A Contrary Wind: a variation on Mansfield Park (Mansfield Trilogy Book 1)

by the fact that there was no library, nor any substantial bookcases in the study. The idea that some families did not consider books to be as essential a furnishing in the home as chairs or knives had never occurred to her. In every home she had entered—the parsonage, even the White house, and of course in Mansfield Park, books were to be found on every side table and mantelpiece. Her uncle maintained a substantial library. At Keynsham Hill Fanny noted only a family bible, a Pilgrim’s Progress, and a decayed old volume of The Spectator. The absence of books, to Fanny’s eye, made the house feel half-empty and cold, as though the occupants were merely temporary dwellers. She enquired, and learned that Mr. Smallridge took the local newspapers, Mrs. Smallridge studied the fashion plates, but neither were in the habit of reading for pleasure or improvement. This information had the effect of rendering her employers less intimidating in the young governess’s mind, for her respect and admiration were all for the well-informed and the educated, such as her uncle and her cousin Edmund.

Fanny’s new domain on the second floor comprised the schoolroom, the nursery, and her own little bed-sitting-room, adjoining them both. This room, with its little fireplace and a window overlooking the park, was in fact superior to her bedroom in Mansfield Park. She had a narrow bed, a rug, a wardrobe, two chairs and a little table that also served as her writing-desk.

Fanny had tormented herself with many fears upon entering into the Smallridge’s employ, not the least of which was her trepidation concerning the children—would they obey her, and would she win their affection and her employers’ approbation? She had, as is so often the case in human affairs, and most particularly in the case of inexperienced, timid eighteen-year-old females, worried to no purpose. Fanny first recommended herself to the children by offering to tell them a bed-time story that evening. Recalling the little tales she used to tell her younger sisters in the cramped bedroom they all shared in Portsmouth, Fanny spun a tale of a little fairy family that lived at the bottom of their garden, who used foxglove flowers for cups and toadstools for tables, and so entranced were the children that they extracted a promise from Fanny to go and search for the fairies when the warm weather came.

In those early days, Mrs. Butters often breakfasted with Fanny and the children, explaining that Mrs. Smallridge was feeling particularly indisposed and tired, and while the old widow could be blunt to the point of incivility in her remarks—she did not scruple to tease Fanny for her formality of speech—her reproofs did not sting like the condemnations of her Aunt Norris. Perhaps this was because Fanny knew herself to be sincerely liked by Mrs. Butters and the older lady was in a fair way to becoming a most important guide and friend. Mrs. Butters had favourable reports to give to her niece concerning the new governess, who appeared to be naturally adept at commanding the obedience of her charges without resorting to scolding or punishment, could make their lessons tolerably interesting to them and best of all, awaken in them enough affection for her so that they desired to please her.

Fanny was in the schoolroom with her young charges when an unfamiliar tread in the hallway announced the arrival of the master of Keynsham Hill. Caroline’s pencil and Edward’s alphabet cards were abandoned—they swiftly ran to meet him at the door, and Edward was scooped up with one strong hand while Caroline’s curls were affectionately caressed by the other.

Mr. Smallridge was well above the middle height, with a large forehead, small penetrating eyes set rather close together, an aquiline nose, and thin lips. His dark, hard, satirical gaze made Fanny wish to look down at the floor, the table, the fireplace tools, anywhere rather than look her new employer in the face. Fanny felt herself to be an imposter, rather than a real governess, and she feared that here was the person who could instantly discern her inexperience, her ignorance, her lack of accomplishments—and proclaim her unfit for her post.

Fortunately for Fanny, Mr. Smallridge, while genuinely fond of his children, never spent any time in the nursery or the school-room, and having just returned home after several weeks’ recreation that had left him more in need of rest than when he left, had little to say to the new governess except that ‘he supposed she had settled in comfortably,’ and that ‘she was not to allow this one’—and he tossed Edward up on his shoulder, to the child’s screams of delight—‘to give her any trouble.’

Fanny nodded and curtsied, and was just trying to formulate an intelligent reply when Mr. Smallridge deposited Edward back on his chair, and unwrapped Caroline’s little arms from around his leg, adding, “Capital—capital. Well, then. Good day,” and left as abruptly as he had come.

Lest the reader’s imagination give rise to a supposition in which this first meeting was the precursor to other, longer, more interesting interviews, in which two lonely souls discovered an irrepressible and mutual sympathy, allow me to state that not then, nor subsequently, did Fanny ever injure the peace of the household or betray her own principles by fancying herself in love with the master of the house. This happy escape was by conviction as well as by inclination, and despite the traditions prevailing for young governesses so situated. Mr. Smallridge, while a gentleman in appearance as well as air, had nothing to say to Fanny, in the ensuing weeks, that softened her first impression of him, and she could barely be said to have made an impression on him at all.

Fanny was accustomed to the solitude of her own thoughts, so a day spent with no other companions but the children and the nursemaids, and an evening passed alone, did not distress her. She dined with