Sylvia Andrew - A Very Unusual Governess

Pip’s face brightened. ‘A story, a story! Tell us, Edward!’

‘Well, when we first heard about Wychford it belonged to Thomas Carstairs. Thomas owned some plantations in the West Indies, and he and his wife became friends with your grandfather. Some years later—just about the time you were born, Pip—Mrs Carstairs came out to see us again after her husband had died. She promised your father then that we could all stay with her at Wychford when you and Lisette were old enough to come to England.’

‘Like a good fairy at a christening!’

Edward smiled. ‘Something like. Though she looked rather more like a witch than a good fairy.’

‘Will she be there now?’

‘No. She died not long ago—’

‘And left the house to us!’

‘Not quite.’

‘Philippa, how many times do I have to tell you not to interrupt? And get back down on to the seat, if you please!’

Edward felt a spurt of irritation. Pip was standing on the seat, leaning half against him and half against the cushions at the side of the carriage. It wasn’t safe, and Miss Froom had been perfectly right to object, but he had been pleased to see Pip once again her lively self. He ignored the governess and went on, ‘That would have been quite wrong. Mrs Carstairs had no children, but she had other family. She left the house to her niece.’

‘A niece? Like us?’

‘Mrs Carstairs was about eighty, so a niece would be much older, wouldn’t you say? Probably even older than I am!’

‘Have you met her?’

‘No, I’ve only dealt with her agent, a Mr Walters. But you must let me finish my story. I visited Mrs Carstairs several times at Wychford, and when I was last there, and told her you were all coming to England this year, she remembered her promise to your father.’

‘But she’s dead!’

‘That’s true, but she stipulated in her will that Wychford was to be available to the Barracloughs for six months after your arrival.’

‘That’s a very strange condition, Edward,’ said Lisette.

‘Mrs Carstairs was a very strange lady. But I liked her.’ He fell silent, remembering the last time he had seen the old woman.

She had been wrapped in shawls and huddled in her chair, obviously ill. But her gipsy-black eyes had been fiercely alive. She had looked at him hard, and then she appeared to make up her mind. She said, ‘You’ll do! The house likes you and so will she.’

Puzzled, he had asked, ‘Who is “she”, ma’am?’

Whereupon she had given one of her cackles and said, ‘Never you mind! But she will. Eventually! Make sure you come back here! But there! I know you will.’

Edward had been tempted to dismiss her words as the wanderings of an old lady whose life was almost spent. But they had stuck in his mind, and now here he was, about to return to Wychford, just as she had said…

Some thirty miles away, Mrs Carstairs and her house were also the subject of discussion between Rupert, fourth Earl of Warnham, and his daughter, the Lady Octavia Petrie. The day was cool, and Lord Warnham, who was in his seventies and felt the cold, pulled his shawl closer round his shoulders and gave his daughter a worried frown. In his gentle way he said, ‘I wish your Aunt Carstairs had not left you Wychford, Octavia. It was most inconsiderate of her. I knew it would be a burden!’

‘But, Papa, I assure you, I don’t find it any sort of burden.’

‘How can that be? You tell me that you must go to see it next week. All that way through the countryside to see a house that can be of no conceivable use to you! Of course it is a burden. She should not have done it. If she had consulted me in the matter I would have advised against it. She cannot have thought of the worry it would be to you to possess a house like that.’

‘Papa, it is no worry at all! I am very happy to be the owner of Wychford.’

‘But you cannot possibly keep it. You have no notion of what it means to look after a large house!’

‘I look after this one, Papa.’

‘That is quite a different matter, my dear. This is your home, and you have me to protect you.’

Octavia Petrie permitted herself a wry grin. It might be her home, but it was her father who needed protection. Even the most trivial of problems worried him. Much as she loved her elderly parent, she found shielding him from unnecessary distress far more demanding than looking after a house, however large it might be. She set about reassuring him.

‘Wychford won’t cause me any trouble, Papa! You know it won’t. The Barracloughs are to rent it for six months, as Aunt Carstairs wished. The agreement is signed and sealed, and so far I have had nothing at all to do. Mr Walters has dealt with it all.’

‘Walters is a good fellow. An excellent man of business! But he has done no more than he should. It would not be at all the thing for a lady to be concerned in property agreements and such matters. But I still cannot like it. Your Aunt Carstairs should have left her house to someone else. You would do much better to stay at home with me next Tuesday and let Walters get rid of it for you.’

Octavia smiled. Her father must be unique among parents. No other man would find it distressing that the youngest of his eight children, twenty-two and still single, had been left a large estate, including a house, by her godmother. But Lord Warnham’s intense dislike of any threat to his unvarying routine quite blinded him to the advantages of such a handsome inheritance. Octavia hardened her heart and said firmly,

‘I am not so very young, Papa. I shall be three and twenty next spring. And I really shan’t find it a burden to make a simple visit to Wychford. I merely wish to see the house before the Barracloughs arrive. It will take less than a day.’

‘A day! You must not be so foolhardy! It is all of ten miles.’

‘Fifteen. But it is still quite light in the evenings and the roads are good—’

‘You would subject yourself to travelling thirty miles in one day! I will not hear of it! Even with a closed carriage—’

‘Oh, I would take the gig. I’d like to drive myself. Will Gifford would accompany me, of course.’

This suggestion so outraged the Earl that it took several minutes of Octavia’s most skilful coaxing before he could be brought to resign himself to her absence. Eventually he said wistfully, ‘I suppose you will have to go, but I shall miss you.’

‘I hardly think so, Papa. Have you forgotten that Cousin Marjorie arrives tomorrow? You like 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.