Rosalie spread a blanket underneath a big, shady tree, and invited the girls to sit down, before she herself did the same. She straightened out her dress and pretended not to notice that Madeline made sure to sit away from her, behind her sister. Cecilia gave her sister a blank piece of paper, and Rosalie laid the watercolors out before them.
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, then spoke slowly as she exhaled. “As I wandered the forest, the green leaves among, I heard a Wild Flower, singing a song.”
William Blake was Mr. Goosevelt’s favorite poet, and they often read his poems. Some of them, Rosalie even managed to memorize by heart.
“What is that?” Madeline asked, her head tilted to one side.
“It’s a poem by someone called William Blake,” Rosalie explained.
“It’s very nice,” Cecilia added.
“I also think so,” Rosalie agreed. “Nature speaks all the time, but we are too busy to stop and listen.”
“What do you mean, it speaks?” Cecilia was more curious this time.
“Well, close your eyes,” Rosalie told her. She noticed that Madeline did the same. “What do you hear?”
The girls tried for a few moments, then gave up.
“Nothing,” Cecilia snorted. “I just feel the wind blowing in my face. And the sun.”
“What about the birds?” Rosalie wondered. “And, the brook, in the distance? The rustling of the leaves up in the trees?”
Cecilia tried again. So, did Madeline.
“I hear it,” Madeline nodded, her eyes still closed. “They’re crackling!”
“They are,” Rosalie laughed. “Very good.”
The girls opened their eyes, waiting.
“Now, draw what you heard,” Rosalie urged them. “Try to focus on what you hear, not what you see, and also - “
A happy bark interrupted her. The girls dropped their brushes onto the blanket, and all hopeful, gazed into the direction where the barking was coming from.
“Pebbles!” Madeline jumped up first and rushed away. Cecilia followed immediately.
A few more moments, and they disappeared from sight. All Rosalie could hear were happy barks and squeals of delight, which, she suggested, meant that the girls had finally been reunited with their puppies.
She couldn’t escape the feeling that first class didn’t really go according to plan. But it was only their first day. She wholeheartedly believed she could get close to the girls. A part of that conviction stemmed from the fact that she understood the source of their disorderly behavior.
She had to prove to everyone that she was capable of doing this. She was a good a governess as any of the previous ones. Right now, that belief was shaken, and she had to remind herself of this. She was aware that she was only safe as long as she was here, under this roof. This was where Mr. Loveless’ hands from Hell could not reach her. And this was where she needed to stay - no matter what.
Chapter 9
The Wild Boar Inn was no place for a gentleman. That was exactly why Broderick knew that was the place where he would find someone with a valuable piece of information.
The rancid smells from a kitchen which was a poor excuse of one filled the room. Rowdy men rounded the tables, raising their cups to unspoken cheers, as ash hovered in the air. It was night already. The streets were barely lit. It was no night to be outside, especially not in this part of town.
A woman began to sing, and several voices joined in. Broderick was in no mood for singing. He glanced around the room, trying to find a familiar face. At fifty years of age, and a plump body with drooping shoulders, Broderick himself was barely noticeable in the sea of other men, with far more appealing features. Once, a woman told him he had a face only a mother could love. He slapped her so hard that she lost a tooth. She never spoke to him again.
Finally, he saw the face he was looking for. He elbowed his way through the crowd of half-drunk ruffians and took a seat at a table occupied by only one man.
The man wore a dark hat, which covered most of his face. But Broderick knew what the hat was hiding. A scar from the man’s left ear, all the way to the corner of his lip. A hatred for all gentry so grand it could smother all of Britain. The man gulped down his lager slowly.
“Ewing,” Broderick called out.
The man’s hat lifted, revealing a cold, green eye.
