Recognizing I would have to rehearse even my most casual and mundane speech with care added to my overwhelming sense of exhaustion. Every part of my body ached, and the bruising around my eye pulsed with sharp arrows of pain.
After dinner, Miss Jones, Miss Miller, and I conversed about desultory topics as the students quietly occupied themselves with their assignments and reading. The women shared with me a general overview of the school’s routine, along with a sense of what rules and expectations there were for the students. Discipline, I learned, was left largely to the individual teacher’s judgment.
“What happened to Fräulein Schoeppenkoetter?” Miss Jones asked Miss Miller. “There’s nothing seriously wrong, is there?”
“Fräulein has been unavoidably detained. Mrs. Thurston did not share specifics with me. When Miss Eyre happened by to renew our friendship, I conceived the idea that she could step in for a short while.”
Miss Jones started to speak again, but one of the girls came to ask her a question about geography. I had the sense I was fortunate that the interruption occurred.
Needle art projects consumed the final hour before bedtime. Emma served tea and biscuits in the library, where a small coal fire had been set in the hearth. At long last, my clothing started to dry out.
I struggled to keep my eyes open, telling myself that I must take heed of the surroundings and note the different personalities so I could report to Mr. Douglas. Perhaps he could tease out information that would be useful. So far, I could see nothing that might help us conclude the identity of a killer.
Some girls stitched steadily; others fussed about with their floss and needles. Rufina grumbled that she hated needle arts, Nettie seemed particularly cross about her own work, and Rose mainly sat with her project in her lap and stared off into space.
Miss Jones pursed her lips. “The girls are all out of sorts. You cannot imagine how distraught the students were about Selina Biltmore’s death. How many children were in the family that you served? You said your post was in Yorkshire?”
“Just one and yes.”
“Was the family good to you? Why did you leave?”
“Circumstances changed.”
Miss Miller intervened, obviously tiring of Miss Jones’s attempts to pry into my past. “Miss Eyre served as Adela’s governess.”
“Indeed! So you must have met her guardian!” Miss Jones threw her hands up in horror. “How lucky you were to have escaped with your virtue intact! That man must be a monster! Hiding a wife while wooing a governess!”
My teacup rattled as I set it down.
“Please forgive Miss Jones for speaking out of turn. She knows that Mrs. Thurston takes a strict stand against gossip.” Miss Miller glared at Miss Jones, who met her stare and returned a benign expression. “Tonight we seem to have forgotten our manners. Perhaps it is because the events of this morning were so distressing.”
Little Caroline approached Miss Miller for help unraveling a knot. While my old teacher’s attention was diverted, Miss Jones whispered to me, “You have heard about Selina Biltmore, haven’t you? Adela found her lying there, dead, this morning. She was already cold to the touch! Can you imagine?”
“Miss Jones! Please!” Miss Miller sent Caroline on her way as her own voice sharpened with irritation. “Let us not dwell on it. Of course Miss Eyre knows about the tragedy. Please do not pander to nervousness by remarking on the circumstances surrounding the girl’s death.”
“One can hardly call it pandering! I simply seek to warn Miss Eyre that her students might suffer from nightmares. Adela sobbed and sobbed until we dosed her. That’s her French blood, I daresay. They are an excitable people. Prone to dramatics and reckless behavior. They take little heed of the impact on others. The women especially. She must have been quite the trial to you when you were attempting to teach her.”
“On occasion,” I agreed. “Her French blood and years in that country cannot help but evidence themselves. However, she is a good child at heart. Most adults would suffer agitation, too, when confronted by a dead body. Surely you don’t blame Adèle for responding as she did? She is, after all, just a child.”
“I was only remarking on what happened and her response to it so that you will be informed.” Miss Jones shrugged in a manner that betrayed petulance.
“Of course,” I said, to smooth over this hiccup.
She continued in a more conciliatory tone, “I, myself, have burst into tears several times today. The news of Selina’s death was shocking for all of us. Horribly so. I think it best to warn you that tonight of all nights, your charges might awaken you with bad dreams. I daresay this would be a good night to give them all a drop or two of laudanum. It might help them get through the long evening without interruption, poor dears. Remind me, Miss Miller, to tell Cook to buy more when she does her shopping.”
“Ma’am? May I begin the readings?” Rufina curtsied to Miss Miller, all the while sucking on a bloody index finger. When she withdrew it from her mouth, I could see that the skin had been broken by several needle pricks.
The three Seniors—Rufina, Rose, and Nettie—took turns reading Bible passages out loud. Rufina spoke haltingly, stumbling over difficult words. Rose read with a clear voice and dramatic flair, while poor Nettie’s recitation was marked with incessant interruptions as Parthena Jones corrected the child’s lazy tongue. The rest of the girls hid behind their stitching to muffle their giggles, while Nettie suffered no end of embarrassment. The child’s face grew redder and redder with each stumbling pronouncement.
When Nettie finished, Miss Miller turned to me with a frown. “I am not a martinet, but her father has sent strict instructions that we teach his little girl to talk like a proper Englishwoman and cure her of this silly lisp. His words, not mine. I think she’s adorable.”
At long last, the Bible passages came to an end, for which I sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
The girls began to pack up their needlework, and Miss Jones turned again to me. “Where did you learn German?”
“My cousins are scholars. They taught me.”
But she was not finished. “Are your cousins here in London?”
“Actually, I am the guest of Mrs. Captain Augustus Brayton.” The words slipped out before I could weigh and measure them. The expression of surprise on Miss Jones’s face told me she found this fascinating.
“My! That’s lofty company for a governess, isn’t it? She used to visit the school quite frequently, but then her interest ceased.”
“Her husband is serving the Crown in India, and he took ill. She, naturally, went to his aid, but has now returned.”
“Oh! That explains her recent absence. I was wondering why she lost interest in us. My! I can’t imagine visiting with a society lady like Mrs. Brayton at her home. Much less having her as a hostess! How did you meet her?”
“Through my former employer, Adèle’s guardian.”
“Have you known her long?” Miss Jones was nothing if not insistent.
This was exactly the sort of conversation I hoped to avoid, since any mention of Lucy might lead to explaining our real relationship, the bond that came from our husbands being best friends. No, such a discussion might lead me to slip and announce my true status—I was too exhausted to think clearly. Yet here I was in the thick of it with no way out. I set my teacup down rather too clumsily and the clatter caused Miss Miller to face me. I sent her my unspoken cry for help—and she responded by saying, “I suggest we escort the students up to bed early, since it might take a while for them to get to sleep. Ladies, put your work away. Let’s have a hymn before bed. What might you suggest, Miss Jones?”
“The girls practiced a nice one with Signora Delgatto just this morning. Come along now. Stand in your places.” She rose and directed them into three neat rows, where the girls waited for their cue. Miss Jones raised her hands then dropped them to signal the start of a well-loved hymn with a verse that included the words “make us thy sorrow feel, till through our pity and our shame love answers love’s appeal.”
I could not know it then, but it proved oddly prescient.