Peggy looked Arabella up and down and narrowed her eyes. “Governess?” The silent look on her face as she crossed her arms clearly expressed she expected Arabella to put on airs. “Where you sleepin’?”
“In the little room by the stairs.”
Peggy pursed her lips. “That good enough for you?”
Arabella wasn’t used to being quizzed by servants. She tilted up her chin. “Oh, yes. I am quite comfortable there.”
Peggy gave Arabella a hard stare. Then she nodded curtly. “Well then. Today’s washing day. If you want fresh things get them to me.”
Arabella softened. “I will. Thank you, Peggy.”
An hour later, the smell of freshly baked bread suffused the house.
Arabella had to admit that cooking was something she would gladly let more experienced people do. She was getting rather tired of eating oversalted eggs and burned pancakes with blackberry jam.
The children seemed to agree and chatted about what wonderful things they’d get to eat for supper the next few days. Arabella rapped on the table. “Back to work, children. We were declining French verbs.”
Days passed quickly when one was happy. Before Arabella knew, she’d settled into a comfortable routine. Most of the mornings and afternoons were spent teaching the children. She spent additional one-on-one time with Katy on lessons of grooming and deportment, which Katy soaked up eagerly. Robin had rebelled against it, declaring he’d “prefer to learn three hours of additional Latin than silly girl’s stuff” and Joy, who was initially enthusiastic about joining the big girls, tended to nap off during that time.
In the evenings and oftentimes well into the night, Arabella planned lessons. She thought she got better at it with each day. The children were cooperative and eager learners, and it was encouraging seeing them improve. Joy could read, but she couldn’t write. And Katy could calculate with a swiftness that her mind steamed, but she had trouble writing coherent essays.
All three had to work on their penmanship. It was a disaster. Not to mention their father’s. Arabella had puzzled a good five minutes over a note Philip had left on the kitchen table one morning. She thought it read “Went to work. Proceed as usual.” But it could also say “Don’t work, process casually.” The foundry outside where he usually worked had been oddly quiet, so she assumed it meant the latter, though it did not make much sense at all.
She saw surprisingly little of him these days. He often left before breakfast and returned in the evenings, which he spent alone with the children. Arabella wondered what he was doing during the day. On the rare occasion when they met in the hallway, he nodded at her and gave her a brief, tired smile. He was somewhat of a mystery, that Mr Merivale.
Chapter 13
As summer gradually ended, Arabella marvelled at the palette of colours that unfolded outside. The beaches glowed golden ochre, the water foamed white as it slapped against the brown cliffs, and the wind-swept moors turned a dusky rust red. She’d fallen in love with the wild Cornish landscape. The first time she saw the mist hover like silver lace over the dark cobalt blue ocean she exclaimed, “How picturesque it is! We need to buy watercolours so we can capture this beauty.”
“But we don’t have any watercolour paints, Miss Weston. And remember you promised we’d get some,” Katy nagged. “We also need chalk, rulers, pencils, and a new chalkboard for Robin, because he broke it when he tried to turn it into a flying machine the other day.”
“So he did.” Arabella suppressed a smile, remembering the shattered fragments scattered on the floor. “Master Robin,” she’d said sternly, imitating Miss Hilversham’s tone. “Chalkboards can’t fly. Even if you try to attach wooden wings and throw them down the stairs.”
“Yes, Miss. It was just an experiment. I think the body needs to be lighter and more flexible. I will try it again with lighter wings.” Robin had scuttled off to set his plan into execution.
Arabella’s mind whirled as she sat down to make a shopping list. The neighbouring farmer, Mr Argus, had offered to give them a ride to town in his cart. As the cart rumbled along the country road, they passed a marbled gate that led to a wide alley with oak trees. Behind it must be an estate of considerable size.
“Who lives there?” Arabella asked Katy.
“I don’t know. Someone.” She turned her face away.
“That’s Thornton Hall.” Mr Argus threw Katy an odd look. “Surely you know that?”
Katy shrugged. “Papa says we are not to put a foot there. Ever.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Mr Argus muttered.
Katy’s face darkened. “I went there once, with Mama. I never want to go there again. They look down on us and snub us horribly if we don’t hold the teacup properly, or say the right things, or curtsy the right way. They think we’re riffraff.”
Arabella threw her a surprised look. “Riffraff!”
“We aren’t genteel enough, I s’ppose.” She lifted her chin. “Even if we were, we don’t know how to behave properly. Papa says it doesn’t matter and we should never care about what other people think and that we always ought to be proud of who we are. Even if we don’t have much money.”
Arabella looked at Katy and wondered what kind of woman her mother had been, and what they had experienced there. She did not want to press her further because Katy had clamped her lips shut, crossed her arms and turned away.
Mr Argus glanced sideways at Arabella. “It’s an old story.”
“What is?” Arabella threw him a puzzled look.
