The Jewish Governess

 

Lior Zoë Perets 

The story of how I came to be in the employ of my aunt and her husband before the burning of Longhaven Manor was unconventional, even from the beginning. My relations were in disagreement over the choice of governess: my aunt favored Mrs. Evelyn Porter, widowed young and nigh on twenty years of experience, including a few cousins of mine amongst her former students, while her husband had already sent for a Miss Sarah Rosen. Not yet five-and-twenty, never having worked in a household of note before, and a Jewess, but five pounds less yearly than Mrs. Porter, which settled the matter for him.

I was still studying for my ordination at the time and was acquainted with the reverend at the school in Freshford where Miss Rosen had once been educated and then later taught. Upon my support, they made their peculiar offer: they would hire me to be present for the children’s lessons and ensure that nothing untoward occurred, and, for an hour or so daily, I would teach them the Bible studies the Jewish governess could not.

It was not, of course, an offer most would seriously consider, but with Longhaven Manor’s proximity to Reverend Peter and his church, I could utilize his knowledge through daily letters, or conversation, and his well-kept, bursting library. I accepted their offer.

I was at Longhaven some weeks later, before the governess, and watched her arrival. She did not come in a carriage; from my bedroom window I saw her form come slowly into view from the direction of Freshford. Even from afar, though her dark hair was bound high on her head, I could see it curled naturally from the root, and her skin, though not quite brown, could never be described as ivory or porcelain or anything delicate a poet could imagine.

“Did you see her from the window?” my aunt, Isadora, asked me as I entered the parlor.

“Of course he didn’t,” her husband, Victor, answered. “Why would he be staring out the window all morning?”

I was spared an answer as a footman announced her entrance then. I turned to see my earlier assessment of both hair and skin had been correct. Her arms were covered completely in the current fashion, and her chest even more modestly, to her neck. Her dress was dull grey, but clean, and the case she held at her side was fraying. I had never met a Jew before, but her eyes were in colour as I had expected—dark enough that there was no difference between iris and pupil—and in soul, they were cool and distant. Her face was thin, but not sallow, and when she spoke it was in a lower voice than any woman of her age I had heard.

“Good morning, sirs, lady,” she said, dropping in a curtsy.

When my relations did not answer, I did. “Good morning, Miss Rosen.”

“How did you find your journey?” Victor asked.

She answered that it was calm and pleasant and thanked them for having her in their home. My aunt stiffened at this; if Miss Rosen noticed, she did not say. She only asked if she could be shown to her room to settle her things, and how soon could she meet the children.

Now my aunt spoke. “Well, Frederic, can you sit with the children today?”

The governess, once again, did not comment, though she could not have known of our arrangement. She must have thought it strange that a man was charged with introducing her to her wards but remained professional. When I affirmed so, Victor directed the footman to help Miss Rosen with her things and then walk her back to the little library, where I would await with the children.

I had not spent much time with any children and did not know what to expect of my relations. I studied them carefully in their study room, where I would now spend time, too, trying to see any similarities between myself and either of them. The blue of the girl’s eyes, perhaps, or the auburn of the boy’s hair. But beyond those, I could not see any of myself in them, and felt it an ill omen: how could I have anything to do with these two young creatures who did not have anything to do with me? And how would the governess fare?

But Miss Rosen had a smile on her face as she entered the room, and it did not waver the whole time I watched her. She introduced herself to the children, told them of her favorite flower and dessert, and asked them to share theirs.

“And what do you like to study?”

“I like to listen to stories,” the boy replied.

“I like doing sums,” the girl said.

“I do not.”

“Well, we shall begin with our reading. Then you can both read stories to each other. How does that sound?”

I sat in the corner of the room, not focused on my reading as much as I would have liked. I had not expected to be taken with observing them; she was cleverer than any governess I had ever known to be. Cleverer than most anyone, I daresay, even now. It was sly, how she pretended to need the children’s help in recognizing letters, or in remembering what sound they made, as she read aloud to them. She sneaked in a bit of arithmetic, too, pausing to ask them if there were forty pages in the book, and they had reached page five, how many were left. With the clarity of hindsight, I can see that trickery was second nature to her, but, at the time, I found it endearing.

Endearing, yet utterly ordinary. There was nothing exciting about watching this, and the alertness I had promised my aunt quickly faded. Nothing of note demanded my attention, and so it faded back to my text. The governess’ voice, low and smooth, provided a gentle, almost lyrical background to my studying. I heard her words, but I did not think of them. As far as I could tell, she did not think of me. Certainly, she did not look at me, speak to me, or pay me any mind whatsoever.

And thus began my routine at Longhaven: Monday through Friday, I would do my research in the corner of the nursery while the children studied under the tutelage of Miss Rosen, and when she took them to eat, I would sit with my aunt and uncle. Upon our return from lunch, I would spend an hour reading Scripture to them while Miss Rosen wrote quietly in a bound journal, but what she wrote, I never knew. Evenings were for further study, until the moon rose and I would go for a turn about the grounds before bed. Saturdays, when the governess took her Sabbath, left me to the library in peace while a housemaid would accompany the children as they played. On Sundays, the household would rise for church, and what the governess did whilst we were away I did not know, but she was always waiting for the children and me in the nursery when we returned in the afternoons.

One such Sunday, I had received word that the reverend was recovering from an illness, and a student of his would be leading the sermon, but I was invited to call upon him as he rested. I rose early that day and borrowed a carriage to journey down to Freshford and had not yet reached a mile from Longhaven when I saw her, the governess, walking along the road. I called for the footman to halt and called her name.

“Mr. Thompson,” she greeted me.

“Where are you going so early?”

“To my father,” she replied. “I visit him on Sundays. I leave at first light,” she said, “and reach Longhaven before you return.”

I admired her devotion to her father. Three miles there and back again for what would be no more than a three-hour stay was not a trip most young women would make, certainly not weekly.

“Join me,” I told her. “I am visiting Freshford as well.”

She thanked me and climbed in; I reached out my hand to help her but she moved quickly enough that she did not need it. She smiled tightly as she sat, resting her small pack in the lap of her grey dress and averted her eyes from mine, gazing out the window.

“Miss Rosen,” I said, “I am visiting Reverend Peter. I believe you are acquainted.”

She looked at me now, smiling truly. “Oh, yes. I was educated at his school. The reverend has always been good to my family.”

“I am visiting him because he is ill.”

“I am sorry to hear that. Is it serious?

“He is through the worst of it. Well enough to receive me, but not enough to lead services.”

“I see,” she said. “Please give him my best.”

She remained largely silent for the duration of the ride, answering my questions concisely. Her decorum never wavered, and after consideration, I admired her reticence. It was not a common quality in women I knew.

She bid me adieu at the reverend’s home, and I told her the hour I would be leaving and to meet me back here if she’d like. She thanked me and went about her way.

Inside his home, I saw, Reverend Peter was well recovered. He sat up in an armchair and had already begun drinking tea from his tray. I instructed him not to rise to greet me, and he argued with admirable vigour before acquiescing.

“Tell me, then, Frederic, how go your studies?”

I was eager to tell him and to ask his esteemed opinion on various interpretations and translations of text, and he answered diligently. It was an hour or so before he asked me how I was faring at Longhaven, and I turned the conversation to Miss Rosen, to give him her regards.

“Ah, yes, Miss Rosen,” he said fondly. “Quiet girl. Studious—good she ended up as a governess. How do your relations like her?”

“The children like her very well,” I said, pausing as I thought to answer regarding their parents. “My aunt was anxious at hiring her.”

“No reason, no reason,” he said. “After all, she taught at our school. Sums and history and grammar… no reason why she shouldn’t be capable.” He paused too, now, and I did not have to wonder long what he wanted to say. “When you teach the children Scripture, is she in the room?”

“Of course,” I answered. “She sits and writes in a journal.”

“Writes, you say? Is she taking notes?”

I didn’t think so. She wrote much more than what I ever said. My lessons to the children were simple and not at all similar to my research; they did not yet possess the sense for me to share any of my research with them in any depth.

“She never, of course, stayed present for any of our Scripture classes when she was a child. Her mother’s request, you know… died giving birth to her. But her father was honest and had sworn to her she would not stray from the Hebrew texts. Even while she taught, she would leave while the children took Bible study. I wonder what notes she takes when she hears you now. It is the first time she is hearing any of the New Testament, the first time in all her life. Imagine!”

While the topic of Miss Rosen was only a minor one during my visit that day, and never repeated itself during our missive correspondence, or any meeting in church, it stayed with me. What indeed did a grown woman of respectable intellect think to herself upon hearing the gospel of Christ for the first time? Should she not be curious? It was only, I thought then, as I do think now, natural of her sex to be so. But perhaps the habitual tendencies of the feminine mind did not affect Miss Rosen as they do her peers; perhaps she was something else entirely.

I did not think so over the course of the following weeks and months. I thought she was shy, or maybe ashamed to be failing her mother’s dying wish. For she was bright, and patient, and kind, and I knew there was no way for her to hear the words and not wonder. When this became obvious and apparent, I sought ways to allow her to learn and obey her parents’ wishes.

The idea struck me at dinner with my aunt and uncle; I could scarcely wait for the night to pass and the next day to come and bring out the children’s lessons. When Miss Rosen finally instructed the children to put away their arithmetic and provide me their full attention, I could scarcely contain my excitement. To maintain order and dissuade the governess from thinking anything was amiss, I remained calm as I informed the children we would be studying from the Old Testament today.

As usual, Miss Rosen did not look up from her writing as I spoke.

“Today you’ll learn of the fall of man.”

Still Miss Rosen did not look up. Not while I recited the days of creation, nor at God’s prohibitions of the tree, and not of sin brought forth into the world. She did not shudder like the children did when I told them that, since then, we are all born with the blood of our transgressions upon us, nor did she join them in a relieved sigh when I told them we were saved by the Son of God.

After the hour, a housemaid came to collect the children, and I asked Miss Rosen for a moment.

“Yes, Mr. Thompson?” she asked me, hands clasped.

“I wondered what you thought of my lesson today.”

She raised an eyebrow, her mouth curving in amusement. “I did not realize I was one of your students, too, Mr. Thompson,” she said.

“Of course not,” I laughed. “Merely curious as to your thoughts.”

There were quirks along her face: her brow, her lips, her nose, and I thought she was thinking something else as she said, “I confess I do not listen intently during your lessons. I take time for my own compositions. Lesson plans, letters…” She trailed off, finishing with a small smile. She stepped her foot backwards, awaiting dismissal, but I pressed on.

“I told them the story of Creation.”

“Yes,” she hurried to say. “Yes, I am aware. I was not listening, as I said, but I do hear.”

“Of course,” I said, matching her small smile with one of my own. When she did not respond, I said, “And what did you think?”

“Of Creation? I… marvel at God’s glory, of course.” Her smile slipped, briefly.

She did not want to discuss the matter further; that much was obvious. I had no doubt then, and still now, that it was my mentioning of Christ, my being Christian, that made her want to leave. I was conflicted; she had a good soul, worthy of God’s light, but there was no reason to force it upon her. She could come to it herself, in time.

“Don’t we all,” I said. “Good evening, then, Miss Rosen.”

“Good evening, Mr. Thompson.”

I was determined to concoct a plan. Old Testament stories, as it seemed, were not the right path, as the governess continuously answered my questions with only vague devotion. She was polite, but distant. Too guarded. I knew I would have to earn her trust some other way.

It was the dead of night, a week after my lesson on Creation, when I heard shrieking the first time. I, of course, was awake, studying, as my daylight hours provided too many distractions to focus. I threw down my quill and followed the woman’s voice as quickly as I could, before I realized it was my aunt’s and found myself at her door. I halted, not crossing the threshold, when I heard her husband shouting in return. An argument?

Before I could decide if I should slip back to my room and leave them to it, or if this was more than a tiff and required my intervention, the door was thrown open. My uncle let out an angry shout when he saw me. “Look what you’ve done, you’ve awoken the whole house!”

“Good!” shrieked my aunt. “Wake them all! Now!”

“What has happened?” I cried, unable to remain calm.

“She’s stolen from me!” my aunt said, wailing. I heard movement; someone else was rushing to see what the noise was about.

“Who has stolen from you?”“That horrible woman!”

I did not know of whom she was speaking, at first; it took me a few moments to remember her prejudices against the governess. “Aunt Isadora, are you certain?” I could not believe it.

“Of course I am! Who else would it be?”

“Sir!” This from some of the servants, at the corridor, pausing when they saw me.

“A moment,” I instructed them, raising a hand. I turned back to my aunt. “What is missing? Quietly, if you please, aunt, the children are still asleep.”

My aunt took a shuddering breath, pulling her dressing gown tighter around herself. “Three necklaces and two loose jewels. Diamonds, all. From my boudoir.”

It would not matter, in God’s eyes, the sum of what the thief had stolen, but to the courts of England it certainly did. Someone would pay dearly for this crime. “What is your evidence, aunt, that she has taken it from you?”

“There has never been a theft in this house before her!”

“But we can account for her whereabouts, can we not?”

“I am going right now to retrieve what is mine!” And she flew past without another word.

My uncle followed her, and I them, and by the time we had reached Miss Rosen’s room—separate from the servants, on the northern side of the house, a floor below mine—a small crowd had gathered. Miss Rosen stood at her door, dressed, like all of us, in her night clothes. Aunt Isadora was pointing a finger out.

“Search her things!” she cried.

“Aunt,” I said, “please, if you could—”

“Now!”

The servants did not pause to listen to me, and my uncle did not either. Miss Rosen’s dark eyes widened, watching as her things were unfolded before us: her dresses, checked inside and out, some dishware she kept, the pages of Hebrew books, undergarments—I could not bring myself to look either at them or at her while they were searched—and a small comb. Her journal sat by her bed, knocked to the ground as the servants stripped the sheets, on command of my aunt.

Like an automaton, the governess moved to pick it up. She rose silently, pushing herself against the wall, as the mattress was lifted, to reveal the floor, and nothing below it. The jewels, if they had indeed been taken by her—or taken at all—were not here.

“It must be somewhere else,” my aunt said. “In the schooling room.”

“For God’s sake, woman,” my uncle said suddenly. “You lost them. If you don’t want her, we can dismiss her, but stop these banshee shrieks. At least until morning.”

He left, and soon after my aunt did, too.

Miss Rosen spoke for the first time as a maid tentatively stepped forward, hands outstretched, to the bed.

“No, thank you,” she said, cool and unbothered. “If you will all clear out, I think I can handle this myself. Thank you. Good night.”

Good, I thought to myself, relieved. She is stronger, on her own, in her soul, than most Christians are with their faith. She would stay and prove it to us all yet. We would see it in the morning.

But alas, when I rose at first light, I watched her from the window, leaving Longhaven. I dressed hurriedly and rushed after her.

“Miss Rosen!” I called.

She stopped, more out of habit than desire, I believed. Her brow was furrowed and, upon seeing me, turned around again and began walking, though I had caught up to her.

“What is it, Mr. Thompson?” Her voice was dull, lacking the morning cheer with which she normally greeted the children.

“Where are you going?”

“To visit my father.”

“It is not Sunday.”

“So it is not.”

“Miss Rosen,” I said, “I beg you, grant a moment.”

Sighing, Miss Rosen finally stopped. She did not look at me, keeping her gaze focused on the path, and far beyond. “What is it, Mr. Thompson?” she asked again, weary this time.

I knew she would not grant me much time.

“Miss Rosen, I understand that you were unfairly accused. You were not proven guilty and should have been treated as innocent. You were not more likely to have thieved than anyone else in the house. But I beg you, Miss Rosen, not to fan the flames. You have been given an opportunity.”

“And what opportunity is that?”

“To turn the other cheek,” I said firmly. “This is how you can teach the children—teach us all—a lesson in forgiveness. In grace.”

“Mr. Thompson,” she said, and this time she did look at me, but her eyes lacked all warmth. “Turning the other cheek is a Christian sentiment.”

“But surely it must have its roots in Judaism!” I said, not surprised she was still angry but surprised she would be brazen about it. “Or how else could Christ have learnt it? What do you suppose a Jewish sentiment would be instead?”

In a voice colder than the morning air, she said, “To rise up and strike first.”

She left me then. I did not stop her.

That night was the second time I heard screaming. I was awoken from my sleep, sweltering. For a wild moment, I forgot where I was, confounded by the hellish heat, the shouting, the lack of air. When I realized what was happening, I too joined the cacophony.

“Fire!” The word was a reflex. I leaped out of bed, coughing, waving my arms to clear the smoke around me. Pushing my whole body at the window, I tipped it open and breathed in air, clean and cool. People swarmed around outside, but whether these were rescuers, observers, or members of the household who had escaped, I could not say.

My door was thrown open. “Sir!”

I turned to see a footman. A rush of heat followed him in the room.

“Calm yourself,” I said, finding reason in his panic. “We’ll get out now.” I dunked three dress shirts in a water basin and handed one to him. “Cover your mouth like so,” I said, “and you shall exit.”

I sent him on his way—he barely argued—keeping the other two shirts bunched against my mouth. Miss Rosen did not sleep with the servants, and not on our floor either—she would be alone and frightened. I would guide her out.

But as I descended the stairs three at a time and made my way down the hallway I had been last night, the smoke grew thicker. I could not see ten feet in front of me; it was choking blackness. When I called her name, I could not hear my own voice over the fire.

At the sound of the walls before me groaning, I turned and fled. This was the side of the front of the house, and I would need to take the servants’ exit. I did not fear the flames around me, but I felt a sharp anxiety for my relations, the servants, and the governess. Had she made it out? Had she even returned?

When I reached the exit, I lurched forward to the arms of the men outside, who were quick to grab me and pull me out. Clumsily, I followed them a dozen paces away, until the frigid air on my face felt free of ash.

“Who else is left in the house?” I asked, taking the cup of water someone handed me.

“They’re coming now, sir, they’re coming now…”

“Where are the children? My aunt?”

“Out, out sir… Her ladyship will want to see you…”

“Frederic!” My aunt appeared as though she had been summoned. She threw her arms around me, sobbing. “Oh Frederic, when I got out and you were not there…”

“I am all right, aunt, where are—”

“They’ve already been taken into town,” she said, breaking apart from me. “Both of them, to the inn. And tomorrow we will travel to Bath. But Victor has gone with the other men…”

“Aunt Isadora,” I said, clutching her arms tightly. “Do you know if Miss Rosen ever made it back from her father’s house?”

She gave me an odd look, and for a moment I worried the smoke inhalation had gotten to her. “What do you mean?”

“Had she returned? Her room is separate from the others, I don’t know if they would have gotten her out in time.”

“Frederic,” she said, pointing behind me. “Look.”

I turned: the house, burning to the ground. From here on the west, I could see the front crumbling to the earth, while the back stood. It must have begun there, at the entrance—a merciful thing, as most of the household slept in the back. The only two rooms that faced the north were mine and…

“She started it, Frederic. Who else would?”

“No,” I said.

But it was reflexive. I did not know.

“No,” I said again. My aunt did not answer. She raised a hand to wipe her tears as the northern walls of Longhaven Manor crumbled where the fire had been struck first.