‘How much longer, Asher?’ asks Leonora Morwood.
‘Two more days,’ I say. ‘The same length of time as when you asked this morning, really.’
‘You are far too snippy for a governess.’
‘The paste must ferment for five whole days, Mrs Morwood. Anything less and you will have no benefit of it. Then I will apply it to your eyes three nights in a row – and make no mistake, it will sting. Be patient. Now, do you want me to finish this chapter or not? There is but one entry left.’
I’m reading to her, for she cannot do so herself at night, but she does love a story before bed, much like her grandchildren. Most nights Jessamine tucks her offspring in and tells them a tale, so I come to Leonora’s room. Tonight she’s in a fine sulk and it makes her short and snappish; she’s demanded something more academic than fantastical and I’m reading from Murcianus’ Book of Magical Creatures. The section on wolves is interesting, but I’ve found nothing relating to the tale Albertine told me of Morwood’s wicked ones.
‘Yes,’ grumbles Leonora from her seat across from me. We sit in the confined sitting room which need not be so cramped − it is a very large suite − but I’ve come to the conclusion she likes it thus. ‘Go on, finish it.’
I clear my throat and begin:
The tale of the wolf’s wife originates from an ancient idea that a woman – maiden, thornback or crone – in want of a faithful husband might seek one from amongst the four-footed, wolves being known for their devotion and mating for life.
Were such a woman so inclined, she might betake herself to a pond located in a wood on a night of the darkest lunar phase. It is a known fact that when the moon disappears, she hides in water to refresh herself. The needful woman should sit by the tarn and wait. The moon is the mistress of the wolf and they will roam, seeking her out when she is not in the sky.
A wolf that drinks from such a pool in the presence of such a woman will immediately be transformed from his lupine shape and take on the aspect of a man. He will go where he is led by the one who takes his hand.
Children born of these unions sometimes have tails, and it is wise to be aware of this.
A woman who acquires this sort of mate must, however, be wary. Should her husband, for whatever reason, eat a meal containing wolf’s bane, he will revert to lupine shape, forgetting his family and taking once more to the wild woods. And he shall never again be drawn from his beast’s life.
Leonora sneers, ‘Poppycock!’
‘You don’t believe in wolf wives?’ I ask.
‘Oh, their existence is documented. But wolf’s bane! Any woman feeding her husband wolf’s bane – aconite, monkshood, devil’s helmet – is trying to get rid of him. So if he keels over or simply runs off into the forest the result is much as was required.’
We both snort with laughter. The old transcribers were simply that: recorders of the tales they were told, not critical thinkers, although in some margins I have found notes by the scribes expressing their own doubts as to tales’ or histories’ veracity. In the volumes I’ve read held in the Whitebarrow Library those notations had been blacked out by the hands of the librarians and archivists who preferred not to see any sort of dissent. The laughter has the advantage of dissipating her tension.
‘Shall I help you into bed?’ I ask.
‘I’m not entirely useless,’ she snaps, but it’s without fire. She’s been getting worse, her sight failing as each day passes; the bright light she needs to continue to read is precisely the thing that causes an ocular irritation. It might seem a cruel punishment.
‘I know. Sleep well, Mrs Morwood.’ I take up a candle to show my way.
‘Goodnight, Asher.’
Outside her room, I pause, listen carefully. Nothing to hear, not even Leonora moving around to get herself ready for slumber. I step quietly along the corridor, away from the staircase, towards the door at the far end. There are two rooms between it and Leonora’s suite. The children’s chambers are down on the first floor close by mine; Luther and Jessamine’s quarters share Leonora’s level, but on the other side of the staircase. Far enough away for privacy. Burdon, Mrs Charlton and Luned have rooms up in the attic.
Portraits line the walls. There is Leonora in her youth, flanked by a husband who looks something like a potato with wispy blonde hair, but whose breeding, I’m sure, was impeccable. Donnell took her surname she told me, became a Morwood so the family name would continue on, with her the sole heir to the estate. Images, too, of each of my charges, somewhat younger than they are now. And Luther and Jessamine on their wedding day, I think, he in dignified greys, she in a dress of cobalt blue; her veil appears as fine as mist, not even obscuring her features in the slightest. She seems happy there, then; no lines had been carved into her face by worry or discontent. She looks much older now, but it can only have been little more than a decade ago.
Here: a blank space between paintings. A rectangle that’s darker than the rest, where something once protected it from light. I run my finger around the shape of the absence, wonder what it looked like when it hung there. Then I move past.
The door handle is thick with dust: no one bothers to polish anything this far along the hallway. The brass feels gritty against my palm as I try to turn it; it shifts the tiniest amount, then grinds to a halt.
Locked. I lean my forehead against the wood. What did I expect, really?
‘Miss Todd? What are you doing here? Snooping?’ Luther Morwood’s stern voice reaches me; he’s much closer than he should be without me having heard him. I startle, stumble back from the door. Luther is quick to catch me before I fall. Still he mocks: ‘Sneaking?’
I put a hand to my forehead, which is hot to the touch. ‘Mr Morwood. I was seeing to your mother, I came out here… I must have become disoriented. I feel so terribly weak.’ Only one of those things is entirely untrue. ‘Not sneaking.’
‘I do hope you’re not sickening for something. If my mother’s demands are too much on top of your duties with the children, you must simply tell her no.’ His arm is still around my shoulders; I can smell his cologne. I do not like him this close, I do not like it at all. I look up into his face; nothing sparks there, nothing more than vaguely irked curiosity. A dull little sparrow excites no interest. I’m merely an inconvenience foisted upon the household by Leonora.
‘Oh, not at all, sir. It is a delight to read to your mother. It was simply a momentary unsteadiness − I do believe I’m still fatigued from my journey here. How silly.’ I pat his hand and step carefully out of range; I do not pull away too strongly lest I make clear the lie of my fragility. ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr Morwood. I shall be well.’
My heart is beating hard as I take the stairs down. I could not have stayed in his arms any longer lest he realise that I was afraid, adrenaline coursing through my veins for fear at being caught. I begin to breathe more evenly until I hear his steps behind me; not trying to catch up, but matching mine. Almost as if he’s stalking.
But then I forget he’s there because a shrill thread of noise comes from below; the particular pitch only small girls can achieve tells me it’s Sarai. My shoes clatter, Luther’s still keeping time. The children’s rooms are on the opposite side of the stairwell from mine, close enough that I might hear cries in the night but still ensure some seclusion.
I throw open the door, expecting the worst, only to find Jessamine sitting in an armchair by the fire, Albertine beside her on a stool, Connell on the rug at her feet, and Sarai face down on the floor, arms and legs flailing and a fresh howl issuing forth.
‘Whatever’s the matter, Mrs Morwood?’ It doesn’t sound to my ears like an accusation but the expression on Jessamine’s face tells me she hears it as such. She goes pale and her lips pinch – or perhaps it’s the appearance of her husband hot on my heels. Trying to make up for it I ask, ‘Are you well?’
‘I read the story, that is all,’ she says, defensively. ‘I began to read the one she asked for and then…’
‘She didn’t read it right!’ the prostrate child wails. For a moment I’m stumped then I remember: after lunch every day I’ve read her a favourite tale from the book in Jessamine’s lap. It’s the carrot I hold in front of her to get her to complete some small lesson each day. Sarai’s not stupid, but she’s very young, still flighty – might remain so her whole life, of course – and judiciously applied bribes work best with her. The story of the girl who turned into a butterfly is her favourite; its telling requires a lilting voice, almost singing, and fluttering motions of the hands and lashes.
I don’t go to Sarai. I want to comfort her but to do so in front of Jessamine would be foolish; I’ve seen enough women in Whitebarrow take a dislike to nannies and governesses, even to their mothers and sisters and aunts, whom they perceive to have greater favour with their own offspring. Instead I say, ‘Sarai, don’t be silly. There’s never only one way to tell a tale.’
‘There is!’ she insists and it becomes a scream at the end. Jessamine stands, stricken pale, but she doesn’t go to the child either. She comes to me instead, snapping the book closed as she does, then thrusts it against my chest with enough force to hurt and push the breath from my lungs.
‘Mrs Morwood,’ I manage.
From behind me comes Luther’s voice, ‘Jessamine!’
And that breaks her. Tears start in her blue eyes, her bottom lip trembles. It did not take much, and I’d not realised quite how fragile she is. I eat down every aggressive instinct I have – every shard of jealousy that these children have a mother who loves them so! – and touch her hand, hold it when she would otherwise have pulled away. I make her look at me. ‘Mrs Morwood, this is but a child’s tantrum. It will pass like a storm, and tomorrow she will not remember it any more than the sky does the rain clouds. It hurts you, I know; your mother’s heart is scarred and will be more so as time goes on from such whims. But I promise you this: a daughter always loves her mother no matter what. Even the worst mother still holds a part of her daughter’s heart − and you are the kindest of mothers! She is so small, Mrs Morwood, forgive her this − and me.’
There are moments when I think the words have no effect, but then she smiles tremulously.
Then Luther strides past us. He grabs Sarai up by one wrist and draws his arm back; it descends before anyone can react. Everyone watching, a frozen tableau, only Luther is free. The flat of his palm connects with his youngest daughter’s backside with a resounding thump – not quite a slap for she’s protected by her skirts – but the noise is loud in the otherwise silent room.
‘Luther!’ Jessamine cries as if the blow struck her. Sarai’s mouth opens wide, but before anything can come out, her father sets her on the floor, one finger held up to her face.
‘Silence,’ he says and the child’s lips quiver but close obediently. He grabs his wife’s arm and tugs her to the door. ‘Attend to the children, Miss Todd,’ he says, as if I must be told what to do.
Jessamine’s head is bowed, shoulders slumped like broken wings, and I would give anything to drag her from him and protect her.
But now is not the time.
I simply nod and turn away from him. There’s the thud of the door closing, then footsteps growing fainter. I bundle Sarai up, cuddle her close, but she doesn’t cry. Their parents’ room is above this one. Connell looks up at me and though he’s trying to hide it, he’s afraid. He says, ‘Father hurts Mother.’
I cup my hand around the back of his neck. ‘Come along, you three.’
Herding them out like ducklings, we go to my room. The space is much smaller, but it is cosier and whatever happens next between their parents the children will not hear it. I sit in my armchair, the storybook in my lap, and they sit in a semi-circle at my feet.
‘Now, Sarai, first thing tomorrow you will apologise to your poor mama – and I’ll not read about the butterfly girl tonight for your actions have consequences. You might not like how your mother reads stories, but you will be polite and kind to her. Do you understand?’
Her bottom lip wobbles, but in the end she nods. I lean forward and pat her hair; she pushes against my palm like a cat. Connell scootches closer so he can rest his head on my knee.
‘One tale, then, and off to bed.’ I open the book and begin, ‘A great while ago, when the world was full of wonders…’