At Thornley I had not really felt like a governess, in a curious way. Now I most definitely was “Amelia’s governess,” and my feelings for Amelia became tinged with a resentment I could not prevent. Her needs—not just for learning, but for being “seen” around town—were paramount. Lady Wilcox made sure that every day we went out, either for a walk, or to shop, or to visit Amelia’s friends. Amelia was not in the least shy, and I was often left chatting stiffly to another governess or nursemaid while the two children prattled away, impervious to the cold.
My days had become very busy. Lady Wilcox was now taking a radically different course with me: at Thornley, I had been encouraged to keep to myself, with large amounts of free time; here I was expected to be sociable yet demure, a young Englishwoman of relatively good family whom Lady Wilcox could exhibit like a prize cabbage.
Meanwhile I hardly saw Grace. This new turn of events was terribly upsetting, and sometimes I did not know if I could bear it. I came to realize that, if she chose, she could become invisible. Her life was below stairs, and there was no necessity for our lives to connect at all. They did not connect now, and I scarcely knew how to handle this. I felt that my outward appearance was deceptively calm: inside, I was seething, tormented, and bitterly hurt.
All I had asked for was what anyone would have asked for. Yet for some reason she had found it threatening! I could see why she could not envisage a life together: we both had to support ourselves by working and living in other people’s houses. Yet there was no reason, I thought, why we could not both be shop-girls or typists: I could see that more and more women were working now, and I had begun to hunger for independence. The irony seemed to be that, while I desired independence on a personal level, Grace desired it for her country at a national level. And that, I thought, was even more hopeless, even more quixotic.
Sometimes I mused bitterly that neither of us was going to achieve her dream. Generations of Irish people had hungered for freedom. And generations of women had been oppressed: we were not even allowed to vote! We were also not permitted to live independently, like men. All I want is that, I thought, an economic self-sufficiency that will give me a chance to be with whomever I choose... How I wished I had talent, could be a writer or painter, could assume a mask of eccentricity and have people accept me as I was.
I felt Grace’s absence from my life as a personal betrayal, and I smarted from the blow. Each morning, another maid would bring me hot water; if I told Lady Wilcox I would dine in the schoolroom, another maid would respond to my summons. It was never Grace. The idea of venturing down to the servants’ hall, since I had never seen it, held particular terror. And what if Grace ignored me, snubbed me? I was sure that my manner would reveal everything.
At night I dreamed about her, tossing feverishly. In the morning my pillow would be soaked with perspiration or tears, I was not sure which. I could feel myself becoming shyer and more withdrawn, less interested in helping Amelia learn, though full of gratitude for the daily contact with somebody innocent and playful. I plunged myself into new topics of learning for a time, but would just as quickly lose interest and be surprised when Amelia maintained her enthusiasm.
I felt terribly guilty. Firstly, I had had an illicit affair with a social inferior (this is the way Lady Wilcox would see it); then there was the fact that it was an “unnatural passion”; and thirdly, I was allowing my obsession with Grace to overwhelm me and cause me to lose interest in my duties. I had ceased to be an effective teacher. I had ceased to feel. I was certainly not as trusting as I had been, or as kind. I had never seen my love for Grace as evil before, but now I felt like a fallen woman, one who had been used and tossed aside, one who had allowed herself to be exploited sexually. It occurred to me that this was what Johnson had done to Grace, and she had repeated the pattern. But who had seduced whom?
It was the fact that she ignored me now. I could not understand it. The few times I’d seen her I had been in Amelia’s company, and Grace had averted her eyes from me and chatted to Amelia. I had been afraid to say anything, standing there trembling and pale. I had felt the strangest urge to reach out and touch her.
Sometimes I pondered the idea of passing a note to her through Jones, the butler, who was always exceptionally civil to me. Yet the fear that the note might fall into the wrong hands was too great. Several times I attempted to write a letter, but I found the strength of my emotions getting the better of me. I would either start sobbing and abandon the attempt or begin scrawling accusations and questions that grew increasingly more maddened and bitter.
I had started to keep a journal—out of necessity, for fear of going mad if I did not express myself—and found myself writing disquieting passages:
I suppose it was all just a game to her. She seemed sincere, but if she had truly loved me she would never have abandoned me like this, without a word. Oh God! I miss her so much, the way she felt against me, the way she kissed me for what seemed like hours. Sometimes at night I feel like going into the servants’ sleeping-quarters and throwing myself upon her. If I were a man I would probably do that.
Then I had broken off in disgust, chastising myself for my anger.
Looking back, I consider this period the worst time in my life. After the first few days I had begun to realize that it was not just a phase: Grace really had decided to stop seeing me. The days passed into weeks. My anguish continued and sharpened at Christmas, when the only sight I had of Grace was at the ritual occasion of the servants coming in en masse and being handed presents of money. I noticed that Grace looked thinner and more serious, and we did exchange one glance, but I could not read any meaning into her look. It all seemed to happen so fast. Time was either curiously speeded up or strangely slowed down.
Lady Wilcox actually asked me if I needed to take time off to see my mother. I responded dully in the negative. The idea of journeying to London now was unappealing to me in the extreme, nor did Mother expect me to come. I had not had a letter from her in a long time. And besides, the city was being bombed in zeppelin attacks. Lady Wilcox looked pleased. It seemed strange that she had not noticed my mood, but then so much escaped her notice.
I went by myself to a play at the Abbey, which had been founded about ten years before by the poet Yeats and some of his Anglo-Irish friends, including the playwright Lady Gregory. The play was Cathleen Ní Houlihan. It was about an old woman who personified Ireland, and I found myself curiously gripped by it, drawn by the lyrical, sorrowful language and the fatalistic yet hopeful theme. Ireland was everywhere, the play seemed to say, carried safe in the hearts of the people. Ireland could manifest at any time.
I noticed the way the people around me watched the show, gasping and applauding at certain points where the language grew most forceful. I went home thoughtfully, wishing I could have seen it with Grace, knowing she would have explained it to me better than I could possibly understand it by myself. It took me back to that wonderful afternoon in the woods when she had leaned over me with her hair down like a goddess, something wild and free in her gaze that captivated me completely.
I had started to teach Amelia French, in response to a request from Lady Wilcox, and she was enjoying it.
I tried to explain to her the difference between saying to someone “je t’aime” and “je vous aime.” The example was listed in our lesson book so I could not avoid it.
“When you’re speaking to an older person you should always use vous, unless they allow you to use tu. Tu is more intimate. So if you were speaking to a friend, you would say, “je vous aime bien.” It really means, “I like you.” “Je vous aime” would mean, “I love you.”
“But why would you say vous to someone if you were saying you loved them?” Amelia persisted. “If you loved them, Miss Singleton, why would you not use tu?”
“Well, it’s not polite, Amelia. For example, even though you like me, you call me Miss Singleton.”
“Yes, but that’s because everyone else calls their governess Miss. And Mamma would get angry if I didn’t.”
“Sometimes you just have to do what everyone else does, Amelia.”
She noticed a heaviness in my tone and looked up curiously.
“It must be difficult for you, Miss Singleton. You don’t have anybody to love here.”
I blushed.
“I think we should get back to work, Amelia,” I said feebly.
“I thought you were going to make friends with Grace.” It had obviously disappointed her that I hadn’t.
“Well, I . . . I do like Grace, of course.” My words came out strangled.
“Vous l’aimez bien,” Amelia said playfully. “You like her. Isn’t that right, Miss Singleton?”
“That is grammatically correct, Amelia,” I said. “Thank you; you addressed me formally, using vous. You’re picking up French very well.”
“I even speak it with my friends!” Amelia said cheerfully. I felt a curious pang and then a burst of anger at myself for being jealous of a child’s friendships. I was so friendless and alone, even Amelia pitied me.
But my plight was not uncommon. Being a governess was like being a nun; people gave you the same mixture of respect and patronizing pity. You had removed yourself from the mainstream. You couldn’t complain.”