The Governess of White Stag Hall

The Grange

(image by John Price on Unsplash)

The rest of the household returned home as dinner drew closer. First were the three oldest children and their nanny and then eventually their father.

Mr. Hall was a tall, slim man, with a thin, handsome face and short, neatly cut hair already sprinkled with gray. His wore finely tailored clothes and neatly shined shoes and there was nothing immediately repugnant about him, until he spoke.

Upon being introduced, Edith was immediately subjected to a storm of barely disguised boasting and bloviating, sprinkled with feigned interest and sympathy. Whatever Aggie had told them of her situation, it was evident enough that Hall saw her as some poor street waif in desperate need of his merciful beneficence. He hand-waved any attempt to thank him for his kindness, saying: "I want nothing but to serve my fellow man, as any good Christian ought."

She was fairly certain that good Christians didn't call themselves such.

At dinner, there was a little need to talk since Hall was content to fill the silence all on his own. He asked questions only to answer them himself a moment later and told stories that Edith could tell the others had heard many times before. It was a very uniquely horrible thing, to be trapped in a one-sided conversation with someone so simultaneously convinced of both their utter humility and vital importance to life itself. The fact that the man talked with food in his mouth and made some truly heinous noises while chewing that Edith would continue to hear in her dreams, was just a contemptible extra.

When they finished with dinner and were about to pour drinks, Edith seized upon her opportunity to escape.

"If you would please excuse me, I think I will skip the sherry," she announced quickly when it seemed for the first time all night Hall had paused to breathe. "I am very tired."

"As am I," Aggie said. "Today has been far too much for my old, weary bones."

Hall didn't seem to hear the sarcasm that underpinned the woman's words. "Of course! Forgive me, I often forget that ladies are of a much frailer constitution than their betters."

Edith didn't care enough about the man's opinion to even try arguing and all-but bolted out of the room, with Aggie close behind.

They took refuge in Edith's room, where there was a small table and chairs in the corner to take tea and the like.

Edith fell back against the door to close it as Aggie lit the lamps with a candle she had taken from the hall.

The older woman glanced back at her and then chuckled. "I told you," she said simply.

Edith blurted out a laugh and nodded in agreement. "I admit, I did wonder why you still worked for my father when your daughter had married so well. I wonder no more."

"Mm, she married wealthy," Aggie said. The golden glow from the lanterns was kind to her, softening the creases of her face. "I would argue that does not necessarily mean marrying well. I confess, though, that you will have to endure worse from him in a few days."

Edith snorted. "That doesn't seem possible."

"I'm afraid it is." They sat down together at the table. "He is the land steward of Leabourne Court and we traditionally join Lady Atwood for dinner on Friday evenings. While you are staying with us, you are invited to come along, of course. But I must warn you that he always seems to feel particularly obligated to impress her."

It was counterintuitive, of course. A sensible person would reign in their worst impulses in front of their employer. But Hall was not sensible.

"Why does she tolerate it?" Edith asked.

"Honestly, I think she finds him amusing," Aggie replied. "And for all his faults and foolishness, Hall is very good at his job and very honest. That's a rare quality in a steward."

That made some sense. It was hard to believe, of course, but there were scores of people who were very successful and very stupid. "What is she like?" Edith wondered. "Lady Atwood, I mean. You've not mentioned her before."

Aggie hummed thoughtfully as she considered her answer. "She's... a strange woman," she said finally. "She's from a good family to be sure and she married a baronet when she was still quite young. Only seventeen or so, I think. But she's known to be quite... liberal. A free-thinker. That kind of nonsense. There are even some wild rumors about her pursuing romances with men half her age since she's become a widow, but I've never seen any evidence of it." She paused for a moment and then snorted. "I don't know a single woman my age who'd even want such a thing."

Edith let out a scoff of laughter. "Does anyone?"

"Ah-ah, that is bitter even for you, my dear. Not all of us were dragged kicking and screaming to the altar," Aggie scolded with a smile. Then she reached out and gave Edith's hand a gentle pat before getting to her feet. "You ought to get to bed. You've had a very long day."

Edith wanted to protest that it felt like she'd slept all day, but Aggie was already half-way to the door. "Good night, Aggie," she said.

"Good night."

Then the woman was gone, quietly shutting the door behind her.

Edith sat alone in the dimly lit room for a little while, savoring the quiet. Over the last week, she'd felt stuck, as if the whole world was spinning madly around her in a blur of color as it went by too fast to fully take in. Now, for a moment, it slowed and she could steady herself.

Would it always be like this ?Would it always feel like she was in a race just to keep up? It felt like she was fighting some invisible current trying to drag her out to sea and she didn't know yet if she was winning.