Whether correcting dogs, children, or wives, one must never give in to the temptation of anger. Discipline must be dealt swiftly, decisively, and, above all, dispassionately.
(excerpt, On Discipline, Richard Stonewell)
.:.
I wasn't able to get away on my own again for a long time. I saw Bram only occasionally, on the way between this and that. He kept me apprised of goings-on in single sentences -- Roberts smoked for the fly. I've got room for two rams at Harvesttide. Darlene's lookin' well. And once he said, "Moon and Stars, Edie. You really are busy."
I gave him a sad nod, and we each went along on our separate ways.
But my hours did grow quieter, eventually. I spent a few days curled up in my room, indisposed, which was a boon to my affairs, even if I did have to pay for the time with wretchedness and cramping. And on the first of Midsummer, the Ansleys and the Blackwells made their farewells and returned homeward. This left me with only three suitors -- one of whom paid more of his attentions to Temperance Grimmond, and another who paid no particular attentions to anyone, at all -- and greatly eased the demands on my time.
Soon enough, I'd caught up with everything that had sat neglected since my birthday: I chose my two most docile rams to show at market; I finally finished a blanket for Darlene's little babe, and started in on caps and buntings, with Mrs. Fowler's guidance -- she had reared six sons, herself, and she was a midwife, besides, so I reckoned she was probably Ewert Town's authority on the sizes of newborns; and I sorted through my rabbits' bury of letters, making arrangements to visit a dozen families in a dozen towns, none of which I'd ever seen before.
The prospect of travel was a delightful one -- visiting so many different towns, at least; I had some qualms about visiting so many different families. I had never left Ewert Town in my memory, not even for a jaunt over to Riverton, which was scarcely more than a day's walk to the east. I was probably the only person above five years old who had never been, not even once, not even for the Harvesttide Market. This made me unworldly even by the standards of little Ewert Town, and I felt it keenly.
With the help of Mrs. Acton and Mr. Wentworth, I drew up an itinerary listing all my destinations and the little towns and villages I would stay in along the way. Mr. Wentworth held strong opinions on which inns and ale houses were best and which were best avoided, and Mrs. Acton knew about all sorts of shops and other interesting things I might try to see.
I enjoyed these hours with them, even when I was just idly listening to them trade their traveller's tales -- indeed, more and more, I found I enjoyed the idle hours with all our guests, now that there were fewer of them.
I spent many evenings hip to hip with Miss Goodwin by the fire, my knitting forgotten in my hands, just listening to Mr. Wentworth read. He had a beautiful voice, rich and deep, and with the subtlest changes of breath and pace and pitch, he could become the fiercest warrior, the sternest teacher, the tenderest lover... And then, when the tale was told, and the words and visions lingered in the air round us, he would close the book with a clap, abruptly waking us from the dream. Miss Goodwin was always the first to say, "Oh, very well done, Sir."
I also spent an evening hunched over Bram's gift, translating the Great Queen's tract into the Common Tongue while Earnest peered over my shoulder. He could not read runes and had no skill with the Old Tongue, nor did he seem knowledgeable or even particularly interested in either Baelswintha or her doctrines, but still, he watched me work, basting me in praise.
"On my honor," he said, more than once, "I don't know how you can make heads or tails of all that."
I'd noted the glint in Miss Goodwin's eyes, the faint curl of her lip. Within an hour, she had him writing, Earnest Grimmond, Count of Oakhurst in runes.
Earnest laid his quill aside, and we scanned over his work. Miss Goodwin smiled warmly, and I clapped for him, telling him, "Nicely done, Oakhurst."
This drew Lady Oakhurst's attention. She drifted toward us, her brows raised in an uncertain kind of amusement. "What's this about...?"
Earnest handed the paper to her. "Miss Goodwin is educating me."
Lady Oakhurst looked it over with narrowed, rather calculating eyes. "Didn't Mr. Thornfield try to teach you the runes...?"
Earnest shrugged and grinned, admitting, "Well, he tried..."
She handed the paper back. "I think Miss Shepley would enjoy our library. Don't you, Earnest?"
"Oh, yes." Earnest beamed at me. "Father collected all sorts of old books and things. We could lose you for years in there."
I tried to not smirk. Lady Oakhurst had been taking good advantage of the Ansley's absence to undermine their competing invitation.
Indeed, she grew less and less subtle about it over the days, until at last, on the eve of her own departure, she became outright disparaging.
As I sat beside her at dinner that last night, she filled my ear with longing descriptions of Oakhurst and all her eager thoughts on preparing for the Midsummer shortnight.
At length, she asked, "And can we expect the pleasure of your company, my dear?"
I answered, "Well, perhaps. Forgive me, I'm still waiting to hear if there is a more convenient time for me to visit the Ansleys."
"Oh, no, no. If you ask me" -- which I hadn't -- "Midwinter is the time to see Ethelsburg, not Midsummer. It is quite dry there year round, which is such a novelty during the Winter months, but it has no charms at all in the Summer. Not in a city that size.
"Now, Northpoint or Farport you might consider, for the fog there is quite amusing, but for Midsummer, I would stay at home. Which is to say my home, my dear. Not here. It is too hot down here. And we do Midsummer properly! It can't be done properly in Ethelsburg, or a city of any size, really. No, my dear, you must come to Oakhurst. Once you see it at Midsummer, you'll understand there is no better place."
I nodded and assured her I was most seriously and gratefully considering it.
She brought it up again over cards, talking with Earnest about how much cider they had in store and where the bonfire should be built -- the east grounds were rather cramped, but there'd been so much wind on the north grounds, last year...
I excused myself early that night just to get away from it. Earnest glanced at me in a way that indicated he was entirely sympathetic.
I went up to my room and rang for a maid. Mrs. Burke appeared just as I'd guiltily picked up the guide for young brides. She brought a letter with her -- one last delivery for the day.
I sat at my dressing table and looked it over while she brushed my hair. The Blackwells had been hinting about inviting me to visit them at Colburg Park, but Lady Colburg's hand was large and florid, and the pen strokes on this letter were tight and angular.
The seal on the reverse was stamped with the image of an ewe's head in profile, nearly identical to the mark my grandfather used.
"Well?" Mrs. Burke prodded. "Aren't you going to open it?"
I realized I was afraid to. I already knew who it was from, and I suspected I already knew what it would say -- and I knew its arrival meant I had failed in my simplest and most urgent task. I had utterly forgotten to write and invite my cousin to visit again, and so he had been forced to invite himself.
I broke the seal and scanned over the sentences twice, three times... It was everything I feared, and each time I read it, it seemed to get worse.
"You're frowning terribly, child," Mrs. Burke said. "You'll give yourself headaches."
I rolled my eyes. "And wrinkles, I know. It's just this letter..."
"Well? What does it say?"
"It's from Charles Shepley. Ach... I should have written him weeks ago..." I rubbed a hand over my face as if I could wipe the dread away. "He says he's in town and he hopes to call on me tomorrow."
Mrs. Burke nodded, murmuring that tomorrow was really quite convenient, all things considered.
"What shall I do?"
She laughed once, shaking her head at me as if I was outrageously stupid. "Answer him, of course! The messenger's still waiting. But the ointment, first. I know your ways."
I had noticed the lemon paste, already mixed and waiting for me, but I had been ignoring it. Reluctantly, I dipped my fingers in the jar and smeared it across my nose -- it was my mother's nose, as were the eyes and cheekbones. I'd inherited the rest of my face from no one I'd ever seen before, not even in the portrait gallery.
I sighed, disgusted. "I don't see why we bother."
"So you say, now..."
Mrs. Burke put my hair up in the cap, then I sat down at my desk. I ordered my writing things leadenly, with an indolence born of reluctance. When the ink was mixed, the quill trimmed, and all the necessary things arranged neatly at hand, I had no better idea of what I should say to my cousin than I'd ever had. I even sharpened my penknife, not that it needed sharpening.
The truth was I had no desire to see him. I was not particularly interested in being courted by an annoyed cousin, but most especially not when that cousin was Charles Shepley. He lived in the Southlands, in Northpoint, and we had met only a few times. I suspected neither of us had ever enjoyed it.
But obviously, I could say nothing of the truth. Once I resolved myself to being untruthful, the words flowed almost too easily. I called him dear, I called him kind, I said I couldn't dream of letting him leave town without receiving him at Ewert...
There was a knock on the door while I was blotting the paper. I called, "Yes?" and Miss Goodwin let herself in.
"May I speak with you in private, Miss Shepley?"
"Of course. I'm nearly done."
Behind me, Mrs. Burke gathered up my clothes and slipped out the door, silently trading places with Miss Goodwin.
I glanced up as Miss Goodwin approached me, confessing, "I haven't gotten round to the book yet."
"Well, you have been quite busy, I've noticed," she said, chuckling. "What occupies you at this hour, may I ask?"
"Ach. A word to my dear cousin accepting his kind interest in inviting himself to call on me tomorrow."
I handed over my cousin's letter. Miss Goodwin skimmed through it, reading select sentences aloud, while I melted the sealing wax.
"'It is my deepest and sincerest hope that this letter finds my dear cousin hale and felicitous... I was very glad to see my sweet cousin again, and on such a happy occasion... I have heard many accounts that our Miss Shepley had blossomed into a great beauty, and they've all of them paled to almost nothing beside the living object...'" She looked at me with one eyebrow raised. "My, those are pretty words, aren't they?"
"He hardly looked at me the whole night." I rolled my eyes. "He goes on like that for another half a page before he finally comes to the meat of it."
Miss Goodwin scanned the paper until her eyes landed on the one sentence that actually meant anything: "'I'll be in town til tomorrow evening only, and I hope I may call on you before I must return South.'"
"Ugh."
Miss Goodwin regarded me with gentle amusement. "You must give him a chance, at least. It is a very sensible match."
I sighed, agreeing, "I know..."
I blew out the flame and watched the last few drops of wax fall. I'd managed to coax it into a tidy circle, but when I pulled the stick away, I left a tail and a stray drip -- as I always did whenever I sealed anything, no matter what pains I took.
I growled, "Ach!" and I fidgeted for a moment, putting down the stick of wax and picking it up again, considering whether I should scrape off the seal and begin entirely anew.
Miss Goodwin leaned over my shoulder. "That's as good as your signature," she said. "I shall always know if a letter is from you before I even open it."
I was not at all soothed by this, though I imagined the sorts of circumstances where a secret signature might be useful, and, for a moment, I was amused. It was a brief moment, though.
I sighed, murmuring, "Ah, but I'll never really have need of it..." and I pressed my stamp into the wax.
I gave the letter to Mrs. Burke, and then I sat by the fire, saying, "There. You have my full attention now."
Miss Goodwin's smile suddenly turned tense. Her lip quavered.
"Oh, my..." She covered her mouth and looked away, blinking fast, her dark brows quirking up in distress. "Oh, this is more difficult than I expected..."
I frowned up at her. "What?"
She drew a slow breath. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she let it out again through her nose.
"Forgive me, Miss Shepley... I would have told you sooner, but I've only just found out myself."
"Found out what?" My heart pounded fast.
"I have been contracted by Lady Oakhurst to be governess to her younger children," she said. "I'll be leaving with them in the morning."
"I see."
It was a lie. I'd heard her words, but in truth I was still several moments behind understanding them.
She took my hand and pressed it between hers. "It has been an honour to teach you, Miss Shepley. And it has been a very great pleasure watching you become the young woman you are today."
"Oh. Thank you."
We were silent for long moments. I was still too stunned even to tell her I was stunned.
"Come now, it's not so bad," she said. "I'll write to you. And Oakhurst is not so far away... You'll see me again, one way or another. Lady Oakhurst is still hoping you'll visit for Midsummer, you know..."
"Well, I'll go, of course." A small, cynical part of me wondered if hiring away my dear Miss Goodwin was all part of some ploy to lure me to Oakhurst, but I quickly dismissed it for the nonsense it was.
Miss Goodwin squeezed my hand, saying a few more fond words, and then she left me. I sat at my writing desk a long while afterward, just sort of staring into the fire.
Eventually, I heard mewing at my window. I got up and let the little black cat in, then I blew out all the candles and climbed up into my bed. The kitten settled on top of me, purring and kneading my chest. I petted her, trying to discourage her claws, and watched the firelight and shadows flicker round the room. I tried to make myself believe some day, very soon, I would wake up and there would be no Miss Goodwin. She had been my governess for as long as I could remember, and now, just like that, she wasn't...? I didn't know how I would ever get used to it.
I hardly slept that night. I tossed and turned, alternating between dreams and dread. The little cat was gone before the first light of day, presumably off to seek a more restful bed.
Mrs. Burke came in and opened the curtains just after dawn. Her eyes fell heavily on the bed clothes round me. She crossed the room, scowling, and ran her hand over the quilt, collecting not a few black hairs.
"You let that filthy cat in here again...?"
"And why not?" I climbed out of the bed, glaring sullenly at the floor. "Grandfather keeps his dogs in his room at night."
"That's Mr. Rowley's problem, not mine." She beat the quilt with her hand. "I'm going to have to brush the whole bed!"
I washed my face, and Mrs. Burke dressed me in my simplest frock, warning me to keep well away from the bed clothes. Then she walked down with me to see the Grimmonds off.
We met my grandfather in the main hall. He took my arm and led me out and down Ewert's gray steps. It was still early in the morning; the sunlight was wan and white, and damp air lingered in the shadows.
The Grimmonds waited beside their carriage, both groggy and restless, their faces pale from sleep. I still could not believe Miss Goodwin was really leaving with them, even though she stood patiently beside them in her gloves and cloak.
My grandfather and I lined up before the steps with Mr. Reeve while footmen helped the driver lash a last trunk to the top of the Grimmonds' carriage. We said our goodbyes with the departing, one by one.
Earnest -- Lord Oakhurst -- came first. He bowed over my hand, winking up at me. "Til Midsummer, Miss Shepley."
Lady Oakhurst grasped me loosely by the shoulders and approximated kissing my cheek. "I am so pleased you have decided to join us, after all."
Temperance came next and seized my hand, alternately squeezing and tugging on it. She said, "We're going to have such fun... I have dozens of swatches to choose from, and I'll need flowers and decorations, and... Oh, I'm so happy...!" She broke off in a muffled squeal and just sort of vibrated in place for a moment. "I can't wait, Miss Shepley. I'll be counting the days!"
Miss Goodwin was the last. She smiled and held out a slim-fingered hand to me. I took it -- mechanically, mindlessly.
"Goodbye, Miss Shepley."
"Goodbye, Miss Goodwin."
Slowly, some inkling that this moment was actually happening awakened in me, and I had so far said nothing, done nothing, to show Miss Goodwin how dear she was to me, and how lost I already felt without her.
"I'll miss you," I said. "You will write...?"
She tilted her head to one side, regarding me with warm eyes. "More than you can sit still to read, I'm certain. And I will see you soon." She squeezed my hand a few times, as if for emphasis, then she curtsied slightly. "Until then, Miss Shepley."
"Til then."
She followed after the Grimmonds, fussing with the folds of her cloak til the driver helped her up into the carriage.
Earnest and Temperance poked their heads through the window, waving and cheerfully calling, Goodbye! and Goodbye for now! as the driver climbed up front. I glimpsed Miss Goodwin nodding behind them, apparently listening to Lady Oakhurst, a polite smile fixed on her face.
The driver took up the reins. The horses strained against their burden, and the carriage lurched forward, and then they drove off.
I waved after them a long time, and then I just stood, watching the carriage shrink into the distance. Eventually, Mrs. Burke appeared and took me by the elbow.
"We should get you properly dressed."