Page 72 of When She Was a Governess
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Dinner felt likewalking into a war already lost.
Henry escorted Sophia into the dining room after the proper procession from the drawing room—his father had escorted Sophia as the highest-ranking male guest, while Henry had offered his arm to his mother with all the warmth of escorting a viper.
They took their seats according to protocol: Henry at the head, Sophia at the foot in her rightful place as hostess, his parents on either side. The footmen began serving the first course—a clear soup with vegetables from the glasshouses.
For a few moments, there was only the sound of silver on china. Then his mother broke the silence.
“This is not nearly as flavorful as Cook used to make when I lived here.” She looked around the dining room with proprietary nostalgia. “How many memories I have of dinners here. My mother was such a hostess. The finest families pined for invitations to her parties and dinners. George’s wife, however, was not known for her social skills. Or managing a household. How is Charlotte managing as a duchess? I can still see her wearing dungarees, chasing after you two boys.” She shuddered. “Dreadful that George and Anna let her run around that way. Although, it did win her a duke in the end, now didn’t it?”
“Charlotte’s home is well run,” Henry said. “And she and Thomas are very happy together.”
“But no children?” Constance clucked her tongue. “Makes one wonder, doesn’t it? If it’s such a love match after all.” She took a delicate sip of wine. “And Sophia, it must be strange for you—managing servants you once worked alongside. Have they been difficult during this transition?”
“Not at all,” Sophia said. “Everyone has been welcoming and trusting.”
“The staff adore her,” Henry said.
“I see,” Constance said. “Perhaps they think of her as one of their own. A rags to riches type of story.”
“They respect her because she is kind and fair,” Henry said. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”
“We are very fortunate to have such wonderful staff,” Sophia said. “Without Mrs. Bromley, I would be lost.”
“Oh dear me. That’s just what I was afraid of,” Constance said. “The housekeeper is now the mistress of this fine home.”
“Sophia is the lady of the house,” Henry said. “And the staff defer to her wishes.”
“Are you the type who believes servants can be your friend?” Constance asked Sophia, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Some might say it blurs important boundaries. Servants need to know their place. And their mistress needs to maintain proper distance. But then, you’ve only been mistress for three days. I’m sure you’re still learning.” She paused dramatically. “From Mrs. Bromley. The housekeeper.”
The soup plates were cleared and the fish course brought out—turbot in a delicate sauce.
“Tell me, Henry, why was the marriage done in such haste? Might I be expecting a new grandchild sooner than nine months from now?”
Henry’s mouth dropped open. “Mother, how dare you insult us that way. We married because we’re in love and we knew it was best for Amelia if we became a family sooner than later. It’s as simple as that.”
“I do beg your forgiveness,” Constance said. “It’s just that I cannot understand the haste, nor keeping your own mother from the wedding.”
“When two people love each other, there’s no reason to wait,” Sophia said.
“As far as why you were not invited to the wedding, it should be obvious to you,” Henry said. “You would have caused trouble. And you will not play your games with my bride. I think I made that clear.”
“Yes, yes. You’re in love. How romantic.” Constance tilted her head. “Though I confess, I’m curious. Henry was always so devoted to Eleanor. He swore after her death that he’d never love again. It’s remarkable that you managed to change his mind so completely. Did you wear him down with persistence? Or did you simply catch him at a vulnerable moment?”
“I fell in love with Sophia because she’s kind, intelligent, and devoted to Amelia,” Henry said. “The same qualities you seem to find so objectionable.”
“I find nothing objectionable. I’m simply trying to understand my enigma of a son.” She paused as the fish was replaced with roasted duck. “After all, a man who’s suffered as much as Henry must be approached carefully. His grief over Eleanor was so… consuming.”
Henry’s hands tightened on his silverware. There was something in her tone. A warning.
“Such devotion,” Constance continued. “He wouldn’t come out of his room. Do you remember, Arthur? How worried we were?”
His father shifted uncomfortably. “Constance, perhaps—”
“I’m simply sharing family history with our new daughter-in-law.” She turned to Sophia with false concern. “Did Henry tell you about that difficult time? How he used to go to the cliffs where Eleanor died and stand at the edge for hours?”
Henry felt the blood drain from his face.
