The Governess of White Stag Hall

Untethered

(image by Michel Bielejewski on Unsplash)

Edith had never been a morning person in her youth, but the last year had changed that thoroughly. Even now at the Grange, she found herself waking up long before everyone else. That Tuesday was no different. She clambered out of bed before sunrise and wrapped up in her housecoat to ward off the early chill. With it not being quite light out yet, it was too early for a walk, and Edith's eyes wandered to the writing desk in the corner.

She hadn't written to her siblings yet–not even Grace. She just didn't know what to tell them or how to do it. It didn't feel right to lie to them, but they would know something was wrong if she was too vague. There was also the simple matter of not wanting to write them. She could dwell on it for hours, telling herself what she ought to be doing, but never once put pen to paper.

Edith couldn't remember ever feeling so lost. Untethered, like a boat cut free from its mooring. It started with her father's death and had waned a little while at White Stag, but now it was back and as overwhelming as ever. It was hard to even believe that the last year had happened and when looking back on it everything felt like a fever dream–passing too quickly and too slowly all at once. It was a feeling which followed her still, with each day melting seamlessly into the next.

Edith sighed and leaned against the window frame, staring out at the frosty murk of the morning. The clouds were heavy, turning the sunrise into little more than a dusty blur of pearly gray and pink on the horizon. She hadn't heard back from any more prospective employers, but that did not seem to matter to the Halls. Nellie was barely cognizant of even her own self most of the time and Mr. Hall had assured her that she was welcome to stay for as long as she was in need. It was an undeniably kind offer, though she couldn't help but think that he was motivated not so much by kindness as he was the chance to exalt his own generous benefaction.

Regardless, she was in no position to turn it away.

The quickest solution, of course, would be to simply return to her aunts and beg for their forgiveness and charity. The thought made Edith no less sick than it had before. Of course, they were not so cruel as to turn her away when she was truly in need, but she had no doubt that Dorrine would take every opportunity to remind her of her failures. But in Brighton she could be close to Grace again. And Nicholas. She could do away with all of this uncertainty.

She pushed away from the window and went to fetch the book from her bedside table. She needed a distraction, so she settled down under the cover again, glad to find the bed was still a little warm.

The house was silent, except for the sound of creaking floorboards as the servants moved around doing their chores. The hours whittled away slowly, until eventually one of the maids brought her a modest breakfast. Edith had grown accustomed to eating alone at White Stag and even if she had not it was too early to stomach Hall's nonsense. It was best to appreciate the man's kindness from a distance.

Eventually, the sun began to peek through the overcast skies and the frost on the windows melted, and it was all the reason Edith needed to justify going for a walk. Even if she accomplished nothing else that day, she could at least get some exercise. So she quietly crept down the stairs, so as not to draw anyone's attention, and grabbed her paletot and gloves before hurrying outside.

Edith walked for quite some time, until she was well out of sight from the house. The wind had picked up a little, pulling at her cloak and hem, but she welcomed it as the air was sharp and clean, free of the heavy perfume which permeated every inch of the Grange. Even so, as she reached the crest of a large hill where a truly ancient-looking oak towered over everything, she stopped to catch her breath and rest her legs. She sank down to the ground at the tree's roots and leaned back against the trunk.