"And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you
´cause I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It's a very very
Mad world"

~Title and excerpt taken from: Mad World by Tears for Fears~

Chapter four

Not wanting to face the day, I sat consoling my cup of tea; a loudly cleared throat shook me out of what must've been an expression of vacant despair. I cringed as tea sloshed all over my untouched kippers.

"The Wilson's have accepted your application," Holmes announced.

"What?" I gasped out, "When did you have time to make up an—oh never mind," I muttered.

"The Wilson's have three children, two boys, ages nine and seven and one girl, age six. They will be expecting you as soon as possible. That trunk," he nodded to the beautiful Italian leather chest by the door, "and its contents are yours." He slid a small silver key across the table to me.

"I will reimburse you as soon as possible."

"That will not be—"

"Necessary; yes. I've got a piece of Fabergé I can pawn," I interrupted.

"Don't pawn it," John interjected hastily, "your pay should be adequate if this is Mr. and Mrs. Peter Wilson we are speaking of."

"It is," Holmes said, abstractedly perusing a paper.

I cocked an eyebrow and looked to John for clarification.

"Parliamentary of the house of commons, fairly influential," John explained.

I bit back a query of, "Mycroft?" in time.

"Then I suppose I'll pack," I said, surveying the first-rate lock.

Opening it revealed an ample wardrobe for a governess in tasteful colors and cuts. Well, at least by my standards, I hadn't exactly made a study of the current fashion. I considered a moment before I stacked everything next to me and studied the lining.

Sherlock Holmes had presumably ordered and purchased this; I'd been damned if there wasn't at least one hidden compartment. Slowly I ran my fingertips across the bottom. There was nothing to be seen but white velvet so I shut my eyes to focus on that one sense. After an eternity, I felt it catch and lifted the seemingly seamless panel out. Grabbing my bag I slid my laptop out and tucked it in the bottom, my modern clothes and bag went on top. The panel fit back into place, the white velvet creating an illusion of depth that concealed the missing space. I put my violin in and replaced the clothes, taking one of the nicer dresses to change.

            Once again it was an anomalously chill day so I found a shawl before my trunk was loaded onto the hansom.

"What did you put down on this application?" I asked Holmes warily.

            "What the Wilson's wanted to hear."

            "When did you become a wisenheimer?" I muttered, unhappy that I was somehow rubbing off on him. Or he had adopted a new policy of giving as good as he got.

            "The key points are you are of French birth and were educated at a public girl's school in Beckenham. You teach French, English, Latin, and German, mathematics and geometry, natural sciences, geography, history and music. The rest you are free to improvise."

            "Big brother, indeed," I said softly, but he heard me and I've no doubt understood. Normally I would have laughed at my pun, but I was little more than preoccupied.

            Pandemonium greeted me at the door and swept me away.  It was the last I saw of Sherlock Holmes for some weeks. Mr. Peter and Mrs. Valerie Wilson were charming and cordial. Miss Betsy James was discreetly amusing and Lewis (Christopher, though a well trained butler would never tell you so) was Jeeves's uncle, I would swear to it. He was witty, covertly manipulative and altogether hilarious though naturally his dignity, pride and dedication to his calling precluded any displays of comedy. Lewis was not easily foiled. While Peter Wilson, by no means anything vaguely resembling Bertie Wooster, rarely required such guidance…it is summed up in one sentence.

The children were demons with cherubic smiles.

            Removing a snake from my pocket and not screaming to the point of decapitation or fainting spelt challenge to Thomas Wilson. Finding a snake in London, by itself, was mark of resourcefulness and it was the first measure of what I would be up against. Jacob Wilson was the most dignified seven year old I'd every met although he idolized Thomas and often assisted his brother's gamboling progressive plots. Sylvia was a work of her own. She was a ruined horror of a little girl, therefore instantly taking to me. The extraordinary part was within two weeks the six year old had dismissed times tables as effortless and was quickly moving beyond division. Against these three, I could not have found a more valuable ally than Lewis. Unfortunately, he and Betsy had more than enough to do with their own work leaving me to fend for myself.

            Thomas's plots were wholly original, and thus all the more dangerous. Short sheeting and hiding chalk was far too dull for him. He weakened chairs so they broke beneath me, stretched string across doorframes at ankle height, left surprises in the toes of my shoes, dumped spiders in my wardrobe, drizzled molasses in my hair while I was sleeping (which took me four days to get completely out), and then rigged an elaborate scheme to lock me out of the house all night.

So it went, for three weeks all of these failed to provoke the desired reaction. To my immense relief, Thomas and Jacob's frustration bloomed into respect and one day the plots stopped altogether.

            Truly, I should have known better. 

The final blow came when Thomas 'seasoned' my food with ipecac. He used a half a bottle of syrup. I found myself embracing the porcelain alter, having a panic attack and going into shock. It was all too much like the last time. Mr. Wilson called John immediately. John did what he could for the shock being as I was still vomiting, but the ipecac could only be left to run its course. Holmes had come with him and proved to be the biggest comfort. Given the circumstances, his presence was soothing. He was fortunate I was indisposed; had my stomach not been coming out my mouth I would've been in a presence of mind to kill him.

'Splendid governess,' indeed!

And while I was at it, the minute fiend would have got it as well. However Holmes completed his penance during those three endless hours of hell. John informed me the next day that Holmes had dealt with the minute fiend as well. How he wouldn't say but Thomas never gave me trouble again. In actuality, he seemed to hold me in awe. It was semi mutual; the fact that a nine year old had been able to procure ipecac syrup was at the time, lost on me, but I never again underestimated a child.

            Once that was done with life settled down. I had pleasant quarters on the third floor with the nursery and more pay than I knew what to do with, even after tricking John into taking money for the trunk and clothes to Holmes. Thursday was my day off. John would accompany me while we generally just wandered around London or the Strand. He did not forsake a woman completely alone in 'the great wilderness of London,' or however he'd put it. Or would put it.

The children were turning out much better than I would've hoped, particularly under my guidance, as a day didn't go by where I found myself fluently swearing in French. Sylvia was turning out to be a true math prodigy and less spoiled. Jacob loved arranging history skits, and Thomas was devouring anything new invented and wanted to work with Edison.

Despite the work, I found myself becoming more and more bored. As I'd predicted, Victorian life did not suit me at all. I was getting wanderlust bad and spending my days on the third floor of a house with three equally fidgety children was no remedy.

            One evening in early October, the children were giving me a particularly hard time about going to bed. It was ten before I got the boys to sleep, but Sylvia had left her doll downstairs and absolutely refused to go to sleep without her. Muttering to myself in French, I stalked downstairs to find the ridiculous toy.

The house was a big square thing on a street corner with the stairs in the entry way and the parlor and the dinning room on the right and Mr. Wilson's study, the kitchen and servants quarters to the left. Quietly, I began to search the hallway for the doll where Sylvia said she'd left it. Light was pouring across the dark wood floor from underneath the study door and I didn't want to disturb Mr. Wilson.

            "Let me…" an unfamiliar voice growled fading in and out, maliciously.

            I heard Mr. Wilson reply evenly but couldn't make him out. Something else was said, and I heard glass break.

            "You will come to see it my way sooner or later, and if I were you, for their sake, I'd hurry up," the man said, ominously.

The doorknob rattled slightly and I ducked into the shadow behind the grandfather clock. I pressed into the wall and held myself still, using the darkness to hide me. Glowing light cascaded into the hall as the door swung open and a cloaked figure with fury in his stride slammed out the front door. The light went out and the shadow form of Mr. Wilson stood in the doorframe, wearily running his hand through his dark hair. The bolt clicked as he locked the front door and turned to climb the stairs. I silenced my breath as he walked past me. The stairs creaked slightly and I concentrated my hearing until I heard the bedroom door close. Eventually all noise ceased. Carefully gliding across the wood floorboards I knelt at the study door. It was locked, but I was going to find out what had been broken; lock be damned. I'd tried picking locks with hairpins before with no success, but those had been 21st century locks. I pulled two out of my hair and straightened them; if I could hotwire a car, I could certainly pick a lock. After an eon or so of prodding the tumblers gave with a soft click that seemed to shake the silent house's foundations. Slowly I eased the handle and swung the door open.

I'd been in here once or twice before, but never had the opportunity to look around. It was well furnished.  The musty scent of leather volumes hung in the air from the cases of the walls. A well organized, but ultimately barren desk stood in the center of the room, accented by a leather sofa, a few odd tables, and large rug. I didn't dare turn on the gas; I didn't dare even touch anything. I virtually crawled around the room, but found nothing broken, not even in the tin waste bin. Miffed, I shut the door and stole up the stairs, nimbly avoiding the ones that creaked.

Sylvia was long since asleep, clutching her doll tightly. However sleep evaded me and I lay staring through the darkness at the ceiling. I had more to wonder about now than why I hadn't been thrown back through time all at once and why I'd kept rendezvousing with a strange, but prominent pair. Enigma wouldn't leave well enough alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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