweeping south lawns. Emma kept her stride quick in the hopes the children would soon tire of their questions.
“But, you have ridden before, haven’t you?” Lady Abigail asked.
“Yes,” Emma admitted. “Though it is not my favorite activity. And horseback riding was not part of my regular life in Whitehaven.”
“I learned to ride when I was five years old,” Henry boasted.
“And fell on your face when you were six,” Lady Abigail teased.
Henry scowled at her, then raised his chin. “You shouldn’t scare the governess like that.”
Emma laughed and took Henry’s arm. “Thank you, kind sir. Now, will you be so good as to show me how to feed a horse an apple?”
Luckily for Emma, it was a short visit to the stables. Lady Abigail was ushered off to meet the dowager soon after, and Henry was released from his lessons for the day. Emma watched him race off towards the gardens and the wooded acres beyond and envied his freedom. Though, on her return to Dalwater Manor, she could not help but feel particularly blessed.
Her new charges were wonderful, and her new home was undeniably magnificent. With that in mind, Emma concentrated on writing up a list of lesson plans in case the duke enquired further. If any place, and people, deserved a dedicated governess, it was Dalwater Manor, and Emma was honored to do the work.
She was still poring over the books in the schoolroom and updating her lesson list when Lucy Brown found her later. “You’ve been requested to appear at dinner again, my dear,” the housekeeper told her.
Emma looked at the clock and realized she didn’t have time to question the overly generous offer, and she only had enough time to dress. “Thank you, Lucy Brown. But, first, may I ask a favor for myself and Lady Abigail?”
“Of course,” Lucy Brown said, intrigued.
“I gave Lady Abigail the rose water you gifted me, in order to cheer her up. Its scent is so wonderful, we were hoping to add tincture-making to our lesson plans,” Emma told her.
Lucy Brown beamed. “How wonderful, my dear. We will make time for it, though I’m certain the Season will soon be taking over much of Lady Abigail’s time.”
The housekeeper was correct. As soon as Emma joined the family for dinner, the dowager launched into another grand speech about the Season and their busy schedule. She dismissed the children’s talk of their lessons, gave Emma an arch look, and then turned to her son. Emma’s cheeks reddened as she realized the duke was looking at her, but the dowager demanded everyone’s attention.
“You’ll thank me now, Robert, for my close association with Almack House. The patronesses are delighted to hear of our intention to join the Season,” The Dowager said.
“The patronesses?” Lady Abigail asked solicitously.
“Yes, my dear. They are a select committee of great influence, the absolute leaders of the ton. You will be certain to impress them with your debut,” the dowager told her in lofty tones. “I have cultivated such a good connection with Almack House that your success is all but ensured.”
Emma was happy for her young charge, though, when she dared glance up again, she saw Lady Abigail’s face had fallen back into quiet sadness. It would take more than rose water to help the young woman through her debut, and Emma vowed to come to her aid in whatever way possible she could.
