A Very Unusual Governess. Sylvia Andrew

her, don’t you?’

      ‘She is a very pleasant person, certainly, and plays whist and cribbage better than you do. You know you can be a little impatient, my dear. Yes, I like Marjorie.’ He sighed and added, ‘I can see you are quite set on this escapade, Octavia, so I shall say no more on the subject. But I do wish that Mrs Carstairs had not left you her house. I cannot understand why she did!’

      ‘Nor can I, Papa. Though…she did say when she was last here that Wychford would like me.’

      The shawl dropped off her father’s shoulders as he sat up and stared. ‘Wychford would like you? A house liking someone? What a very strange thing to say! But then, I was often puzzled by the things she said. She did not resemble your dear mama at all.’

      ‘No, indeed! Harry and I were afraid of her when we were children. We used to call her the Witch of Wychford. But I got to know her better when she was here last spring, not long before she died. She…she seemed to understand…’

      Octavia fell silent. It was true that there had been something witch-like about her mother’s half-sister. Though nothing had been said, she, of all the family, had seemed to divine Octavia’s growing restlessness, her boredom with life at Ashcombe. Octavia had found Mrs Carstairs’s gypsy-black eyes resting on her more than once and had wondered what the old lady had been thinking. But it had certainly never occurred to her that her godmother would leave her Wychford.

      ‘Understand? What is there to understand?’

      ‘Nothing, Papa. Nothing at all.’

      ‘A very odd person. Why should she leave you her house?’ He was obviously still struggling to understand. ‘What do you need a house for? Surely you’re happy enough here?’

      Octavia longed to say, ‘I’m bored, Papa! I sometimes think I shall go mad with boredom!’ But she was a kindhearted girl and genuinely fond of her father, so she merely said, ‘Of course. And I have no intention of living at Wychford, Papa. In any case I couldn’t. The Barracloughs take possession in just a few weeks’ time.’

      ‘Who are these Barracloughs? Do I know them?’

      ‘Old Mr Barraclough was a friend of Uncle Carstairs. They knew each other in Antigua. They are now both dead, of course, but the present Barracloughs have some daughters, who are to be presented next year.’

      ‘That seems a very odd sort of arrangement. But the Barracloughs sound respectable enough.’

      ‘They are extremely respectable, Papa. Mr Walters has had the highest reports of their standing in Antigua, and Mr Barraclough is at present in London working as a temporary adviser to the Foreign Office. I am very unlikely to meet them. Certainly not this time, for they won’t be there.’

      ‘Well, I suppose you must go. I shall do as well as I can with Marjorie.’

      Octavia laughed at his tone of resignation. ‘You’ll do very well indeed, Papa!’

      ‘You must see to it that she has the tapestry bedroom. She likes that.’

      ‘Indeed, she does. She has used it every time she has paid us a visit for the past twenty years!’ Octavia shook her head at her father in affectionate exasperation. ‘Really, Papa! What do you think of me? The room has been ready for two days now. It only needs fresh flowers, and I shall put those in it tomorrow before she arrives.’

      ‘And a warming pan for the bed, Octavia! Remind the housekeeper to make sure the bed is properly aired!’

      ‘I shall do nothing of the sort! I have no wish to offend Mrs Dewey. If I know her, there’s a hot brick in the bed already, and it will be renewed tomorrow. You may be easy.’

      As soon as her father settled down for his afternoon nap, Octavia changed and made her escape to the stables. She collected her mare and Will Gifford, her groom, and set off over the fields. A good gallop might rid her of the feelings of impatience, boredom, weariness even, which were taking an ever-firmer hold of her spirits. Much as she loved her father, she sometimes felt an irresistible desire to get away. The fact that she had made her own trap, had chosen of her own free will to stay at Ashcombe, was little consolation now. How could she leave him? But she was looking forward to the following week when she would see Wychford for the first time. She began to feel more cheerful. Cousin Marjorie’s visit was something to look forward to, too. She might belong to an older generation, but she was still young in spirit, and a very sympathetic listener.

      Octavia’s Cousin Marjorie, the Dowager Lady Dorney, was a widow, and lived some distance away in the Dower House of a great estate now owned by her son. She and Lord Warnham had always been good friends and since Lord Dorney’s death a year or two before she had been a frequent visitor to Ashcombe. She spent a great deal of time gossiping about the family with him, or playing backgammon, whist, or the many other games he enjoyed. Lord Warnham liked her company and her visits had always been a success. Octavia had no qualms about leaving her father in her care.

      When Lady Dorney arrived the next day, Lord Warnham was still having his afternoon nap, so, after greeting her warmly, Octavia took her off to her own little parlour. For a while they exchanged news of the two families, then Lady Dorney said,

      ‘You’re not looking as you should, Octavia. What’s wrong? Is it this house your mother’s sister has left you? Wychford?’

      ‘Not you too!’

      Lady Dorney raised an eyebrow at the exasperation in Octavia’s voice, and Octavia went on, ‘Papa wishes it had never been left to me. He thinks it too great a responsibility. Don’t tell me you feel the same!’

      Lady Dorney laughed. ‘I am not as unworldly as your father, I’m afraid. No, I am glad for you. But if it isn’t that, why are you looking so unlike yourself? You’re obviously under some sort of strain.’

      ‘I had hoped I wasn’t showing it!’

      ‘Perhaps not to others. But I know you too well. What exactly is wrong?’

      Octavia hesitated. Then she said, ‘You’re right, it is the house. When I first heard about it, it seemed like a way of escape. But I soon realised that I couldn’t possibly take it.’

      ‘I’m not at all surprised at your wish to escape! The life you lead at Ashcombe is no life for a pretty young girl. You should have married years ago. I’ve never understood why.’

      ‘That’s soon explained. I never met anyone I wanted to marry!’

      ‘You’ve never been in love?’

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘Never?’

      Octavia gave a small smile. ‘When I was younger I thought I was. With a very handsome young soldier, called Tom Payne—tall, blond, blue-eyed, and full of fun. He came down here on leave with my brother in the summer of 1812, and he and Stephen got up to such scrapes that I don’t think I stopped laughing for the whole of that fortnight. I’ve never forgotten it.’

      ‘That’s hardly my idea of a great romance! Did he make love to you?’

      ‘Of course not. I was only fourteen! I don’t think it entered his head. But if he had lived…I might have met him again…’

      ‘He was killed?’

      Octavia nodded. ‘At Waterloo. Both of them. He and Stephen together.’ She paused then went on, ‘I got over it, of course. Our acquaintance had been too short for real heartbreak. By the time I went to London for my come-out I was quite my old self. But…I never had an offer there that I wished to accept.’

      ‘Oh, come now! That is absurd! You can’t have been short of choice! You’re not only a very pretty girl, you are rich and related to half the best families in England. You must have attracted any number of eligible young men!’

      ‘Perhaps so. But not one of them attracted me!’

      ‘You were surely not still pining