Ward of the White Worm

She had taught many children over the years. Some were pliable from the start, or eager learners. Some were slatternly tired beings who could barely turn a page without yawning in exhaustion. Others had a thirst that knowledge which could never be satiated, a thousand questions that birthed a million more. Yet of course there were those who refused to learn. Children who saw their arithmetic as beneath them, gazed at history as though it were useless, and scorned reading.

Olivia was on a wholly different plane of ‘troublesome child’ to Henrietta.

When she had given Olivia some simple piece work to enjoy, Olivia had gazed at the fabric, needle, and thread then back to Henrietta as if she had grown a third eye and turned green. When asked if she had ever held a needle before, the girl said no.

A girl saying no to knowing needlework!?

The idea confounded, bewildered, and horrified Henrietta. When Motzy had come with tea, she inquired on this deficient of knowledge. Motzy said that Olivia had fallen terribly ill shortly after her arrival, and the fever had reached her brain. But this did not soothe Henrietta’s horror. She was certain that if she were to suffer some sort of apoplexy or fever that ruined her mind, she would still know how to sew. So they had ended up spending an entire week cramming in knowledge that should have been gained over years. But Olivia did not take to it gladly, nor skillfully, leaving each session with a bloodier thumb.

This was not the only episode she had dealt with. Another one ran concurrent. She had encouraged Olivia to say her prayers at morning, but Olivia again looked at her oddly. She had also not said her prayers before midday meal. At first, Henrietta considered perhaps the Graef household were Noxites. But no, they were part of the Crown Church and were therefore Diens. The child did not understand the words, had no concept of prayer. She seemed very lacking in any interest in the Distant Gods. Motzy at least joined Henrietta in her horror, swearing to awaken the child every morning to say her prayers, and Henrietta would take up the catechisms.

Blessedly, she could read to some degree, as well as do simple arithmetic and understood geography (even if she did not seem to understand any of the landmasses she had pointed out). Her ability to play piano was atrocious, and so was her grasp of basic watercolours, although Henrietta could forgive that. She had been told that Olivia had come from a poorhouse, and so it was quite unlikely she was even within the same room as a palette of color or a piano at any time as an inmate.

Yet she sat in her apartment within the grand manor, she felt exhausted. Not in her stiff bones, but spiritually. Henrietta had experienced many children’s personalities and learning styles, but none had such a lack of knowledge of the world or her place such as Olivia. It felt like she was finishing a half-made creation. She had dressed herself and then laid back down on her bed to steel herself for whatever would occur during the day. It was a day of rest and yet she did not feel like she was restful.

Idly she glanced about her room. It was not the largest she had ever been ensconced in, but neither was it the smallest. It struck a warm and cozy size, the heavy slightly moldering curtains that covered the window lended the feel of an old dame’s room. The flowery wallpaper looked like it was peeling in some parts, although one of the house servants said it was simply due to the wood used in the house’s construction not being friendly to the adhesive.

The fireplace was small, and covered by a char-licked metal grating. Within there were dull sullen embers, still casting their reddish glow into the room. Her luggage had been unpacked, clothing now in an elegant upright trunk while her sewing and watercolor rested on table Motzy had moved into the room so she could apply herself in private. A letter from her uncle rested on the table, congratulating her for settling in so well in her new post and assuring her that he and Mrs Greene sent their love.

There was a soft knock at the door and Henrietta sat up quickly, smoothing out her skirt an ensuring her hair remained in its pristine bun. “You may come in,” she said, expecting one of the maids with tea.

Indeed it was one of the maids, but rather than tea she poked her head in and said, “his Lord wishes to see you in his drawing room.”

“Why for?” Henrietta asked

“I do not know, but I was told to bring enough tea for two people there.”

A knot of worry appeared in her stomach yet she stood up and gave the maid a smile, “thank you. I will be there momentarily.”

The maid nodded her head and withdrew from the door, closing it after herself.

Now what could the reclusive earl desire of her? Since she had been installed as governess, Theodore had made himself very scarce. She had gotten to glance at him leaving within a coach from a window, or had seen him below in the grounds talking to the perpetually fretful Mister Burke.

She walked down the dust-muffled hallway, passing by doors stuck to their frames by age and paintings of what were likely the illustrious ancestors of the Graef household, or important scenes from their history. Neither portrait nor scene were of particularly cheerful people or events.

The door into the room was open, so she shut it slowly as she stepped inside. The room was dominated by a single large glass window that stood taller than she. Outside the grimy window the sky was a dark ominous grey with thick clouds. In front of it was a dark wood desk with a stack of papers on one side, a small wooden tray on the other, and various implements for the writing of many letters. Theodore was not sitting there. Instead he sat at a comfortable seat beside a small low table where the tea was set, another equally comfortable looking seat sat across the table. The rest of the room held bookcases and yet more paintings. Curiously there was no fireplace within.

“Good morning to you, Miss Marsh,” Theodore said, “would you please sit with me?”

“Good morning, sir,” she said, bowing slightly by the knees. Her corsetry was a stiff older style, and prohibited much comfortable movement even at the hips. She moved to the chair and sat down on it.

Theodore looked at her, his spectacles catching the grey light from the window. “Miss Marsh, do you enjoy your new condition?”

Henrietta kept her spine straight, “I am very much honored to have this position, sir.”

“I do not like people who avoid my questions,” he said with a smile. “But I am not upset. You are still getting used to the peculiarities here and there will always be an adjustment period.”

“My apologies sir, but a respectable governess does not allow her personal feelings to influence her words nor her actions in the house of her employer,” Henrietta replied, sipping her tea. Her eyes remained on Theodore however. He was pale, even his hair which looked like it should have been blonde was more close to the shocked white of grief or old age, but there was a pleasing softness to his face that Henrietta often appreciated on women. She wondered, somewhere in the back of her mind, if it would look good in watercolours. She had already made a portrait for Motzy, and had demonstrated basic portraiture to Olivia.

“Well I did expect a human to teach Olivia, and humans are known as opinionated and passionate,” Theodore said gently, “if I needed a rigid exemplar, I could have called upon one of the Detached. Can you dance, Miss Marsh?”

At the word ‘dance’, Henrietta felt her left knee throb. The flesh there had healed strangely, rendering it permanently stiff. She could bend it, but never in the swift precise ways proscribed by dancing. “I know the steps, and I have taught it often,” she said truthfully. “But sir, I am not a dancer. Why do you ask, if I may offer the question?”

Theodore leaned against his seat. “My friend has invited us to his home in Stowell for a celebration before the season begins. I do not like large gatherings, but he is my friend and I will not refuse him. There will be dancing, and I believe Olivia should learn, there will be a children’s ball. I hope you have a nice dress, you will be accompanying us.”

“Me? Sir-”

“Ah, that reminds me,” the earl got to his feet. He was a bit small for a man of his age, and without a coat to cover him he looked quite slender. Given his paleness and size, Henrietta wondered if he ate much at all. He went to his desk and pulled a drawer from it, then came back to her holding a book. “This is for you.” He held it out. It was bound in green with the lettering of ‘SALLY STOUT’. “It should be something interesting for you when you are not handling Olivia.”

Henrietta reached out with a hesitant hand, taking the book from him with a bow of her head. “Thank you, sir.” She wanted to add ‘but I do not read novels, for they will engender flights of fancy that would be unbecoming’ yet the gaze behind those spectacles suggested a refusal would be met with curtness.

There was a pattering noise at the window. The two both looked over at the window where rain began to beat at the panes, first as a distant trickle, then growing in intensity like war drums. “Well, this will be good for the garden,” Theodore muttered.