The Governess of White Stag Hall

Shelter

(Image by Priscilla du Preez on Unsplash)

Edith finally crawled into bed sometime in the early morning and woke only a few hours later just to lay there, refusing to open her eyes. If she stayed there, between wakefulness and sleep, she wouldn't have to confront the day and it would be like last night had never happened. If only she could just prolong time's slow march for a little while. But the longer she laid there, the more the feeling in Edith's chest tightened. It felt like the morning after her father's death all over again; that strange, overwhelming cocktail of numbness and anger and hurt and loss.

It was almost two hours later when Edith forced herself up. She had finished her letter to Aggie in that frantic burst of energy that had taken hold before going to sleep and left it downstairs to be sent with the rest of the post come morning. There was no telling when Aggie's answer would come and Edith could not just wait on it to take action. She still had to send out inquiries and search the papers for advertisements. But first, she had to talk to Meg.

The girl was already waiting for her in the foyer, sitting on one of the benches, and swinging her feet. She had already donned her cloak and boots and she smiled when Edith approached and the governess smiled back before fetching her cloak.

It had snowed a little before dawn, leaving a fine dusting of powdery white on the sidewalks and rooftops. In the park, it clung to the tree trunks and the bare, spindly branches, sparkling like crystal in the pearly gray of the morning light. The sidewalks were slick and Edith and Meg held hands as they walked to help each other keep balance.

"There's something wrong, isn't there?"

Edith looked at the girl, barely phased now by the girl's acute intuition. She sighed. "There's..." She did not know where to begin, but delaying the inevitable would not make it easier to bear, would it? She had to accept that there was simply no easy way to say what came next. "I... I cannot stay."

It was so vague as to be meaningless, but Meg seemed to know immediately what Edith meant. A heartbroken look flashed across the girl's face, but she quickly hid it again and pressed her lips together so hard they turned white. "Why?" she asked. Despite her best efforts, her voice broke a little.

Edith turned to face the girl. How was she supposed to answer that? Mr. Pierce was a reprehensible person, but he was still the girl's father. What was to say Meg would even believe it? "It's complicated," she said. "But I need you to know that it isn't your fault."

Meg clenched her hands into fists and stared determinedly at the ground, trying to compose herself. Then, finally, she asked: "Is it because of my uncle?"

That did surprise Edith. She hadn't expected the question at all. God, she hadn't even thought of Rhys at all. If she left, she would never see him again, would she? "Why would you think it was his fault?"

Meg hugged her arms tight around her. "You liked each other," she replied simply. "But something happened, right? You stopped talking and he didn't go on walks with us anymore."

Edith had spent the morning imagining how this conversation would play out. She thought that maybe Meg would cry or that she would get petulant and angry. Instead, she was being clear-headed and rational and somehow it was worse. "You can be mad," Edith said, hoping it would skirt the girl's questions. "I won't blame you."

Meg shook her head quietly. "Do you love him? My uncle, I mean."

"I thought I did."

"But you don't?"

Edith sighed. It was her fault for thinking that this would be simple or that anything about the last few months had gone over her head. "It isn't that," she said. "It's just that the people we care about don't always want the same things we do and that's okay, but it makes some things impossible. That's not anyone's fault. It's just... how things happen sometimes."