At St. Elizabeth’s School, which I had attended since girlhood, I had always been an excellent student, and soon after completing my education, I was offered the position of teacher to the small girls, a position that suited me so well that it became permanent within six months. I took great pleasure in my young charges, who were between five and six years of age, teaching them the rudiments of sums and spelling, the history of the Kings and Queens of England, while preparing them for the more difficult subjects which would be theirs to endure at the hands of Miss Lewisham, into whose calloused hands I would deliver them, trembling and crying, within twelve months. It was difficult not to form an attachment to my small girls. They had such pleasant dispositions and were so entirely trusting when it came to their dealings with me, but I learned early on that if I was to thrive as a teacher—and I took it for granted that I would always be a teacher, for marriage seemed unlikely given the fact that I had no fortune, no particular place in society and, worst of all, a face that my aunt Hermione once said could curdle milk (“I don’t mean it unkindly, child,” she added, noticing my disquiet, leaving me to wonder how else she could possibly have meant it)—then I must balance affection with resilience. This notion, however, sat fine with me. I would live as a spinster, I would have my small girls to teach and the summer holidays perhaps to take a little trip—I dreamed of visiting the French Alps or the Italian city of Venice and would occasionally wonder whether I might even find paid employment as a lady’s companion during the summer months—I would take care of Father and our house. I would sympathize with Jessie about her numerous inflammations and ask her whether or not she had seen to the skirting boards yet. I would not worry about suitors, who in turn would certainly not worry about me, and I would face life with a seriousness of intent and a positive outlook. And for all this, I was content and happy.
The only slight change in these circumstances came about with the arrival of Arthur Covan as instructor to our oldest girls and with whom, as I mentioned, I formed a particular friendship. Mr. Covan arrived to us from Harrow and was taking a year’s experience in teaching before heading up to the Varsity to read classics. Arthur made me laugh—he was a fine mimic—and flattered me with his attentions. He was a handsome boy, a year younger than me, with a mop of dark hair and a ready smile. To my shame I allowed myself the most indulgent fantasies of what it might be like if we were to “step out” together, although he never did anything to encourage this delusion. And even when it all came out a few months later, when his name was in the papers and the public was baying for his blood, I still could not find it in myself to condemn him fully, although naturally I never spoke to him again. And then, of course, he took his own life. But no more of that now. I was speaking of my position at St. Elizabeth’s, not indulging in sentimental daydreams.
It was only now, with Father gone, that it occurred to me how alone I truly was and whether this simple plan for my future would be enough to satisfy all my needs. My aunts had passed away in the intervening years. I had no siblings to take care of, and none who might take care of me, no cousins in whose lives I might take an interest, and none who might take an interest in mine. I was entirely alone. Should I disappear in the middle of the night, should I be murdered as I walked home from school one day, there was no one who would miss me or question my withdrawal from society. I had been left a solitary figure.
Which, perhaps, is why the advertisement for the governess position in Norfolk seemed like such an inviting opportunity.
Should I have waited longer before making my rash decision to leave? Perhaps, but I was not in my right senses, so struck was I by the grief which had fallen upon my mind. And a knock on the front door a little later in the evening sealed the matter when I was confronted by a thug of a man who called himself Mr. Lowe—a fitting name—who informed me that the house I had grown up in did not in fact belong to Father, but that we were mere tenants, an assertion he backed up with incontrovertible paperwork.
“But I thought it would be mine now,” I said in astonishment and he smiled at me, revealing a row of yellow teeth and one black one.
“It can be if you want it,” he declared. “But here’s the rental figure and I expect my money every Tuesday without fail. Your father never let me down on that score, may God have mercy on his soul.”
“I can’t afford that,” I said. “I’m just a schoolteacher.”
“And I’m a businessman,” he snarled. “So if you can’t, then you best pack your things. Or take in a lodger. A quiet girl, that is. No men. I won’t run a bawdy house.”
I flushed, humiliated, and felt an urge to kick him. I knew not why Father had never told me that the house did not belong to him, nor why he never asked me to contribute to the rent when I found employment. At any other time I would have been deeply upset by this but it seemed at that moment like just one more trauma and, recalling the notice in the newspaper, I sat down later that night and wrote my letter of application, dropping it into the post-box first thing the following morning before I could change my mind. Tuesday and Wednesday were busy days—I sorted through some of Father’s effects and, with Jessie’s help, organized his bedroom in such a way that it betrayed few signs of its previous occupant. I wrote to Mr. Heston at the museum and he replied immediately to accept my offer of Father’s insect books and correspondence. I placed all of Mr. Dickens’ novels in a box and hid them away at the back of a wardrobe for I could not bear to look at them now. And then, on Thursday morning, a letter made its way back to me from Norfolk, expressing satisfaction with my qualifications and offering me the position without interview. I was surprised, of course. The advertisement had stressed urgency but for all that H. Bennet knew, I could have been completely wrong for the job, and yet he seemed content to place the well-being of his children in my hands.
Of course, I was uncertain whether or not such a radical transformation of my life was sensible, but now that the offer was there, I believed that a change of circumstances could be just the thing, and met with Mrs. Farnsworth in her office later that morning, tendering my notice, which she accepted with a great deal of irritability on her part, pointing out that I was leaving them high and dry in the middle of the school year and who could she possibly find to tutor the small girls at such short notice? I accepted the blame and rather played on my grief, nefarious creature, in order to avoid further scolding, and finally she could see that my mind would not be changed and reluctantly shook my hand and wished me well for the future. I left St. Elizabeth’s that afternoon torn between feelings of excitement and utter terror.
By Friday, less than a week since Father and I had made our way towards Knightsbridge in pouring rain, not even a full seven days since Mr. Dickens had entered the speakers’ hall to discover more than a thousand of his loyal readers huddled together, steaming with perspiration, I had closed up our house, dismissed Jessie with a week’s pay in lieu, and was seated on a train to a county I had never visited, to work for a family I had never met in a position I had never held before. To say that this was an eventful and emotional week would be to understate matters considerably. But to suggest that it was any more shocking than what was to come over the weeks that followed would be simply a lie.