Outside the church, my own employer, Mrs. Farnsworth, who had taught me as a girl and then hired me as a teacher, informed me that I must take the rest of the week to grieve but that hard work could be an extraordinary restorative and she looked forward to welcoming me back to school the following Monday. She was not being heartless; she had lost a husband the year before, and a son the year preceding that. Grief was a condition that she understood.
Mercifully, the rain stayed off while we laid Father to rest but the fog fell so deeply around us that I could barely make out the coffin as it descended into the ground and, perhaps a blessing, I missed that moment when one is aware of laying eyes on the casket for the final time. It seemed to be simply swallowed up by the mist, and only when the vicar came over to shake my hand and wish me well did I realize that the burial had come to an end and that there was nothing left for me to do but go home.
I chose not to do so immediately, however, and instead walked around the graveyard for a time, peering through the haze at the names and dates etched into the tombstones. Some seemed quite natural—men and women who had lived into their sixtieth or, in some cases, their seventieth years. Others felt aberrant, children taken while they were still in their infancy, young mothers buried with their stillborn babies in their arms. I came across the grave of an Arthur Covan, an erstwhile colleague of mine, and shuddered to remember our one-time friendship and his subsequent disgrace. We had developed a connection for a brief period, Arthur and I, one that I had hoped would blossom into something more, and the memory of those feelings, combined with the knowledge of the damage that troubled young man had caused, only served to upset me further.
Realizing that this was not perhaps a sensible place for me to linger, I looked around for the gate but found myself quite lost. The fog grew thicker around me until I could no longer read the words on the headstones, and to my right—extraordinary thing!—I was certain I heard a couple laughing. I turned, wondering who would behave in such a fashion here, but could see no one. Uneasy, I reached a hand out before me and could make nothing out beyond my gloved fingertip. “Hello,” I said, raising my voice only a little, uncertain whether I truly wanted a response, but answer came there none. I reached a wall where I hoped for a gate, then turned and almost fell over a group of ancient headstones piled together in a corner, and now my heart began to beat faster in anxiety. I told myself to be calm, to breathe, then find the way out, but as I turned round I let out a cry when I was confronted by a young girl, no more than seven years of age, standing in the centre on the path, wearing no coat despite the weather.
“My brother drowned,” she told me and I opened my mouth to reply but could find no words. “He was told not to go towards the river, but he did. He was disobedient. And he drowned. Mama is sitting by his grave.”
“Where?” I asked, and she stretched a hand out, pointing behind me. I spun round but could see no lady through the vapour. I looked back only to discover the girl turning on her heels and breaking into a run, disappearing into the mist. Panic rose inside me; it might have developed into an hysteria had I not forced myself to walk quickly along the paths until finally, to my great relief, I was returned to the street, where I almost collided with an overweight man I was quite certain was our local Member of Parliament.
Walking home, I passed the Goat and Garter, a public house I had of course never entered, and was astonished to observe Miss Sharpton seated by the window, drinking a small porter and engrossed in a textbook while she made notes in a jotter. Behind her I could see the expressions on the men’s faces—naturally, they were appalled and assumed that she was some sort of deviant—but I suspected that their opinions would have caused her not a moment’s concern. How I longed to enter that establishment and take my place beside her! Tell me, Miss Sharpton, I might have said, what shall I do with my life now? How can I improve my position and prospects? Help me, please, for I am alone in the world and have neither friend nor benefactor. Tell me what I should do next.
Other people had friends. Of course they did; it was the natural way of things. There are those who are comfortable in the company of others, with the sharing of intimacies and common secrets. I have never been such a person. I was a studious girl who loved to be at home with Father. And I was not pretty. In school, the other girls formed alliances which always excluded me. They called me names; I will not repeat them here. They made fun of my unshapely body, my pale skin, my untamed hair. I do not know why I was born this way. Father was a handsome man, after all, and Mother a great beauty. But somehow their progeny was not blessed with similar good looks.
I would have given anything for a friend at that moment, a friend like Miss Sharpton, who might have persuaded me not to make the rash decision which would nearly destroy me. Which still might.
I looked through the window of the Goat and Garter and willed her to glance up and spot me, to wave her arms and insist that I join her, and when she failed to do so I turned with a heavy heart and continued for home, where I sat in my chair by the fireplace for the rest of the afternoon and, for the first time since Father’s death, wept.
In the late afternoon, I fed some more coals on to the fire and, determined to achieve some sort of normality, made my way to the butcher’s shop on Norfolk Place, where I purchased two pork chops. I wasn’t particularly hungry but felt that if I lingered at home all day without food I might sink into an inexorable melancholy and, despite the early nature of my grief, I was determined that I would not allow this to happen. Passing the corner shop I even decided to treat myself to a quarter pound of boiled sweets and picked up a copy of The Morning Post for later perusal. (If Miss Sharpton could attend the Sorbonne, after all, then surely I could at least familiarize myself with the events of our own nation.)
Back home again, my spirits sank to a new low when I realized my error. Two pork chops? Who was the other chop for? My habits had superseded my needs. I fried them both, however, ate the first mournfully with a boiled potato, and fed the second to the widow-next-door’s spaniel, for I could not bear either to save it for later or to eat it now. (And Father, who loved dogs, would I’m sure have been delighted by my charity.)
As evening fell, I returned to my armchair, placed two candles on a side table, the bag of boiled sweets on my lap, and opened the newspaper, flicking through it quickly, unable to concentrate on any stories and almost ready to throw the entire thing on the fire when I came upon the “Situations Available” page, where a particular notice caught my attention.
An “H. Bennet,” of Gaudlin Hall in the county of Norfolk, was advertising for a governess to attend to the care and education of the children of the house; the position needed to be filled without delay by a qualified candidate and the remuneration was promised to be satisfactory. Applications should be despatched immediately. Little more was said. “H. Bennet,” whoever he was, did not specify how many children required supervision, nor did he offer any details regarding their ages. The whole thing lacked a certain elegance, as if it had been written in haste and submitted to the newspaper without proper consideration, but for some reason I found myself drawn to the urgency of the appeal, reading it from start to finish over and over, wondering what this Gaudlin Hall might look like and what kind of fellow H. Bennet might be.