MyFather was often away, and in the early days I had several nurses, who weregentle with me, and not strict, which was apparently a fault in them. No doubttheir shortcomings added to my own. Yet I do remember comfortable times, suchas eating hot buttered muffins by the nursery fire, and little games with puzzles,and a treacle sweet for a prize.
When I was just twelve, my fathercame back from half a year in another country, which I think lay on an enclosedsea called the Mediterranean. He found his house, he said, this venerable andsignificant building, erected in the 1600’s on earlier foundations, andadjoining the historic ruined fortress that had stood on the site since 1289,to have everything unruly, and in a disgraceful condition of dusty untidynessand neglect. I, too, had been undusted and neglected, it seemed. He tested meall one long, greying afternoon, in his study, which room was very newlyscoured and burnished, and chokingly perfumed with large amounts of lavenderedbeeswax, so I coughed continually, and my eyes ran, and presently my fatherupbraided me quite coldly for weeping again, when it was not the same thing atall.
During the interview otherwise,my Father learned my reading skills were poor, and I had attempted onlyworthless books, these being fairy tales and youthful romances, for children,of knights and such-like. Nor was my ability with simple mathematics of anyvalue. He remarked I could not seem to add two and two, which actually I could,if not much else. What use would I be, he cried, if ever I should have togovern servants in my own husband’s house? The poor fellow would be destitutein a week due to my ignorance. Nor had I luck with my embroidery, and my water-colourswere undisciplined. It was not that he chided me, but more that I had clearlyadded to the general dissatisfaction he had. It seemed, for I had caught asnatch of below-stairs talk, the upkeep of the mansion was very costly, whilehis friends had dwindled in number sharply, owing to some failed business venture;which talk, inevitably, I did not coherently absorb.
The upshot was, however, hedismissed my nurse. Next a woman arrived, who was to be my governess.
Miss Archer, whose first name Ilearned once, by accident, to be Pomponia, a royal name from Ancient Rome, wasextremely and frighteningly beautiful. And when first I glimpsed her on herarrival, my heart missed a beat, for she was like something from one of thetales I had read, instead of Thomas Carlyle’s The French Revolution, orPlato’s lectures.
Her shining hair was jet black,as dark as my father’s own. Her eyes were a gleaming amber. All her featuresseemed to have a perfect shape, so that in whatever direction she turned, her face,from the front, above or below, or in either profile, astonished by itsdelicate flawlessness. Even her teeth were beautiful, and very white. And hercomplexion was like the petal of a pale flower. She had such pretty hands. Ithought I should love her unreservedly. I did so. But also I feared her somewhat.Going to see her every day seemed to be like a visit to great royalty. She wasalways so gracious, and patient, but her beauty was distracting and – intractable.When she sang a song, trying to teach me the words and melody by this means, Icould never quite achieve it, for to come in after her own presentation wasonerous, a travesty.
Aside from this, however, a modeldiscipline began to preside over my lessons. I was taught etiquette properly,and how to behave in company, although very seldom was there any, beyond themaid bringing cocoa at my bedtime, or my father sometimes joining Miss Archerand myself for the afternoon tea.
He and she spoke easily, despiteher immaculate decorousness. Now and then he would discuss something with herat length, by which I mean he would tell her something, occasionally invitingher comments. This was unusual for him, I thought. I had not had the impressionthat generally he sought female confirmation, let alone advice, on any matter.
That winter there was a heavysnow. From upstairs, in my rather draughty bedroom, I could watch the whiteflakes falling and falling by the windows; while rising from the dining-roomdownstairs, through the vast snow-silence that came to enclose the house, Imight hear her silvery voice singing at my mother’s old piano, which Papa hadfinally had retuned. Or I might hear him laugh, in a different, warm andfireside way.
I wondered if, in the evenings,she ever told him ghost stories. She had once told one to me, and scared me,but she said sharply I must not be foolish. It was about an old man who haunteda house, he having powdered hair or wig, and he hated particularly all children,and murdered them with one terrible look of venom. Miss Archer said he walkedan ancient and historic mansion, just like this one. I had many nightmaresabout him, but I was younger then. There is, on the other hand, supposed to bethe ghost of a warrior from Ancient Times who haunts the ruined castle here,but I am never allowed in that part of the grounds, as once I caught a chillfrom sitting in the wet grass under the ruined tower. (But I never saw a ghostuntil I was dead.)
Despite my childish years andlack of knowledge, I believe I came to apprehend that the exquisite Miss Archerhad fallen, soft and snow-like, and silent, somewhat in love with my father. Itwas like the noble romances in the books I had formerly read, before I had totackle the works of duller, slower, more tedious and valuable writers.
Once, deep in a black freezingnight, I heard her step in the corridor outside my bedroom. I thought she wascoming to speak to me, which, once I had settled in my bed I had never known herdo. But instead her quiet and dainty feet
