Page 13 of Trouble

‘Delivery from Mr Khan,’ said Akia, grinning at Meera, who held her gaze defiantly but went a little red. ‘Helingeredsomewhat.’

‘He was helping me with the cucumbers,’ said Meera.

‘I’msurehe was,’ said Oliver.

Apparently the saga of Meera and this Mr Khan had backstory, mythology, even reoccurring side characters; Meera sat looking extremely disgruntled and sporadically trying to urge them to stop, but they kept teasing her in the good-natured way that only came from years of co-existing in close quarters.

These people clearly knew each other well; had weathered hard things together, celebrated small victories, gathered up their wages and walked to the pub so that they could knock their drinks together and tell the same stories over and over again against the backdrop of an oft-frequented bar rather than the servants’ dining table. They could probably tell one another’s moods from the sets of mouths and shoulders, knew exactly where to prod to get the strongest reaction in a squabble, and how to smooth over hurts with a well-timed word or a cup of tea made to exactly the right specifications.

Emily could not imagine anything worse.

She let it all wash over her – the bickering, the well-worn camaraderie – as she stewed, feeling as if there was a chasm between her and the others.

It wasn’t exactly as if she’d come expecting this household to be a delight – she had expected to hate it here, had hated it before she had even seen it – but to have all her theories about the sort of people who lived in houses like this one confirmed within a day was even worse than she’d expected. Captain Edwards was the vilest sort of snob. Aster was a nightmare, a parody of a wayward ward. Even Grace openly pitied the state of Emily’s hands and passed judgement on her clothes.

When dinner was finished, everybody helped clear the plates; Emily tried to pick up her own, but Meera stopped her at once, leaving Emily the odd one out, sitting uselessly at the table and wondering how long she had to wait before she could escape. Eventually Joe opened a bottle of cheap wine, Akia fetched glasses, and Oliver started dealing out cards. Emily slipped away before anybody else could beseech her to join in their merry-making, listening to the sound of their soft chattering and laughter grow quieter until it gave way to silence.

It suited her far better; she was not feeling theleastbit merry.

Chapter Five

On her fourth day at Fairmont House, Emily sat tapping her dry pen idly against parchment, watching the sky brighten over the sea.

It was impossible to know what to write to Amy about her new life, but just as impossible not to send anything at all. The Laurence sisters had been inseparable throughout childhood, right up until the day, seven years earlier, when Amy had travelled the vast distance to the wealthiest household on the outskirts of the next village – six miles, practically an ocean away – to take up a position as governess to their children. She had sent daily notes, drawings, anecdotes about the children that she clearly thought were charming and that Emily found patently horrifying, and Emily had replied cheerfully, threatening violence if she did not come to visit soon.

Six miles did not seem such a long distance now. If Fairmont House had been six miles from the Laurences’ home, Emily would likely have been able to see her house from her position here at the desk by the window. She imagined the slant of a roof, the curling smoke from a chimney, the knowledge that even if she could not find horse or carriage, she could be home in an hour and a half on foot if needed. Hell, she could do it in an hour if she hiked up her skirts and didn’t stop to right any of the people she flattened on her way.

In reality, there were no familiar landmarks to be seen from her new bedroom. Everything here was alien. Emily’s mind was adaptable to change – she could adjust to almost anything if she needed to – but her body seemed to be lagging behind, leaving her feeling discombobulated and frustratingly thin-skinned.

She could not even bring herself to tell Amy that she missed her. Instead, she described her bedroom in great detail, dashed out a couple of vague lines about the children, and ended with an ill-advised joke about falling over the cliffs that she regretted as soon as the letter was sealed.

Her second and third days as a governess had been just as strange as her first. She had instructed Grace – still her sole student – to read for most of the day, and to recount some of the things her previous governess had been teaching her in more detail, in the hope that she might be able to replicate some of those lessons well enough to not be declared a fraud in her very first week.

So far, it seemed to be holding. She was speaking to Grace as little as possible, which was partially to prevent revealing her deficiencies and partially because Grace was damnably annoying. Grace seemed to have noticed this cold front; she had not flagged in her dedication to prattling but was at least self-aware enough to cut these musings short when she saw the lack of amusement on Emily’s face.

There was a sort of rhythm to Fairmont House as it awoke each morning, even if it was uneven and prone to minor disasters due to the lack of staff. Emily woke up far too early, a habit ingrained in her from six o’clock starts at the mill, and stayed in bed until she heard the distant creaking of floorboards and gentle opening of shutters that meant the servants were preparing the rooms for habitation. She could not actually hear the kitchen fire being lit, but she fancied that she could feel when Joe started coaxing the heart of the house into being; it was the spring from which ran everything that sustained them – tea and hot water and breakfast – and Emily did not emerge from under her bedclothes until it was in full flow.

She knew perfectly well that they could have done with her help, just as she now knew that offering that help was considered firmly beneath her; she was willing to make herself useful, but notthatuseful. If proper governesses only came downstairs in the morning when the honey cake was ready to cut and the bread toasted golden, then a proper governess she would be.

Apparently proper governessing also involved walking the children as if they were dogs. On their third day together, Grace had enquired as to why they had not yet gone for a turn about the grounds or a stroll along the coastal path, and instead of answering, Emily had said that they would go on the morrow.

The morrow had arrived too soon, as such things tend to do, in direct proportion to how much you dread them.

Unlike walking a dog, there was a whole process required before one could even step out of the door – the right bonnets, coats and cloaks to be found, the lacing of the correct boots – and Emily stood downstairs in the hallway waiting for at least half an hour after their proposed start time for Akia to assist in the unearthing of all of these particular articles.

Somebody enterprising had clearly managed to grab Aster by the scruff and force her into her own cloak, becausebothEdwards siblings appeared at the top of the stairs looking far too bundled-up for a temperate August day.

‘Oh, Amy, I am ever so sorry about the wait,’ Grace said as she descended the stairs. ‘We couldn’t find my gloves, and then Aster was telling me this story .?.?. Do tell Amy the story, Aster.’

‘No,’ said Aster, glancing behind her to see if she was being watched and then immediately removing her bonnet and throwing it over the banister, so that the cream ribbons fluttered sadly through the air before it came to land behind a credenza.

‘Remember what we talked about,’ Grace said sternly; she was looking at Aster instead of where she was going, and almost tripped over the hem of her cloak on the bottom step. Aster threw out an arm to catch her, and then propped her back upright.

‘It was a linear narrative,’ she said, not looking at Emily, ‘with a beginning, middle and end. The genre: a comedy of errors. Lessons learned by the protagonist: none.’

‘Butyouwere the protagonist!’ said Grace. ‘And the boat sank!’

‘Exactly,’ said Aster. ‘And I would do it again. Look where you’re going, Gracie, or you’ll lose a nose.’