How to Claim a Governess’s Heart - Bridget Barton Page 0,116
funeral for Molly Smith, being both a fine lady of the town and a woman. But she and Poppy had gone to stand alongside the road and watch the procession. She had sat down afterwards to explain everything to the little girl, but she wasn’t certain she had been understood. Her words seemed to flow in and out of the child like the tide, causing no change.
“Penelope, you can’t go home. This is your home now,” Margaret corrected her.
“Home is Mama,” the girl said more gently this time, her head still buried in her lap. “I want to go home to Mama.”
“I told you,” Margaret said gently, reaching out to touch the girl again. “Your mother has gone to a better place. She isn’t at your home anymore. I know it is very, very sad. I know you must feel alone. But I will take care of you.”
“I don’t want you!” the girl cried suddenly, looking up at Margaret. For the first time, Margaret saw tears glistening in the small eyes and her heart broke. “I want my mama! Take me to my mama.”
“I can’t,” Margaret said, beginning to feel desperate. “Penelope, I want to, desperately. But I can’t.”
“I hate you!”
The girl leaned forward suddenly, her tiny fists balled up in front of her like a boxer, and she half-lunged, half-fell forward onto Margaret, pounding away at her chest in fury.
“Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go home!”
Margaret hardly knew what to do with this ball of anger. The girl was tiny, and yet even then she landed a few worthy blows before Margaret had her arms wrapped tightly around the girl. Poppy struggled a few more seconds and then went limp, still crying angrily but no longer fighting. Margaret leaned back in astonishment, letting her go without a reproof.
She didn’t know what to say. She had never raised a child of her own, and yet she was beginning to suspect that personal experience would not have prepared her for this – raising a child who had lost so much at such a young age.
The little girl crept into the corner again, her hair hanging down over her face as though she were a feral animal. Margaret reached out, but she shrank away from her hand.
“I want my mama,” she kept saying over and over, rocking back and forth. “I want my mama, I want my mama, I want Mama…”
Margaret sat with her for a long time but there was no change. In the end, she slipped out of the room and rang for supper to be brought to the child, at a loss for how to help. She had done everything she could think of, and yet containing Poppy’s raw rage or assuaging her desperate sadness seemed beyond Margaret. She didn’t even know where to begin, but she had to start somewhere. She was catching the same panic that she’d seen in Poppy’s face. She didn’t know how to sustain their situation if she couldn’t even explain that the child’s mother was gone and would not be back.
After the christening, things went from bad to worse. All the little battles that Margaret had considered won – the bathing, the name, the new clothes – slid backwards again. Poppy stubbornly refused even the simple morning face washing that was requested of her. She no longer allowed anyone to dress her in the new clothes, and whenever someone tried to call her Penelope she would stand with her fists balled at her sides and scream, “Poppy!” at the top of her lungs.
Margaret had been broken-hearted to see her marble-like face during those first few hours following Molly’s death and to see almost no real reaction from the child. But now she had more reaction than she could handle. Poppy seemed to have switched completely in her approach to the tragedy. What had once looked like quiet acceptance was now unbridled indignation.
A week after the christening, Margaret woke to the sound of screaming and breaking glass in the hallway. She stumbled out of her own room in her nightgown, hair still loose and wild around her shoulders, and found Poppy at the top of the stairs, her little face set in furious industry, sending one teacup after another down the bannister to shatter at the bottom.
She had an impressive collection, clearly hoarded over the last week of meals and teas, and now they were all caught up in the skirt of her nightgown – the only thing that she could be consistently made to wear. She turned and looked at Margaret, fury shining in her little eyes, and stubbornly pulled out another cup and set it upon the bannister before her.
“Penelope, no.” Margaret stepped forward to intercept her.
The little girl screwed up her face and gave the cup a sharp poke. It skittered halfway down along the bannister and then wheeled off into thin air, falling for one sickening moment of silence and then shattering against the floor. “Poppy!” the girl screamed in protest.
This sort of behaviour became more and more normal around the house. Margaret wondered wearily how it was that a child so young could be so devious and creative in the tortures she inflicted on the staff. It seemed as though Poppy wished to make every step, no matter how small, a battle for the people around her.
Margaret saw her own self-doubt reflected in the face of her father whenever he looked at her. He said nothing, but she could see that he was condemning her for the foolish promise she had made to Molly, that he was waiting for her to regret everything enough to give up and send the girl away. He offered no solutions, but she did overhear him talking on occasion to the butler and to visitors about girls’ schools and boarding institutions, and she knew what he would suggest if she ever asked.
She desperately needed advice, but she didn’t know where to turn. If she went to her father and asked him about alternatives, she knew that he would suggest Poppy live with another family, a tenant in her own class, or go to one of the schools he was always talking about. He would probably even offer to pay Poppy’s expenses to ensure that the girl ended up cared for but not above her station – just as he had paid for Nigel to go away.
Nigel. The old yearning for his friendship and advice came back to Margaret in these moments, but she kept pushing it away. She didn’t have Nigel. She didn’t have her father, she didn’t have anybody but herself now – herself and Poppy.
Want to read the rest of the story? Check out the book on Amazon!
Also, please turn the page to find a special gift from me!
Sign up for my mailing list to be notified of hot new releases and get my latest Full-Length Novel “Honorable Rosalind’s Heart” (available only to my subscribers) for FREE!
Click the link or enter it into your browser
http://bridgetbarton.com/rosalind
* * *
[1]Tins of food were not yet commonly available. The first can of soup was introduced to the world in 1895.
Where did she keep this if she were riding side-saddle on a horse? A loaf of bread would fit in a saddle bag. Perhaps I’ll give her a basket, as she’s been inspecting everything.