Promises and Primroses Read online

  Amelia

  Amelia Edwards Hollingsworth let out a heavy sigh as the kitchen door swung closed behind her daughter. She listened to Julia’s footsteps on the stairs, heard the creak of the floorboards overhead, and then the closing of the door to the bedchamber Julia used when she was home—no longer a common occurrence. Amelia loved her daughter, so much she ached inside, but in all the twenty-seven years of having raised this child, Amelia still did not understand her. Why had Julia wanted to be a governess instead of continuing to look for a husband? Why would she rather care for a stranger’s children than her own nieces and nephews? Why had she pulled away when Amelia had tried to offer comfort just now?

  A mother was supposed to comfort her child—why would Julia not let Amelia do her job?

  With a heavy heart, Amelia set about tidying the kitchen, wrapping the partial loaf of bread in a towel and putting the pans away. She’d opened the windows to keep the heat of the baking oven from the rest of the house, but the gray sky was getting darker, so she closed all but one. Then she stood and felt the weight of her empty and quiet kitchen press upon her.

  Amelia’s life had not turned out as she’d thought it would when she had first entered society in search of finding her ­future—­or, rather, the man who would fill her future. After having her heart broken by the man she’d loved, she had chosen to love a man who moved in circles that were not whispering about her behind her back. She and Richard had been happy. Then he died, and she was alone to raise their children by herself.

  Amelia had been determined to educate her children above the usual expectations of the middle-class life she had married into. But such education was expensive, so much of the light household work had fallen to Amelia to do herself. Instead of keeping a gardener and a cook, she hired a woman of all work to come four days a week and do the more laborious tasks.

  She’d taken the children to church every week so they would know God, and she’d tried to anticipate their needs before they realized how desperately a thing was needed. All her effort had been targeted toward their destinations of marriage, family, and purpose. Maybe not as gentry, as Amelia had been raised, but as respectable and well-mannered third class. Simon and Louisa had fulfilled those expectations—Amelia had seven wonderful grandchildren between them—and then there was Julia.

  Julia, who was her father’s daughter. Julia, who was quiet and thoughtful and tall, just like him. Julia, who preferred Richard’s smelly and obnoxious dogs over dresses and ribbons. And after Richard died . . . well, everything had changed after Richard died. Julia preferred school to social events. She preferred her own company to that of the other girls in the parish. She took long walks—hours on end—with Richard’s walking stick that, honestly, looked silly in the hand of a young girl.

  When Julia had announced she’d found a position as a governess in London, Amelia had thought she was joking. How would she even know how to go about applying for such work? Though the Hollingsworths were working class, there was a dramatic difference between having a profession, as Richard had, and working as a servant in some nobleman’s household. Once Amelia realized her daughter was serious, she’d tried to talk her out of the decision, but Julia was determined. Amelia had been a little bit proud of that—though she’d never admit it.

  Amelia had found comfort in how happy Julia seemed with her course once she’d settled in London. But it was a course without marriage. A course without children of her own. A course that seemed, to Amelia, a short-term situation. Certainly, Julia would not enjoy such work for five years. And yet she had. And now Julia was intent on finding another position.

  She was already twenty-seven years old, but she was pretty and didn’t look twenty-seven. Her marriage prospects were low, but there was hope for her yet. Unless she insisted on going back to work for some noble family who could never appreciate what she was sacrificing for them. She would be invisible to them; they wouldn’t care about her. Amelia knew that from experience. Growing up, she’d had a fat governess whom she and her sisters laughed about behind her back and a dozen servants she never bothered to know by name. She was ashamed of her arrogance and disregard now, but to have her daughter working as one of those nameless people who moved soundlessly through aristocratic homes filled her with a different type of shame.

  Amelia put her hands on the counter and dropped her chin to her chest, hating how easily the bitterness could rise inside of her when she listed the turns her own life had taken. She tried to push away the temptation to go back to the first time she’d felt such a rejection. It had been more than thirty years ago. She should not even remember the pain of Elliott’s rejection, let alone recall it so distinctly. But he had been the first of many losses, and she could not find a way to separate one from the other—her broken courtship and her broken relationship with her daughter.

  How can I help her? Amelia wondered. Why has she never let me in?

  Peter

  By day five of Miss Lawrence’s employment, Peter was beginning to question his choice.

  “Why does Leah not have proper stockings?” Miss Lawrence asked him as soon as he’d left the breakfast room that morning. She’d been waiting in the hallway, nearly scaring him out of his boots, truth be told.

  “Because she insists in playing in the mud. Lydia saved the stockings for Sunday. I believe you shall find them on the top shelf of the wardrobe in a red-and-blue-striped hatbox.”

  Miss Lawrence put her hands on her hips, and her face—already etched with a permanent scowl—puckered even further. “Why is Leah allowed to play in the mud?”

  “Because the enjoyment my girls feel when playing out of doors on fine days lasts far longer than muddy knees.” He crossed his arms over his chest and expected the questioning to end. Lydia had managed the girls without bothering him with silly details—why could this woman not do the same?

  “I have other concerns, Mr. Mayfield.” She did not pause long enough for him to suggest they set a time to speak in his study. He was not known to counsel with staff in the hallway. “Why do the girls still share the same bed? It isn’t healthy for them to be so attached to one another.”

  That rankled him. His daughters had no mother, so he would not prevent them from being “attached” to one another. He’d shared a bed with Timothy until leaving for school, and his daughters were far younger than he had been.

  “I am pleased with the arrangement, Miss Lawrence. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He gave her a sharp nod and turned on his heel. He spent the rest of the day in the dog yard, not only because there was always much to be done but also to avoid his new governess. Surely she was not so prickly with his girls?

  He did not return to the house until supper, which he ate by himself at the large dining room table, an arrangement he’d held for the last four years, save for the occasional visits from Timothy or Uncle Elliott or one of Sybil’s brothers. He read the day’s paper in between bites, making mental notes about what he needed to do before tomorrow afternoon when he would travel to Swaffham to pick up the new dogs.

  Until recently, Peter had primarily raised foxhounds, a breed in high demand in England. He was an excellent trainer and took pride in providing the very best hunting dogs. These new dogs, however, were greyhounds—racing dogs, though he felt that their companionable qualities were equally impressive. The breeding pair had cost him a pretty pound, but he was excited to further expand his pack.

  This last year he’d begun breeding his hounds and had already seen a great deal of “expansion.” He’d had three litters so far, and all had gone smoothly. He’d also purchased a female collie just after Christmas. In a moment of weakness, he agreed to let Marjorie name the dam, resulting in the name Bumbleberry, which hurt a man’s pride when he had to tell it.

  Bumbleberry had been bred with a sire in Northallerton, however, and was expecting her first litter in a few weeks. The popularity of collies had been growi
ng in Scotland over the last decade, and Peter planned to be at the ready when England fully recognized the dog’s unique traits.

  Queenie, his female foxhound, was also expecting a litter—her third—in another month. With the greyhound pair and litters from both Queenie and Bumbleberry, he would more than double the size of his pack by the end of the summer. Already he had four of Queenie’s litter sold. His reputation was growing.

  Peter finished his meal, planning to kiss his daughters good night and then read a periodical on canine husbandry he’d had sent from London, but Miss Lawrence was standing in the hallway like a phantom with her bony face and pale-gray dress, and he squealed like a girl. Had she been waiting for him again? He hoped that he’d simply exited while she was walking somewhere else.

  “Mr. Mayfield, might I have a word?”

  “Certainly. Why don’t we meet in my study?” He wanted his daughters’ governess to come to him with questions and problems, but he hated being surprised. If only he didn’t feel so anxious beneath Miss Lawrence’s judgmental countenance and so insecure about how to guide her. Lydia had required so little of him.

  In the study, he waved Miss Lawrence toward the chair on one side of his desk. She sat on the edge, her hands folded tightly in her lap. His chair squeaked when he sat down, and she pursed her lips at the sound. The woman seemed particularly . . . sensitive.

  “What would you like to discuss, Miss Lawrence?”

  “I am concerned about your daughters’ prayers. Are you aware that Leah does not repeat the Lord’s Prayer correctly? And that both girls then add words of their own?”

  “Yes, Miss Lawrence, I am aware.” Leah still said “woebegone” instead of “will be done.” Peter found it adorable. He did not strictly follow the daily focuses outlined in the Book of Common Prayer as he felt the girls too young to understand them. This was something he and Sybil had agreed on years ago, not wanting to indoctrinate their children with rote practice that often eclipsed the meaning of the whole. He knew Lydia had not fully agreed with the more relaxed approach to the devotions, but she had supported him and Sybil.

  “It is inappropriate,” Miss Lawrence declared. “Why, it is almost . . . heathen for them to insert their own words. If I had known that these girls were being raised without the basics of good Christianity, I—”

  Peter lifted a hand, interrupting Miss Lawrence. “My daughters are being raised with a belief in God and a devotion to Christ’s teachings. We attend church every Sunday; we pray every morning and evening. They are well versed in Bible stories.” He could thank Lydia for that, too. She had a deep love for the Bible.

  When Miss Lawrence had first arrived, he had told her that he would like the stories to continue, and she had said she would prefer to read straight from the Good Book. Peter had agreed, thinking it a good idea for his daughters to become familiar with scripture. But the girls had begun complaining that the words were difficult to understand and that Miss Lawrence did not change voices to fit the characters. They especially missed Lydia’s representation of Goliath. He’d asked the girls to be patient with Miss Lawrence but wondered if he’d acquiesced to her suggestion too quickly.

  Miss Lawrence opened her mouth, but he continued before she could speak.

  “And, yes, we add some personal words at the end of our prayers. That does not make me, or my daughters, heathens. Have you any other concerns?”

  “I need some time to organize my thoughts.” Her face looked even more puckered. “I shall return tomorrow at ten o’clock, if that is acceptable to you.” She stood and left the room.

  Peter leaned back in his chair and let out a heavy sigh. Should he have chosen Mrs. Grimshaw? She likely would not have been so militant in her religious devotion. The image of Julia Hollingsworth came to mind. He imagined she would have been gentle and loving with his daughters. Like Lydia. Like a mother. He shook that thought out of his head. They had no mother—would have no mother.

  When he reached the door to the girls’ bedchamber, he took a few moments to improve his expression from irritated employer to loving father. Then he turned the knob and poked his head into the room.

  “Are the ladies receiving?” he asked. The girls thought this a great game he played with them every night when he came in for kisses.

  “Yes, Papa,” Leah called out.

  Peter stepped fully into the room and smiled as his daughters, dressed in their nightgowns with their hair up in rags, hurried to get beneath the covers so as to make him believe they had not been bouncing on the tick.

  “There are my bugs, snug in their rugs.”

  The girls giggled. He lay down across the foot of the bed and propped himself up on one elbow so he was facing them. “What shall you dream of tonight, do you think?”

  Marjorie frowned. “Miss Lawrence made us practice sitting still for half an hour before bed.”

  “For two hours!” Leah added.

  Marjorie scowled at her sister. “One half of one hour.” She turned back to Peter. “It felt like two hours, however.”

  “Sitting still?” He tried to keep an open mind. “Let us think of some ways that sitting still can be a benefit.”

  They listed church and carriage rides and for when they got older and had visitors. Then Leah added, “When watching frogs,” and they all dissolved into laughter and began planning their next frog-catching adventure. Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon the three would go on “Papa picnics” that included a variety of activities. It had been several weeks since they had managed one, what with the new dogs arriving and Lydia leaving. Peter wondered what Miss Lawrence would think if he brought home a bucket of polliwogs.

  The next morning at precisely ten o’clock, Miss Lawrence knocked on the door of Peter’s study. He steeled himself before calling for her to come in. She had engaged Colleen, a maid, to watch the girls in the nursery during her conference with him. Miss Lawrence sat in the same chair she’d occupied the night before and listed additional grievances for the next forty minutes. Marjorie should not be able to choose her own frock. Leah was too young to wear her hair in braids. Marjorie laughed too loudly, Leah whined too often, and both girls refused to eat kidneys with breakfast.

  Peter said nothing, just let her vent and stew and vent some more in hopes that allowing her to purge all the negative observations she’d made during this first week might allow her to better see the positives. When she finished, he smiled at her stiffly.

  “Was it not your understanding that you were hired to look after these girls, Miss Lawrence? You are supposed to be teaching them the manners and acceptable behaviors expected of girls of their class.”

  He didn’t want his daughters to simply be told to sit up straight and hold their fork just so and not laugh so loudly, but they did need etiquette, and most of Miss Lawrence’s complaints seemed to center on that aspect. If the girls could learn the skills they were obviously lacking, perhaps Miss Lawrence would have less to complain about.

  “Do you think a bit more patience is warranted on your part as they learn what is expected of them? Miss McCormick was a nursemaid more than she was a governess. My children are in need of instruction, which is why I chose you.”

  Surprisingly that seemed to stop her flow of irritation. “So I have leave to teach them these things?”

  Peter sighed and stood. “Yes, that is your job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business in Swaffham.”

  When he arrived to pick up the greyhounds, they were frightened—­not surprisingly. Even more so when he put them inside the crate already loaded in the back of the wagon. By the time he returned home that evening, the dogs had calmed, and he spent some time testing their obedience with pieces of liver as a reward. It was gratifying to see for himself that they were everything the breeder had claimed them to be—in excellent health, well trained, and responsive to praise.

  Eventually he settled them into
their own pen on the opposite end of the yard from the hounds, who were far too excitable for the new additions. Greyhounds had difficulty maintaining body heat, so he’d had Gregory—the hired handler—prepare an enclosed structure and fill it with old blankets so the dogs would be able to stay warm. The entrance was just big enough for them to get through and covered with a piece of sail that would further insulate the space.

  Peter would need to give these new dogs extra attention for the next few weeks as they settled in. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by the increased demands, he felt energized. Peter had always been able to lose himself with the dogs in ways he never did in the other aspects of his life. He enjoyed fatherhood, of course, but what did he know about raising little girls? Running the estate gave him financial security, purpose, and a sense of pride, but it was not particularly satisfying. The dogs were different from everything else. He knew them, they knew him, and they required nothing more than what he was able to give.

  It was nearly dark when Peter entered the house through the back doors and took off his muddy boots. He’d told Cook he’d be late and found a bowl of stew underneath a towel along with some fresh bread and a tall mug of ale set at the servants’ table. Once his belly was full, he made his way upstairs to kiss his girls good night, though they were certainly asleep by now. He’d dallied too long with the greyhounds. He was eager to fall into his own bed. It had been a long day—good, but long.

  “Are the ladies receiving?” He whispered so as not to wake them if they were already asleep.

  “Papa?”

  Peter heard the strain in Marjorie’s voice, and he straightened as he pushed the door fully open. He crossed to her, quickly assessing by the light coming in from the hall that Leah was asleep on the other side of the bed.