The Governess of White Stag Hall

Together

(image by Mert Kahveci on unsplash)

Despite Lady Atwood's insistence that she found everyone in the whole of Brighton tiresome, they were soon inundated with party invitations and she eagerly accepted each and every one. Over the course of the next fortnight, they spent many long evenings sipping sherry in gaudily decorated parlors, before eventually dragging themselves back to their beds, and then they would wake the next morning to a tentative breakfast and do it all again.

In between, there were visits from Lady Atwood's brothers and their wives and children. They were all amiable enough, if not a bit staid and parochial, especially in comparison to their sister's almost radical open-mindedness. Her niece Lottie was around Grace's age and unerringly sweet. Edith could find no fault in her, even if her eyes often glittered with the same familiar mischief as her aunt's.

On Sunday morning, they went to church. Lady Atwood was not particularly religious and they were attending only to appease her brothers, but Edith was still eager for the reprieve. The quiet sanctuary of the church was a very welcomed change of pace after so many nights amidst rowdy partygoers.

Still, Edith was not as uncomfortable as she had thought she would be. Tired? Certainly. Drained from constantly being around people? Yes. But not anxious. Not uncomfortable. She was not sure exactly to what she owed this new sense of certainty. It might have been that Lady Atwood's friends were the congenial sort and even those who were not were still fascinating to talk to. Or, she wondered, was she now truly past caring what others thought? Had she reached some sort of invisible barrier and passed through it? She had always told herself as much, of course, but there was still that nagging whisper of doubt that followed her around.

Her mind was caught up in all of these things as she sat at her vanity table in the evening later that week. They'd been invited almost a month ago now to a private ball being held at one of the more fashionable venues, hosted by an old friend of Lady Atwood's. "Mary is a scheming nag. I adore her."

Edith hadn't stepped foot in a ballroom in ages, but still felt no apprehension about it. Instead, she was looking forward to it more now than she ever had when she was younger–after all, she was not husband-hunting. In fact, she was not trying to impress anyone. She was there solely for Lady Atwood's benefit.

Edith stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror as she contemplated these things. The maid had curled and pinned her hair and then talked her into wearing a little rouge on her lips and a combination of beeswax and soot combed through her eyelashes–something she assured Edith that every woman at the ball would be wearing, even if they would rather hang than admit it. Then the woman helped Edith dress, smoothing and pulling at the deep blue silk of her gown until it looked its best.

If she turned her head just right when she was looking in the mirror, Edith could almost see her younger self. Older still and tired, yes, but familiar. It felt like she was looking at a ghost.

"My dear, are you–oh, you look lovely!"

Edith turned around to look at Lady Atwood, who stood in the bedroom doorway, left open by the maid. The older woman always had an enviable air of effortless grace, but the effect was heightened by the elegant, burgundy gown she wore with all of it black embroidery and lace details. There were women half her age who were not nearly so lovely.

"Thank you," she said, turning a little more in her seat toward Lady Atwood. "Are we leaving?"

"Hm? Oh, yes," the woman replied as she was busy fussing with her necklace. "Beckwith's arrived at last and he is waiting for us in the parlor. But he will endure if you need more time. One cannot rush beauty."