Chapter Text
There is no man alive I admire as much as my father, and yet the girls hardly know you.
Miss Heywood's words had echoed in his mind since he had left her just that morning, standing under the dripping boughs of the tree where Leonora had been hiding out. The figures in the ledger swam before Alexander's eyes. He had been looking at the same sum for the past ten minutes at least, he thought with exasperation. Sighing, he stood up, and moved to the study window.
No man … I admire more than my father. He could not say the same for himself. Only too well did he remember his father's drunken rages that sent him and Sam into hiding. The debt-ridden and neglected estate he left behind took Alexander a good six years to bring back into working order. His feelings of shame and revulsion toward his father kept Alexander from ever touching alcohol himself, except medicinally. And it always kept him in some fear of himself. Fear of a temper that might get beyond his control, lashing out and hurting those around him. Did not his words to Lucy demonstrate the danger? No, there was a good reason that he kept to himself and held the girls at arm's length.
Perhaps in time you'll come to realize that’s for the best.
And yet, Augusta believed that she was an intolerable burden to him. That stung. But was it accurate? Did he find her to be an intolerable burden? He felt himself to be an inadequate guardian. He knew not what to say to assuage her grief. Indeed, even to acknowledge it. When her parents died, he had not seen her for nearly a decade—not since Lucy's funeral. What a shock it was to be shown into the Markham house drawing room and see what at first appeared to be a slightly younger Lucy herself before he could discern in her features the likeness of the nine-year-old niece as he had last seen her.
He had to admit that he felt the weight of a burden when he thought of her. But that was not something he blamed Augusta for so much as himself. He knew he was unsuited to be a fitting guardian for a young lady, much less a grieving one.
After Lucy had died, Leonora had had the care of a wet nurse, and then a nursery maid. Her utter helplessness as a baby had torn at his heartstrings, and his remorse upon Lucy's death had endeared her to him. But what did he know about infants and toddlers and young girls? Besides, the snarls of the estate kept him busy for long hours in those early years.
Leonora, who ran wild around the grounds of the estate. He was surprised that she hadn't run off before now from Miss Heywood. She had done it no less than once per week with all the previous governesses—the governesses he had decided it was long past time to hire once Augusta came to live at Heyrick Park. But, unlike the others, Miss Heywood seemed to have a knack for relating to Leonora. She was, indeed, engaged in learning, even if she was no more a young lady than before. Her cousin seemed a tougher nut to crack, but the intrepid young governess had apparently not given up yet. What was it she had said earlier? Half the battle is winning their trust.
Where are they now, anyway? he had asked. She had looked abashed, and for once had been at a loss for words.
I cannot find Leonora, she had admitted finally, looking away. Mrs. Wheatley had said she would be on the grounds.
Well then, he had said, let us look for her.
She seemed surprised that he would take the time to join her in the search, but she followed as he took them off the path back to the house, leading the way instead across the open park toward a plantation of trees.
Her presence walking next to him had been so calming. No wonder Hannibal had quieted at her touch. Walking through meadows, he felt his spirits lift, as they always did when he was outside. Miss Heywood, however, had seemed worried. Honestly, Mr. Colbourne, I can look for Leonora myself. I don’t wish to put you to any trouble.
Feeling lighthearted, he had teased, It's a little late for that. Besides, I grew up on this land. I know all the best hiding places. You have no hope of finding her on your own.
All the best hiding places. A sunlit glade sprang to mind. His best hiding place. He hadn't been there in years. Hadn't so much as thought about it in a decade, at least. What was it that brought it so suddenly to mind? Thoughts of his father? For that was what usually had driven him out to lose himself in that hidden glade. It was his best solace before he began riding and could gallop along the cliff tops or the beach to outpace his thoughts. Whenever he felt the need to hide himself somewhere that no one would ever find him, that glade was where he would take himself. Was it still there, or had the woods overgrown it? Could he still find the way? Alexander's legs seemed to make a decision before his mind did, and he found himself walking down the hall and out the door before he had another conscious thought.
Out past the stables, along the edge of the woods, and out of sight of the house, he found the small stream he remembered, and on the other side of the path was the deer trail. He stepped off the gravel path and onto the narrow trail through the trees, quickly finding himself surrounded by woods.
The rain from that morning had stopped and the sun now shone, but it had left the trail muddy. A few minutes into his walk, he found himself almost regretting coming. His six feet of height made it much harder than when he was a child to duck under tree branches. They tore at the fabric of his billowy sleeves and at his waistcoat. He wondered wryly if Mrs. Wheatley would scold him like she used to when he arrived home later with his boots caked in mud and tears in his shirt. But it was too late to turn back, and he was as curious as ever to see the old spot.
His thoughts returned to the conversation with Miss Heywood.
It strikes me as curious that a man might take such care of his horse, while taking pains to avoid his children.
Augusta is not my child.
It had been difficult to suddenly have the duty of guardianship for a grieving young woman thrust upon him. Entering the Markham drawing room upon his arrival in London for the funeral, she had barely acknowledged him. She had looked down at her hands, her face set and stony. She had not cried once in front of him, though her red-rimmed eyes gave her away. Reserved as he was by nature, he would have found it challenging to know how to speak to her under happier circumstances. In the present situation, he was even more at a loss. He greeted her formally. She kept her eyes on the ground and nodded. He offered his condolences, which sounded stiff. During the carriage ride to Heyrick Park, she had maintained the same stony silence.
And yet, he felt for her. To lose her parents at such a young age, to have her happy childhood upended, to be consigned to the care of a taciturn man such as himself, to be uprooted from all she had ever known of life in London to the quiet of an estate outside a small fishing village such as Sanditon was all more than he would wish thrust on any young person. This life suited him, but he realized that it was far short of suitable for a young woman used to the liveliness of town who anticipated coming out to society. But they must all make the best of it. He had advertised for a governess as soon as he had returned to Heyrick Park with Augusta.
The deer path he was following reached a familiar fork. Without a break in his thoughts, his body took him to the left.
The truth was, Augusta frustrated him. He had hoped a governess would create a sense of routine and provide the female companionship he assumed she must desire. Instead, she rebuffed all advances of kindness and friendship. The first few governesses had been not only qualified, but also good natured. He felt that they, surely, must draw her out. But all they received for their pains where sharp remarks, snide insinuations, and recalcitrance. It did not help the governess situation that Leonora ran wild, wearing her short breeches and red army coat, and taking to hiding on the estate when she had no mind for lessons. He had remonstrated with her, but to little avail. He had grown used to a pattern: a new governess would arrive, assure him that she would take the girls in hand, the girls would try her patience, she would raise her voice, he would raise his voice, and by the end of a few weeks—or in some cases—a few days, the governess would knock on his office door and hand in her notice in a rage or in tears. He had lately very nearly given up finding another one until Miss Heywood had come along.
When he interviewed her he had felt a mix of emotions. She was young, not more than half a dozen years older than Augusta herself. When Mrs. Wheatley brought her into his study, his sharp gaze took in her soft brown eyes and a few stray curls framing a beguilingly dimpled chin. He had looked swiftly down. He was simply not going to be charmed by beauty.
His swift volley of questions proved her to be intelligent and knowledgeable, swift in her replies and rejoinders. But she was appallingly idealistic.
Miss Colbourne has a keen imagination, and Miss Markham a sharp wit.
By which you mean they are respectively feral and insolent.
If I had meant that, sir, I would have said so.
She had never worked as a governess before. She could have no idea of the challenge ahead of her. He was sure that Augusta would wear her down in no time. He had seen it happen often enough before. The kind ones were the ones who resigned in tears.
And yet, there was something more than kindness there. There was fire and determination. Her impassioned speech had dazed him.
Then society is wrong, sir! Why should your girls be deprived on an education on account of their sex? I would seek to open their minds to the world around them, not encourage them to be meekly submissive. So if that is what you are looking for, I apologize for wasting your time!
He had made no move to stop her as she gathered her portfolio of work and abruptly left. He sat dumbfounded in his chair, watching Luna, who had been curled up at his feet, spring up and dart after her as if caught in her gravitational pull. His own reactions were much slower. He was not looking for someone to make Augusta learned. Was she not already too sharp-witted for her own good? Augusta’s intelligence found form in sharp retorts and snide remarks that he knew would not make her marriageable. And yet, he felt in himself an almost unwilling admiration for the obviously well-read and articulate woman who had just swept out of his study.
He had been ready to let her go until Mrs. Wheatley had come and chivvied him after her.
What's the use, Mrs. Wheatley, when she will be gone within a week?
I'll bet you a shilling she'll stay beyond that. Mrs. Wheatley had responded. I have a good feeling about this one.
Well, if Mrs. Wheatley wanted her to come, how could he refuse? He knew she was frustrated by the girls' mischief and habit of being under foot. They made managing the household a challenge when no governess was there to look after them. Besides, he remembered the way Miss Heywood's eyes had flashed and her cheeks had flushed in her last speech. She had spirit, to be sure. What could be the harm in giving her a chance?
The path came to another fork. This time he continued to the right.
And to his surprise, Miss Heywood had stayed. To his knowledge, Augusta had maintained her standard campaign of insults and derision, but she had apparently not succeeded in routing her.
Even his own grave demeanor and temper had not driven her away. After his nerves had been stirred up from hearing the strains of Lucy's spinet, he had come in to the drawing room to put a stop to it. The room that he had always kept shut up and dark, he found opened to the light. Miss Heywood, seated at the slender instrument, drew from it a light air only slightly marred by the long-untuned keys. It brought to mind painful memories of the mournful strains of his wife’s playing during the days of her confinement after he had brought her home from London.
Stop, he had cried after entering the room. This is locked for a reason. Who told you you could play?
It had been painfully obvious to him that this was a trap of Augusta's devising. But to his surprise, Miss Heywood had lied and taken the blame. Why would she do that? Then Leonora had run through the room with a blood-curdling scream dressed in her breeches and a tricorn hat. Miss Heywood says that a woman can dress for whatever suits her purpose.
His temper had reached a boiling point. He had taken her into his study to confront her. Even then, her spirit had not wavered. She turned the tables on him and gave him a dressing down about his own failures as a parent.
Miss Colbourne lacks a mother and also a father. She lost the former to the grave, and the latter to his work.
His temper quickly abated. He knew she was right, and he felt some chagrin at letting it get the better of him. She clearly had thought she was being dismissed. But, in truth, he had no desire to dismiss her. Things were already changing under her influence, he realized. There were no raised voices, no matter how much Augusta sulked or what caustic remarks she made. The atmosphere of the house felt different. She brought into it a lightness and warmth it had lacked. So when Miss Heywood had called the house a mausoleum, he felt the truth of the statement by the contrast he felt when she was present.
Suddenly, woods opened up before him into the sunny glade he remembered.
It looked a bit different. The tall, majestic sycamore that had grown at the far end had collapsed into a jagged pile of hollow branches and trunk. A proliferation of young saplings grew in the now sun-filled area at the feet of where it used to stand. The rock shaped like a ship's prow that he used to sit on and dream away the hours was still there and unmistakable. He took a seat.
His thoughts turned to Leonora. She was also not his child, and yet… the way she ran all over the grounds of the estate, climbing trees, burrowing under hedges, she could hardly be more so. It occurred to him to wonder if she had found her way to this particular hiding spot.
He pictured her eager face as she had come into his office, looking for a magnifying glass. Her enthusiasm to show him her snails, and the look of disappointment when he declined to view the rest of their specimens. He smiled softly, with a small stab of regret.
Planorbis carinatus. Keeled Ramshorn. If you are going to be malacologists, you might as well use the correct terminology.
He remembered his own days of trawling ponds for mollusks, then poring over illustrations in books to identify their genus and species. At her age, he had also collected tadpoles to spawn frogs—a pursuit he had no doubt would delight Leonora, but why encourage her further in this manner? He had hopes that she might one day grow out of her boyish phase into the grace and propriety that society expected in a young woman.
Sighing, he looked around him. Sunlight brightened the surface of the rock he sat on. He watched as a couple of small wood ants traversed the surface. He had always been drawn to the study of small creatures, especially in his boyhood. It seemed to him that he had spent many an hour on this rock letting such ants crawl across the surface of hands, exploring the folds of skin between his fingers or marching in a never-ending journey from palm to palm until he finally returned the ant to the rock. He put a hand down on the rock now, blocking the path of one of the ants. It stopped, then tentatively ran its feelers across the skin of his hand before climbing up. He felt the tiny feet prickle the small hairs on his knuckles. Hand over hand, as the ant continued its march, he felt the same meditative feeling come over him that he recalled from his youth.
The wind rustled the leaves overhead. Robins twittered unseen in the canopy. A beam of sunlight warmed him through his waistcoat and shirt. Yes, this was the stillness and peace that brought him to this spot so many times as a lad. The whirl of thoughts that had disturbed him all day slowed and settled as his body stilled.
Setting the ant back down to continue it explorations, he let himself sink into the stillness around him. Images of Miss Heywood filled his thought with a wordless feeling of peace and comfort. Her hands caressing Hannibal's nose, fearlessly shushing the skittish horse into a calm. Seated at the spinet, ringlets framing her serious face looking down at the keys. Walking past his study window in her teal pelisse, yellow ribboned bonnet, with the old leather satchel slung over her shoulder. The warm, soft tones of her voice drifting down the hallway into his study as she led the girls out for a natural history lesson on the grounds. He sat still for longer than he knew, letting feelings of calm contentment wash over him.
The sun had drifted far to the west and was beginning to shine in his eyes when he finally roused himself. For the first time in quite some time, he felt utterly at peace. He stood and stretched his legs. He should return.
Perhaps in time you'll come to realize that’s for the best. So he had told Miss Heywood. But perhaps she was right, and he might spend some time getting to know his daughter and his niece—and letting them know himself.