We’re circling the fountain when I say, “It must be difficult having a new governess. You were likely very fond of your previous one.”
His look makes me sputter a laugh.
“Or not?” I say.
“No, she was fine,” he says quickly. “Only she left after a few days.”
“The one before her then?”
“She left after a week.”
I press him and discover that August has been living at Courtenay Hall for almost a year now and has not kept a governess longer than six weeks.
Edmund expects me to leave, too. He is already preparing for that departure by withdrawing behind a wall of polite indifference. I do not understand why the governesses failed to stay— did August’s lack of romantic interest make the isolation untenable?—but Edmund is aware this isn’t normal.
Does my son blame himself for this carousel of caregivers? I’m certain August would not allow him to think so. Still, Edmund has decided that I will not remain long, and so there is no point in getting to know me.
I want to tell him that I will be different. I know I will be. I’m his mother—I’m not going anywhere unless dragged off kicking and screaming, and then I’ll fight my way back until Edmund himself tells me to leave.
Yet to him, I’m merely another governess, one he has just met. To make any promise to stay will sound, at best, blithe and careless, and at worst, well, creepy. So I change the subject and vow to take less personal offense at his cool reception. Perhaps it really isn’t me or him. The fault lies with a parade of inconstant governesses. I may not know why they left, but I’m certain it has nothing to do with Edmund.
We’re back in the nursery by late morning. Time for lessons. I pull a book from the shelf and turn to see him frozen there, panic in his blue eyes, and his reaction twinges old memories.
I set down the book and open it to the first page. “Let’s start by testing your reading.”
He says nothing.
“You don’t need to read the whole page,” I say. “Just tell me which words you recognize.”
Silence. Then, before I can speak, he blurts, “I cannot read. I am not”—he swallows—“not clever.”
Indignation flares, hot as molten lead. “Who told you that? I hope it wasn’t your father.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, no. I mean that I heard my governesses talking to my father. They say I ought to be reading by now. Papa says I only have a little trouble with my reading, as my mother did, and she was clever.”
My eyes brim, and I blink back tears. In his face, I’d seen that flash of panic and humiliation that I remember so well. Now, as he speaks, the memories rush back of my own childhood self listening to conversations I, too, was not supposed to hear.
I recall a tutor hired with money we did not have, my parents desperate to help me overcome my reading difficulties. That tutor telling my mother that I was simply not very intelligent, that some girls were not, and they were lucky that my younger sisters were already reading. My parents should take comfort in that and plan a less strenuous academic future for me.
On hearing that, my parents fired the tutor and devoted themselves to teaching me. While I will never devour books at my sisters’ pace, I’m comfortably literate enough to read for both work and pleasure.
“What do you see?” I ask as I crouch beside Edmund, book open.
He says nothing.
“May I tell you what I see?” I ask.
His thin shoulders shrug, too despondent to even manage his usual polite response.
“I see letters in the wrong order,” I say. “For example, I know this must say ‘breakfast,’ but I see ‘breafkats.’”
“Breaf-kats?”
I nod. “I’ve come to understand that the word is breakfast, but I have trouble seeing it. I also have trouble sounding out words. I remember my tutors getting so frustrated with me. If I can read cat, why can I not sound out catch or bat?”
“Nor can I,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I know my letters, but . . .”
“It doesn’t help you read them. It feels like two very different things.”
He nods.
I push down my skirts to sit on the floor beside him. “I was nearly eight before I could read, and yet now I’m a governess.” I look at him. “Do you think that means I’m not clever?”
His eyes round, as if he voiced the insult himself. “No, ma’am.”
“It’s Clara,” I say softly. “My name is Miss Clara, and I could not read until I was nearly eight. People didn’t just say I wasn’t clever. They said I was stupid. I’m not, though. I just have trouble reading like some people have trouble seeing or trouble walking. Do you know anyone like that?”
He nods. “The woman who brings our milk and eggs in the city cannot walk without a cane.”
“Do you think the less of her for it?”
He shakes his head. “She must work harder than others, which means we ought to appr—” he says, struggling with the word, “appreciate the milk and eggs even more. That’s what Papa says.”
“He is correct. The same is true of you and me, Edmund. We must work harder to do what others do easily. That is all.”
He listens solemn-eyed. Then he looks at the book, and the fear seeps back in. “We’re going to practice my reading, aren’t we?”
I snap the book shut. “Later. For now . . .” I push to my feet. “Do you like stories?”
His gaze slides to the bookcase, his expression still wary, expecting a trick.
Do you like stories? Then here’s one you can read.
“I love stories,” I say. “Before I could read, my mother read to me every night, and my youngest sister made up tales just for me. It helped me want to read—so I didn’t need to rely on others for stories. Would you like me to tell you one?”
He nods.
I move to the shelf of toys, seeking inspiration. “Let’s see. I know a story about a boy who lived locked away in a tower. One day, a calico cat came with an invitation for him to attend . . .” My gaze slides over the toys and notices a prominently displayed collection of metal knights. “Knight school.”
“Night school?” Edmund frowns. “School at night?”
I pick up a toy. “No, knight school. But it also took place at night, for secrecy. Knight night school.”
A smile slips out at that one, and I launch into a tale.
I don’t just tell Edmund a story, though. As I’m describing the castle-school, I suggest we draw a map of the area and a blueprint of the structure. Then I need to divide the students into groups, which requires a visit to the library to look up heraldry. We stay in the library to research medieval food for the opening night banquet.
After lunch, it is out into the yard with wooden swords because I need us to act out the first fight scene so I might properly describe it in my story.
We’re clashing swords when we gain an audience—Hugh and another young groom whom I do not recognize.
“That is not how you hold a sword, miss,” Hugh calls as they both snort with laughter.
“You dare question my technique?” I hold the tip under his throat. “Fie on you, lad.”