It was a quarter past ten when the manservant finally ushered Susan into the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Gaiter, and before Mr. Gaiter opened his mouth to speak, she had the measure of them both.
Of course, she'd had nearly a half hour in the foyer to absorb the atmosphere of the house and begin to paint a rather accurate portrait of its inhabitants, but that was hardly worth mentioning. Besides, it certainly wasn't Susan's fault that Mrs. Gaiter's pretensions were showcased in all their glory by the enormous canvas over the sofa table on the far side of the hall; its overwrought depiction of a rugged, but extremely picturesque cottage nestled at the base of a crag in the Ramtops and festooned with an overabundance of frothy pink blossoms immediately identified its creator as the celebrated, if mostly tasteless, Timothy Canker.
"Ah, Miss Sto-Helit," he said when he had risen and sketched a bow. "Do come in and make yourself comfortable."
Susan inclined her head in polite acknowledgment of husband and wife, and took the seat indicated. She quelled a small swell of nerves as she set her valise on the floor by her feet, opened it and withdrew a sheaf of papers containing her references. She then proceeded to straighten her skirts and smooth them of any wrinkles before primly folding her hands over the documents in her lap. Her fingers itched to continue the movement and thumb the corners of the papers or twitch them all into perfect alignment, which annoyed her greatly; against all reason, Susan found herself anxious in the face of potential employers.
It wasn't as if she had anything to be truly anxious about - as the Duchess of Sto Helit, she could do whatever she jolly well pleased with her life. She needn't have a career at all if she didn't want to. But the trouble was that she wanted to want what everyone else wanted. What normal people wanted: a job, financial security, some place to call their own, a purpose in life. It was simply an added bonus that all of these were sensible things as well. Funny how sensible and normal coincided so often; it was just the natural way of things. The natural world, on the other hand, scoffed at this notion. It would, however, be a little more time until Susan came to terms with the fact that sensible and normal are not words that will generally accurately characterize life.
So Susan tried to stomp on the butterflies that were currently inhabiting her stomach - purely metaphorically, of course. They felt extremely real, though, and were probably blue with tiny orange spots and furry little antennae. It was a good thing the Gaiters couldn't divine her current mental state, Susan thought, or else they would think her mad. Or silly, which would be even worse. She would die if anyone ever thought her silly.
Besides, she was confident she would secure the position, if only because of her sheer force of will.
"Hem," said Mr. Gaiter. "Now, let me see if I have this quite right - you are Susan Sto-Helit, Duchess of Sto Helit, and you have come to apply for the position of governess." There was a slight edge of puzzlement to the words, as if Mr. Gaiter couldn't reconcile those two very different ideas.
"That is correct, sir," said Susan, very evenly. She'd anticipated some difficulty, and was prepared.
"Your Grace--" began Mrs. Gaiter.
"Please, Mrs. Gaiter," said Susan, in a firm tone, "I ask that you forego the honorific. I shall not consider it a sign of disrespect. If I am to be governess to your children, you will be my superior, and that is the right of things."
Mrs. Gaiter did a passable impression of a fish gasping for breath, her mouth working but no sound issuing out. Susan imagined that her dictate had been quite the shock to the system, so she politely ignored Mrs. Gaiter while she regained her composure.
"Of course, of course," said Mr. Gaiter, picking up the slack. He could respect determination and common sense, and it seemed to him that Susan had both in ample supply. When you got right down to it, Mr. Gaiter's concern was for his children above all else; the previous governess had been rather, well, unsatisfactory. A strict disciplinarian, she'd kept the children in line with a minimum of coddling and only a modicum of caring. He'd been prepared to dismiss her when she'd sustained a mysterious injury in the park one day - the marks looked positively ghastly and suspiciously like they were caused by sharp fangs. With a manic gleam in her eye, she'd packed her bags and departed before dinner, leaving the Gaiters to stare after her receding form in bewilderment. When questioned, Twyla and Gawain had simply said that Miss Smythe hadn't been paying attention and had stepped on a crack. This seemed like a silly story, but the children hadn't been able to sleep for a week after the incident.
"And you'll have your references there, I expect?" said he, accepting the sheaf of papers from Susan and donning a pair of reading glasses to inspect them. All good, though there seemed to be some reserve in one or two. Not about Miss Sto-Helit's capabilities, of course - it appeared that all agreed that she was a bright girl with a good head on her shoulders, well-schooled and equipped to tackle life's little problems, along with some of the bigger ones. No, if there was any doubt as to the girl's qualities, it was in regards to her personality, though it was never explicitly written; Mr. Gaiter had to read between the lines to see that some of her teachers had regarded her as somewhat distant and unfocused.
"Says here you attended the Quirm College for Young Ladies."
"Yes, sir."
"And you have only just graduated."
"Yes, sir."
"Despite that, your references are quite commendable."
"Thank you, sir."
Mr. Gaiter glanced at Susan over the top of the reading glasses, taking in the pale complexion framed by lively tendrils of even paler hair, but for that strange streak of black. She had a serious mien for one her age. It struck him suddenly, almost like a good slap across the face, that here was a young lady who demonstrated an admirable level of restraint. The others who had interviewed with them thus far had been bright young (and not-so-young, in some cases) things, leaning forward in their seats to eagerly discuss their unique qualifications and effusively compliment Mrs. Gaiter on everything from the lace of her handkerchief to the Timothy Canker work in the hall. In the latter case, Mr. Gaiter had mentally eliminated that particular candidate from the running immediately.
But this one was...positively placid. In a respectful, intelligent way.
Mr. Gaiter decided he rather appreciated that. Placidity was a quality that had been in short supply in his home of late. And in the space of a moment, Mr. Gaiter had made up his mind. As a self-made man, he knew when to follow his instincts; at the moment, his instincts were telling him to hire the gel on the spot and damn the consequences. He knew a capable person when he saw one. "When can you begin?" asked Mr. Gaiter. His wife shot him a look of astonishment mingled with a measured dose of reproach, and he discreetly reached over to give her hand a pat of reassurance.
For her part, Susan's expression didn't change at all. Only she was privy to the sudden lurch of relief that she felt at Mr. Gaiter's swift decision. "Immediately, sir."
"Capital," said Mr. Gaiter. "We can arrange for the rest of your things to be brought here by the end of the day. In the meantime, shall we introduce you to the children?" Here he exchanged a glance with his wife, who took that as her signal to lead the way to the nursery upstairs.
Upon entering, Susan surveyed the room with analytical detachment, automatically cataloging its contents and making a list of things that were either in short supply or not apparent at all. Overall, it was a cozy little place and, with a little work, would likely be quite a nice environment for learning. While Mrs. Gaiter summoned the children, Susan gravitated towards a small activity table laden with pots of paint and nearly obscured by scattered papers. A chill ran down her spine when she caught sight of one of the simple paintings - unlike most of the other depictions of sun and sky and family, this picture plane bore the image of a little girl in a big bed, beneath which lurked an amorphous figure possessed of a craggy visage and sharp teeth. Her brow furrowed.
"Twyla, Gawain, say hello to Miss Sto-Helit," said Mrs. Gaiter, bringing Susan back to the present. "She's to be your new governess."
Susan turned round to see two small children who rather looked as if they'd just weathered a hurricane. She pursed her lips.
"'Llo," two voices echoed, hardly above a whisper.
"Hello, children," said Susan firmly and with exacting enunciation. "My name is Susan, and I'm very pleased to meet you. Now it seems as if you've had a rather active morning and could do with some washing up before lunch."
The Gaiters left her to it, and weren't disappointed.