Chapter 7: Husband

Meggy’s prayers went unanswered, however, when her face made contact with the rough fabric of Patsy’s skirts. “Miss Meggy, darlin’ whatever are you doing?” she asked just above a whisper.

Happy that it was Patsy who had found her out and no one else, Meggy let go a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Nothin’,” she replied looking up into the kind eyes of her caretaker.

Patsy shook her head, frizzy red curls dancing around her mob cap. “Now, I know that isn’t true.”

“I was just…. Mother and Uncle Bertram were talking, and I wanted to know what they were saying, that’s all. I thought maybe they might say something about Da.”

Smiling, as if to say she understood, Patsy reached down and took her charge’s little hand. “How would you like a cookie?” she asked, leading her into the kitchen.

“Mother says I shouldn’t eat cookies. They’re liable to make me plump,” Meggy reminded her as she was scooped up and deposited on the countertop.

“A little thing you like you?” Patsy asked, shaking her head again. “I don’t think one gingersnap is liable to make you anything, except for maybe a little less sad.” She produced a cookie out of a jar labeled “Flour” and Meggy’s face lit up a bit as she took a nibble, hoping her mother didn’t walk in.

“Now, I suspect eavesdroppin’ on your uncle and your mother is a good way to get yourself into quite a bit of trouble, little miss,” Patsy reminded her, looking sternly into her large blue eyes.

Meggy nodded, knowing she was right. And getting into trouble was the last thing she wanted to do.

“I bet they weren’t talking about anything that should concern a little girl like you, anyway,” Patsy continued as she straightened up the counters a bit.

“They actually were,” Meggy begged to differ. “I heard my name several times. And another name, too, one I’d never heard before.”

Patsy glanced back over her shoulder, as if she didn’t quite care. But then a few moments later, she asked, “What name was that?”

Swallowing the bit of gingersnap she had in her mouth, Meggy replied, “Charles Ashton.”

Her brow furrowed, Patsy turned and looked directly at her. “Who in the world is Charles Ashton?” she asked.

“He’s to be my husband,” Meggy answered, nonchalantly, brushing the crumbs off of her now empty hands. “He’s an American. He lives in New York City.”

“Well, you’re just full of answers,” Patsy said, crossing back over and helping her back down to the floor.

“Patsy, did your mother pick a husband for you?” Meggy asked, peering up at her.

“No,” Patsy answered quite quickly. “I picked ‘im myself.”

Meggy nodded her head. “I don’t think I like the idea of someone else picking for me either.”

Fighting back a giggle and rolling her eyes, Patsy patted her on the head and said, “Oh, little sprite. You’ve years to worry about that. Now, off you go. Upstairs to your room, out of sight and out of mind before you get yourself into any trouble.”

“Yes, Patsy,” Meggy nodded as she made her way out of the room. A few steps into the hallway, she turned to look back at her nanny. Patsy was wiping the counters off, going about her work as usual. Meggy couldn’t help but think about how awful it might be if she should never see Patsy again, so before she got too far into the hallway, she spun around and ran back into the kitchen, squeezing Patsy around the hips with all her might, before she turned and took off again, hoping to avoid her mother and uncle as she made her way up to her room where she yearned to be left alone for a bit to ponder this new piece of information.

“Miss Mary Margaret, pay attention. It is vitally important that you learn your sums to one hundred so that we may go on with subtraction. Do you hear me, young lady?”

Meggy looked away from the window, where she could see Ezra running about in the yard chasing butterflies, and refocused her attention on the stern looking face across from her. “Yes, Ms. Strickland,” she said, inhaling and beginning her recitation again.

It had been less than a month since her father had passed away, and here she was with a new governess, a mean one at that. Her uncle had insisted that she be schooled properly and had brought in Edith Strickland, a middle-aged, plain-faced, stern-talking governess from London who had come highly recommended from one of the gentlemen Uncle Bertram knew from his new social circle as owner of Westmoreland Textiles. Patsy had been reappointed, and while Meggy still saw her from time to time working in the kitchen or elsewhere in the house, it wasn’t the same. She missed her. Everyone she loved had been taken away from her.

“Come now,” Ms. Strickland barked, rapping a ruler on the table so loudly that Meggy jumped. “Try your eights again. You must focus. This is not that difficult, Mary Margaret.”

“Yes, Ms. Strickland,” she said again. She had been focused, or at least she thought she had been. She hadn’t been looking out the window. She wasn’t wondering why Ezra was allowed to run about and enjoy the sunshine whilst she was trapped in here repeating numbers that meant little to nothing to her.

The next mistake, the ruler was not so polite, and rather than making contact with the table, it met her knuckles. Meggy winced and pulled her hand away, her eyes wide. “You struck me!” she shouted.

“I did,” Ms. Strickland admitted. “And I shall do it again if you make another error. Now, pay attention!”

Meggy was outraged. She flew up out of the chair, sending it toppling behind her. “You can’t strike me! You’re not my mother!” she shouted.

“I can, and I shall!” Ms. Strickland countered, standing. “Now, return to your seat this instant!”

“No!” Meggy shouted, and pushing past her, she ran out the door of the study, shouting for her mother.

Instead, she ran straight into her uncle who was coming around the corner from the foyer. “Mary Margaret!” he shouted, his eyes almost as wide as hers. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Ms. Strickland struck me on the hand with her ruler!” she yelled, turning to see the governess following her down the hallway.

She had her pointy nose in the air, the ruler still grasped firmly in her hand. “That’s right, I did. And I shall do it again if she cannot master her sums.” Her voice was calm and firm.

Meggy wanted to throw herself at the old bitty and scratch her eyes out. “You cannot! You old bag! You mean, vile old thing!”

“Mary Margaret!” her uncle admonished, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders. “How dare you address your governess in such a manner? She can and she will continue to strike you if you cannot behave like a proper young lady.”

He had spun her around to face him, kneeling as he did so, and Meggy found herself looking into those evil eyes. She didn’t like when he put his hands on her, and she pulled away now, hoping he would release her. He did not; instead, his grip tightened until her shoulders began to ache. “My mother….”

“Your mother has also given her permission,” Bertram explained, his voice tight and bordering on rage. “Now, apologize to Ms. Strickland and return to your studies. If I should hear one more thing about you not following proper instruction… well, I do not think you shall like the consequences, young lady. Do you understand?”

Meggy nodded, fear welling up inside of her gut.

“I said, ‘Do you understand?’” he repeated as his fingers dug into her shoulders.

“Yes, sir,” Meggy just managed.

“Come along, Mary Margaret,” Ms. Strickland ordered, and Meggy pulled herself away from her uncle and followed the stranger back down the hallway, realizing that nothing was the same as it had been before, when her father was alive. He would have never let this happen to her.

Nor would he have let the governess strike her three times on the bottom with the ruler. But it happened just the same. Meggy didn’t cry though; she wouldn’t let them see her cry.