herself on the floor in a tantrum, run away from home, or hold her breath until she turned blue. She merely cried. She didn’t even cry on her papa’s waistcoat or, worse, on his translation of Ovid. She simply sobbed in her bed at night and came to breakfast with red, swollen eyes. Then she silently wept through luncheon. If ever there was a doting father who could see his little girl’s misery and not be moved to re-hang the moon for her, it was not Lord Neville. He took another look at the new governess.
Sir Alfred had outsmarted himself in finding such an intelligent, competent, expensive female to bear-lead his peculiar niece onto a more conventional path. Miss Armbruster was intelligent enough to see which way the wind blew. She was most definitely competent to recognize precisely who it was who paid that exorbitant salary—the same quiet and bookish gentleman who wouldn’t hesitate to throw her out on her aristocratic ear if his little darling was unhappy.
So there was a compromise. In the mornings Lisanne was expected in the schoolroom with completed assignments. In the afternoons, well, in the afternoons Miss Armbruster suddenly found it necessary to work on the reference book she was compiling for the education of young females. Lisanne was to return for tea, dinner at the very latest, having practiced at least one ladylike skill to show off to her proud parents. And she was never, not in public, not in private, to mention fairies, little people, pixies, or elves.
Miss Armbruster was happy. This was the easiest position she had ever held, and the child was bright, inquisitive, and quite endearing, so long as one didn’t inquire too closely as to where she went of an afternoon. Since that involved forbidden topics, Miss Armbruster was able to ignore what she considered the odd kick in Lisanne’s gallop. Over the years of her tenure, she was able to complete three volumes of her textbook, which were very well received in academic circles.
Lisanne was happy. She had friends, freedom, her parents’ affection, and her governess’s approval.
Lord Neville was happy, too, until he died.
*
The doctors would not let Lisanne near the sickroom. They wouldn’t listen to her rantings about willow bark tea and foxglove infusions. The Honorable Lisanne Neville had all of twelve years in her dish by now. She had no business with possets and potions.
What did a child, a feebleminded one at that, if rumor was to be believed, know about the healing arts? the consulting London surgeons asked each other. Herbal quackery, that was all she proposed, likely from some ancient crone who lived in a hollow tree stump and stole pennies from the poor with a handful of dried weeds. Next the chit would be bringing the learned physicians eye of newt or some such thing from an old household book of simples.
The medical scientists cupped the baron, bled the baron, and purged the baron. They killed the baron.
Lady Neville could not survive on her own. The grief, the details of the estate, the uncertainty of her future were too much for the baroness. She never had been strong in will or in body, but without the baron, Lady Neville was too weak to get out of bed. Then she was too weak to keep waking up in the morning. One morning she didn’t.
No one was going to see Lisanne’s tears and make things right. Not even her friends in the woods could make this right. What did they know of death? They lived forever. So Lisanne stopped crying. Miss Armbruster was concerned: a child needed to grieve instead of wandering alone through the corridors of an empty manor house. But nothing in all of the governess’s book learning or learning books could change matters, either.
And then Lisanne wasn’t quite so alone. Uncle Alfred and his family came. To stay.
Since the nearest Neville relation was so distant that the baron had never met the chap, Lord Neville had reluctantly named his wife’s brother as guardian for his daughter and heiress.
Sir Alfred had outsmarted himself in finding such an intelligent, competent, expensive female to bear-lead his peculiar niece onto a more conventional path. Miss Armbruster was intelligent enough to see which way the wind blew. She was most definitely competent to recognize precisely who it was who paid that exorbitant salary—the same quiet and bookish gentleman who wouldn’t hesitate to throw her out on her aristocratic ear if his little darling was unhappy.
So there was a compromise. In the mornings Lisanne was expected in the schoolroom with completed assignments. In the afternoons, well, in the afternoons Miss Armbruster suddenly found it necessary to work on the reference book she was compiling for the education of young females. Lisanne was to return for tea, dinner at the very latest, having practiced at least one ladylike skill to show off to her proud parents. And she was never, not in public, not in private, to mention fairies, little people, pixies, or elves.
Miss Armbruster was happy. This was the easiest position she had ever held, and the child was bright, inquisitive, and quite endearing, so long as one didn’t inquire too closely as to where she went of an afternoon. Since that involved forbidden topics, Miss Armbruster was able to ignore what she considered the odd kick in Lisanne’s gallop. Over the years of her tenure, she was able to complete three volumes of her textbook, which were very well received in academic circles.
Lisanne was happy. She had friends, freedom, her parents’ affection, and her governess’s approval.
Lord Neville was happy, too, until he died.
*
The doctors would not let Lisanne near the sickroom. They wouldn’t listen to her rantings about willow bark tea and foxglove infusions. The Honorable Lisanne Neville had all of twelve years in her dish by now. She had no business with possets and potions.
What did a child, a feebleminded one at that, if rumor was to be believed, know about the healing arts? the consulting London surgeons asked each other. Herbal quackery, that was all she proposed, likely from some ancient crone who lived in a hollow tree stump and stole pennies from the poor with a handful of dried weeds. Next the chit would be bringing the learned physicians eye of newt or some such thing from an old household book of simples.
The medical scientists cupped the baron, bled the baron, and purged the baron. They killed the baron.
Lady Neville could not survive on her own. The grief, the details of the estate, the uncertainty of her future were too much for the baroness. She never had been strong in will or in body, but without the baron, Lady Neville was too weak to get out of bed. Then she was too weak to keep waking up in the morning. One morning she didn’t.
No one was going to see Lisanne’s tears and make things right. Not even her friends in the woods could make this right. What did they know of death? They lived forever. So Lisanne stopped crying. Miss Armbruster was concerned: a child needed to grieve instead of wandering alone through the corridors of an empty manor house. But nothing in all of the governess’s book learning or learning books could change matters, either.
And then Lisanne wasn’t quite so alone. Uncle Alfred and his family came. To stay.
Since the nearest Neville relation was so distant that the baron had never met the chap, Lord Neville had reluctantly named his wife’s brother as guardian for his daughter and heiress.