Olivia Read online

  I explained that it was younger girls I was interested in. She offered me, without a word of exaggeration, five hundred guineas if I could "lick Lady Lucy into shape,” and if Lady Mary could be steered to the altar, it was hinted there might be a bonus in it as well. This crew made my cousin Lady Deborah look a positive beauty. I declined firmly, for I had already four other applications waiting, and was sure one of them would be more to my liking.

  Mrs. Crewe sat in silent astonishment as I allowed one grande dame after another to enter my sitting room to be interviewed.

  "One would think it was you who was doing the hiring, Olivia,” she quizzed me, when we were alone later.

  “It pays to advertise,” I told her, smiling at the folly of society. It was plain I had become a new rage, the more desirable for being expensive and unique. There was only one Miss Fenwick to go around, and each mama was determined to have me. You would not believe the perquisites I was offered—a suite of my own—that was already set on by myself, but that was only the beginning of it.

  It was known after the first interview that I had my own carriage. I was offered free stabling as a matter of course, but Lady Norton threw in a free groom as well. Lady Correy offered me my own box at the opera for the season, while a Mrs. Johnson (an honorable Mrs. Johnson actually) would provide a personal maid, no less. All this without their having any clear idea what I was to provide! They didn’t really care. I would provide an item for them to brag about to their friends. I was a new and rare muslin, my price bruited about town, and hiring me would tell their friends they could afford anything. A sad comment on humankind really, but there you are. If any foolish thing were limited and its price shot to the skies, they would each vie for it.

  Mrs. Crewe and I dined in the fashionable dining hall of the Pulteney each day. Not a private parlor—it was not necessary to guard against any undesirable element at the Pulteney. Part of the glamour of residing there was the company one rubbed shoulders with at dinner and tea. I often heard myself discussed.

  “Do you suppose that is her?” I heard one eager lady ask, having at the time no idea it was myself she meant. There was an Italian princess being spoken of a great deal.

  I looked in the direction the ladies looked and saw an extremely modish creature, draped in furs and plastered with expensive jewelry. She held a pug dog, which she handed to a black page who taggled at her heels. "The Italian princess, probably,” I said to Mrs. Crewe.

  “I didn’t hear she had a dog,” one of the ladies said. “Surely a governess would not have a black page.”

  Mrs. Crewe looked at me and smiled. “Don’t let it put ideas in your head,” she said.

  “No, no. Bringing my team with me is enough. I draw the line at a page.”

  “Mrs. Johnson says her gowns are all of French design,” the more talkative of the misinformed pair went on. I looked down at my dark green serge suit, rather a plain suit really, and shook my head.

  “Of course they would be.” The other took it up. “Lady Monterne told Lady Glanmore she is the most stylish dresser she ever saw. And Lady Glanmore told Mrs. Norton she has a German princess staying with her, but she is using an alias so as not to embarrass Prinney. One of his chères amies, no doubt."

  “Shame on you, Mrs. Crewe,” I chided her.

  “I wish your mama could be here. How she would love it!”

  We continued listening to the ladies at the next table. “She sent Mrs. Norton away with a flea in her ear, you must know, and she was willing to go as high as five hundred, to keep her sister from getting the woman. They say she won’t even see you unless you are at least a countess.”

  “You’ll end up a millionaire after a year in service,” Mrs. Crewe said.

  “I have already set the price, and do not intend to raise it. This gossiping is getting out of line. To say I would not work for anyone lower than a countess—one would take me for a parvenue.”

  Mrs. Crewe gave me a very sly look, but I am not a person who is impressed by a title or blue blood. They do not by any means guarantee excellence. They are perhaps an indication of it, no more.

  This occurred at dinner on the third day of our stay at the hotel. The next morning, I received another batch of crested letters, and was interviewing again in the afternoon.

  We went downstairs for tea and more eavesdropping that same afternoon. I was being discussed again, by a man and his wife I presumed, as they sat together.

  “I will have her, whatever you may say, Phil,” the woman stated firmly. Already I had an inkling it was a superior governess they discussed. “Everyone in town is after her. The Duchess told me she is unexceptionable, and you may be sure if she got an earl, soon to be a duke, for that old nag of Monterne’s, she can do as well for my Alice.”

  “Alice does not require a governess to lend her countenance. Her father is an eminent peer, her dowry is twenty-five thousand pounds, and even if her mother is a peagoose, she is bound to make a good match.”

  I wondered what eminent peer I was listening to, and what peagoose. A peek around the potted palms they use for privacy between tables at the Pulteney showed me no more than a dark blue shoulder. Peering over chair backs, Mrs. Crewe told me the wife wore a high poke bonnet with black ostrich feathers.

  “That foolish Nell Johnson thinks to get her by turning a kitchen maid into a personal servant. Widgeon. It is clear the woman is put off by their nonsense. My plan is as follows, Philmot, and I don’t want you to say anything to let Miss Fenwick think otherwise. A superior woman of that sort—it is progressive education she is interested in—you see. You know I have always placed a great stress on the importance of education, and I shall tell her so. I’ll let her know I expect her to see my gels receive a good, sound, modern schooling, and see if I don’t get her.”

  “I will be surprised if a governess from Bath proves to be an intellectual giant. Miss Silver was plenty good enough for the girls. It was folly to let her leave, with only one year more to go before Dottie is out. You must remember it is Lady Monterne who is passing the verdict. If she has turned blue or even clever it is news to me. The whole family are next door to yahoos.”

  This slur on my relatives cut as deeply as the one on my own intellectual accomplishments. “Do you suppose that is her?” the woman asked with an awful eagerness, as a portly dame with gray hair waddled into the room. It was amazing what different forms I was imagined to inhabit during that week.

  “I cannot think so. Mrs. Norton described her as a youngish woman of somewhat plain appearance,” the escort replied dampingly.

  I was becoming very peeved with Mrs. Norton. Plain appearance indeed! I do not call myself a beauty, which is not to say a few others have not done so. I believe I rate a kinder term than plain. Stylish at least; attractive perhaps, if one is very nice in his notions of feminine beauty. My eyes are gray, my nose straight, my teeth all present and all of the proper color. My hair is not, alas, sable or chestnut, but a decent darkish brown. I have been called an elegant female by my worst enemy (Mrs. Bricker, whose husband favors me for an occasional fit of gallantry, hence the enmity). Yes, I think Mrs. Norton was vengeful to call me plain.

  "Cora, my dear,” a newcomer gurgled, approaching the woman in the high poke. “Have you seen it in the Herald? A paragraph in the society column about that Miss Fenwick you are after.”

  I heard the paper being snatched from fingers, heard, or imagined, a puffing of excitement as the paragraph was read, and was seized of a sudden with a similar eagerness myself.

  “Let us go, Mrs. Crewe, and see what nonsense they are writing up in the Herald,” I suggested. As we left, I heard the husband being sent off to pick up a Herald, complaining all the way, but going just the same, like a dutiful, henpecked spouse. He looked rather well from behind. A pity he had sunk into a delivery boy for a cantankerous and foolish wife.

  I could write a whole book about that week of interviews. What an education it was! Women willing to lie, cheat, tear up their fri
ends and relatives behind their backs, pay any sum on earth for the services of an unknown governess from Bath, only because she had had the impertinence to advertise in a large black-edged box in the papers, and to put up at the Pulteney to discuss possible employment.

  They couldn’t have cared less whether I could speak or write a word of English or any other language, or teach their daughters anything. They wanted me because everyone else wanted me. But enough. I eventually bestowed the crown of my expensive services on Lady Synge, that same woman who wore the high poke bonnet and black ostrich feathers. She was not so bad as the others, but, of more importance, I did not dislike her daughters. She had two of them, the right number, and of the right ages. The elder, named Alice, was being presented right away, and it was really the younger I was in charge of.

  Lady Synge inferred that Alice’s spare time would also be devoted to me, in the hope that I could, even at this late stage, add some little patina to her polish. The younger would be presented in one year, which suited me. One year with the Synges would lend my life some regularity, without letting it sink into monotony.

  Before positively settling on Lady Synge, I wished to meet the girls. She offered to bring them to me, but I was desirous as well to view her home, and offered to drive over to Russell Square. I would have preferred Grosvenor or Cavendish, but Russell Square was close to the Museum, which institution is sadly overlooked as an educational resource. The Harleian and Cottonian libraries so very interesting!

  Lady Synge’s mansion was acceptable. Its decor within was more flamboyant than appealed to me, but the chambers set aside for my use were unexceptionable, a good bedroom and a small but comfortable sitting room ensuite, to which she agreed to add a desk and some extra lamps for night work. Of more importance than these material details, of course, were the girls.

  Miss Crowell, the elder, was the less attractive of the two. Neither one was what one would call an Incomparable. Both had brownish-red hair and hazel eyes. Miss Crowell was taller and thinner; Miss Dorothy had a fuller face, still with something almost of baby fat clinging to her body and cheeks. She had dimples and a winning smile. I liked her at once, but was careful not to be overly friendly, as I felt a stiffer demeanor would yield better results in the lessons. Their papa was only a baron, which is why I call them Miss Crowell and Miss Dorothy. Despite what was said of me at the Pulteney, you see, I was willing to work for someone lower than a countess.

  A fairly minor point arises, but one that will save confusion later if I mention it now. The blue shoulder sitting with Lady Synge in the dining room at the Pulteney turned out to be not her husband after all, but her brother. Her husband, Lord Synge, whom I met briefly, had no shoulders. He had a very large stomach, held up by a pair of long, thin and unshapely shanks, giving somewhat the illusion of a stomach walking on stilts. He had graying blond hair, blue eyes and the air of a surprised ostrich on his little face. Not one of the more charming examples of our "eminent peers.” He was a man it would be easy to forget were it not for his odd appearance. His wife found him easy to forget despite it. She had grown accustomed to his physical oddities, one concludes. I found it hard to do so.

  Once I had decided to accept the position, I was eager to get out of the hotel. You would gape to hear what I paid there each day, though of course I paid the bill for Mrs. Crewe as well. She denied herself nothing the establishment offered. A constant stream of footmen wended their way to our door, bearing assorted drinks, newspapers, and so on. Her relatives were very kind to us. Besides helping me select my tilbury and team, they kept it for me till I required it. I sent around for it, and was soon on my way to Russell Square, while Mrs. Crewe went on to her relatives.

  I was a little wary of driving in London, not so much due to the heavier traffic than we get at home, as to the speed practiced. One would think they were all participating in a race. The team I had got were biddable, however, and the tilbury a neat, manageable affair. It was a light carriage, open you know, with only two wheels, but done up in the first style of elegance—a deep blue with some gilt trim which I personally would have omitted as being slightly ostentatious, though I have seen more garish ones in the streets since, driven by ladies of the first stare.

  The greatest advantage to my rig was being able to do without a groom. A street boy was always happy to hold the reins for a penny if I wished to descend and go into a few shops. While it lacked the dash of a high perch phaeton, it was plenty dashing enough for a governess. Not unlike the rig driven by Lady Alton, the Duchess of Tavistock’s middle daughter.

  My tilbury was taken round to the mews, and I entered the portals of Synge House to take up my new life.

  Chapter Three

  Lady Synge—I have not yet told you much about her, if I recall aright. She was a noisy jay, to strike a comparison that would match her up with her ostrich of a husband. Noisy, bold, self-seeking, predatory—all the unpleasant characteristics we associate with the jay, and some of its fine feathers as well, to draw the attention of bird lovers and fanciers of fine feathers. She was dark haired, a rather handsome woman, full figured, as ladies in the shade of forty are apt to be if they don’t watch the sweet tray. Lady Synge watched it closely enough, but only to select those choice morsels to add to her avoirdupois.

  She came swooping down on me as soon as I was announced, to carry me off to the saloon to meet a brace of fellow jays I could hear squawking in the next room. As we are all being birds this chapter, I shall dub myself the rara avis. The others sat regarding me with popeyed curiosity, waiting to hear what words of wisdom would fall from my four hundred guinea mouth. I scanned my mind for something worthy of their wait.

  All I could think of was Indian muslin, which was singularly inappropriate amidst this silken bower of gowns. I professed myself delighted to make their acquaintance, very happy with London, and when queried for the health of Lady Monterne, I replied she enjoyed excellent health when I had left her a few weeks ago.

  Having come in anticipation of being outraged, they were not happy with this bland civility—who shall blame them? Lady Synge was even less pleased, and urged me on to expatiate on my views on progressive education.

  I was arrogant and outrageous enough on that subject to give them some tales to carry on to their next gathering. “I hope to do my little bit to mitigate the awful ignorance of the next generation of ladies who will rule London,” I told them. This was more like it! Lady Synge beamed on me, her chest puffing up with pride.

  “How do you propose to accomplish that, Miss Fenwick?” one of her guests asked.

  “By avoiding the errors of their elders. I shall discourage them from wasting whole afternoons in idle gossip.” I then arose, exclaiming, “Nor is the body to be forgotten in a lady’s training. I hope my charges are not hanging over a book or tea table in such fine weather, Lady Synge?” Just a little disparaging look at the plate of cream buns, which I had declined to partake of, at this juncture.

  “We shall look into it at once,” she replied, hopping up to accompany me abovestairs herself, while two countesses, a baronet’s lady and the wife of an M.P. sat waiting. Her face was positively glowing with gratification, and though I could not see the other faces, I could hear the exalted chirpings as we left.

  The Crowell girls were doing precisely what I expected they would be, and that, on a really fine afternoon in April, the best weather of the year for going out. They sat curled up, Miss Crowell on a bed reading a book that bore a suspicious marble cover (the hallmark of trashy gothic novels, if you are too high in your literary tastes to be aware of it), Miss Dorothy nominally on a chair, though three-quarters of her body was off it, with her legs stuck out straight in front of her, like a tired old ecclesiastic after a hard day’s preaching. Dr. Eberhard used to assume that very pose in the privacy of his study, where Papa and I occasionally have found him in the past.

  They leapt to attention when we entered, upon receipt of an admonishing glance and whooshing sound from their ma
ma. They made a passable curtsey, looking at me with some trepidation. It occurred to me for the first time to wonder what they thought of me. The opinion of society I had a fair idea of, but it was these two young ladies I would have to deal with on a day to day basis, and the looks exchanged between them gave me the idea they were not at all happy to be blessed (or cursed) with having got me. This little latent hostility must be done away with at once. It was for this reason I ignored the lazy and time-wasting manner in which they had been passing the afternoon.

  “I would not dream of keeping you from your company a moment longer, Ma’am,” I told her firmly. “What will they think of me, causing you to treat them so shabbily?” She was swift enough to recognize a mild rebuke in this misplacing of blame, and left, very happy to have this saucy speech to relate below. She had not paid four hundred guineas for a governess who behaved herself.

  At last I was alone with my charges, to come to terms with them. They both eyed me, frightened, standing at attention, waiting for the terrible rare bird to crow, or chirp, or bite.

  “Well, ladies,” I said in my heartiest voice, “What a beautiful day it is.”

  This banality was not sufficient to rouse them to speech. I stifled the impulse to remind them it is one's social duty to reply to any effort at communication. An offer of a seat would not have been out of place either. I indirectly brought this solecism to their attention.

  “Shall we be seated, and set about getting to know each other?” I asked.

  Still no reply. I sat down in the established mode of a lady, with my back straight, my arms folded in my lap, and said no more till they had each found a chair. When the youngest daughter resumed her lounge, I just kept looking with my brows raised in silent rebuke till she assumed a more decent posture.

  Though Dorothy was the younger, she was the first to find her tongue. “What are you going to teach us?” she asked with some interest.