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In which there are interlopers and, possibly, Catholics
(September, 1814)
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Lady Avery was a jealous woman by circumstance.
As it turned out, the reward for being a handsome, virtuous young lady was marriage to a man with money, a title, and at least one mistress at any given time.
Theirs had never been a love match, and — whilst she felt what she believed to be the appropriate level of affection for her husband — she hadn't been so unreasonable as to expect he would act like it was.
But in her sillier moments she fancied herself a little put out when she suspected where he was most nights in London or when he would go away for days at a time in the country.
And as it turned out, the reward for being an accomplished and charming young unmarried woman who'd been the object of much admiration, was becoming a married woman who people no longer had any reason to openly admire (even the man who'd made her the offer).
And once married, the reward for retaining a capable and efficient housekeeper and staff was a household that hardly needed Lady Avery to do anything at all.
In short, Lady Avery was woman of some importance, whom nobody seemed to need.
Including her own children.
So whilst at first blush her decision to hire a young governess might have seemed counter to reason (knowing Lord Avery's proclivities), in actuality everybody at Moorpark Manor knew exactly why she'd done it:
Because a younger woman would be much easier to bend to her will.
The last thing Lady Avery needed, when employing someone to fill the most important role in her daughter's upbringing… was some hard-nosed, domineering woman who would act as if she held the most important role in her daughter's upbringing.
The official reason, of course, was the advice Lady Greengrass had offered when recommending Miss Penelope Dawlish for the post:
"A middle-aged nursery governess with a stern brow is all well and good when they're children," Lady Greengrass had pointed out, "but that's hardly what Miss Avery will want to emulate as she prepares to come out. What can some oppressive spinster teach her about charm and temper? Give her a lovely young woman she'll envy and want to outshine."
Lady Avery had pondered this a moment before enquiring, "Is that the sort of governess you had?"
"Lord, no! Mine was an awful, severe thing."
"You've done very well for yourself," Lady Avery had pointed out.
"Yes, but how many times have you chastised me for my temperament? But I shan't press you any further; I believe Lady Selwyn is in need of a governess and she has three daughters, you know, so I expect that should settle Miss Dawlish with many years of employment."
Lady Avery had extended an offer to Miss Dawlish the very next day.
And upon finally meeting Miss Dawlish, Lady Avery had been certain she'd made the right decision.
Miss Dawlish had perfect manners, a dignified reserve, and a sweet smile she would allow herself from time to time. The only difference, it seemed, between her and any young lady out in society, was that Miss Dawlish had a gentle frankness in her manner of speaking — which only made sense, as a governess who ducked her head in shyness could hardly be expected to get anything done.
But she was young — Lady Greengrass had said Miss Dawlish was recently governess to her late friend's daughter, which was almost too hard to believe as Miss Dawlish had the good fortune to look no older than two and twenty still — and she was deferential when speaking with Lady Avery, and so Lady Avery concluded she would be reasonably pliant.
Lady Avery waited a couple of weeks before testing this theory whilst Miss Dawlish settled and began her instruction of twelve year-old Miss Constance Avery.
Constance's fatal flaws, in the estimation of her mother and her former nursery governess, were that she grew bored easily, fidgeted too much, and asked far too many questions. She was never outright defiant, but when she didn't want to do something she moved with all the speed of a frozen stream.
On Penelope's first day at Moorpark, she'd had to ask Constance three times to sit in the schoolroom to begin lessons, and she found herself very nearly begging Constance to take her afternoon walk. The second day, Constance had pointed out every little way in which Penelope's methods differed from her previous governess Miss Houghton. And when she'd brought in Constance from her walk that second day looking like a drowned cat because Constance had moved like a snail when it first began drizzling, Penelope was sure this would be the fastest any governess had ever been let go.
When you'd been so used to obeying all your life, it was tricky to become the person to be obeyed.
But that night she did a great deal of thinking.
The next morning, she had asked Constance once to come downstairs for breakfast, and when Constance instead busied herself with some ribbons, Penelope went straight downstairs to the empty breakfast room, poured herself a cup of tea, and enjoyed ten minutes of peace and quiet before her fair-haired charge poked her head into the room, terribly confused about why Miss Dawlish should be paying her no attention and instead enjoying all of the food.
When Constance had similarly dug in her heels when it came time to practise at the piano, Penelope took herself off to the music room, admiring the fine instrument there before sitting down and beginning to play.
She played a lively, carrying tune that had been one of her favourites as a girl — immersing herself so much in it, as she always did when she played, that for a moment she could almost have forgotten where she was. And after she'd done that and switched to a steadier melody, soon enough her young companion appeared in the doorway, brow furrowed, twirling a strand of her hair.
"Why aren't you trying to make me play? It's not your piano, you know."
Penelope played more softly, that she might be heard over the music when she responded, "I thought we should have some music even if you are not inclined to play. And a lady doesn't beg or chase after anybody."
"Are you a lady?" asked Constance with a hint of confusion.
Penelope mused for a second or two, her eyes on the keys as she continued playing, and then looked up at Constance.
"After a fashion," she replied.
"But… not like Mother or me," offered Constance as if seeking confirmation. She was edging slowly into the room, a little at a time whenever Penelope looked down or away, as if by doing this Penelope might not notice her drawing closer.
"No! Not like Lady Avery or you."
"But you're not a servant like a housemaid," she observed — a little baffled by now at the responses she kept receiving from Miss Dawlish. She'd never have got past the first enquiry with her former governess Miss Houghton.
"No!" proclaimed Penelope with a delighted laugh. "Not like a housemaid."
"Not even my lady's maid."
"No, nor even like your lady's maid."
"And you can play the piano."
"Tolerably," replied Penelope in a vast understatement as she kept up her flawless playing.
"And draw?"
"Yes, and draw."
"And speak French?"
"Bien sûr!"
"So you were brought up like a lady."
"Yes, I was."
Constance was annoyed by the way this information was not making sense. "So why then are you a governess and not married to a gentleman?"
She'd wondered something along these lines about Miss Houghton, but the situation with Miss Dawlish made even less sense, since she seemed pretty enough and looked like any lady Constance had ever seen and was young enough to be Constance's elder sister rather than a teacher. Prior to this, Constance had wondered whether governesses didn't just sprout out of the ground already middle-aged and with no personal history to speak of.
Penelope raised her eyebrows in a reasonable way. "Somebody has to teach you, surely? Imagine if we all married gentlemen, and then who would bring up you and all the other girls to have that opportunity?"
Constance supposed this made sense. For now.
"I want to play now," she said abruptly.
"Yes, of course, if you'll be so kind as to let me finish this verse."
After that third day, things became much easier.
And after a couple of weeks of observing that Constance seemed to be getting along famously with her new governess, and keeping to her lessons with few problems, Lady Avery had decided it was a good time to intervene.
First she decided that Constance's piano practice and half of her academic lessons ought to be moved to the afternoon, which created quite a scheduling conundrum.
Miss Dawlish, however, incorporated French lessons into their afternoon walk, which in large part took care of that problem.
Then Lady Avery asked whether Constance wasn't spending too much time on drawing and not enough on sewing. This, too, Miss Dawlish adjusted (though, what Lady Avery didn't know, and Penelope did, was that drawing frustrated Constance and she was perfectly happy to do less of it, which made her even more productive overall).
No matter what sort of excuses Lady Avery dreamed up to disrupt their routine, Miss Dawlish did not bristle and argue, nor did she shrink and apologise. She adjusted and went about her business.
She was perfectly inoffensive and at ease.
Lady Avery wondered whether it was quite right that a governess should be so easy in her post. Particularly considering all the criticisms she'd heard from other women about governesses in their employ.
Once again Lady Avery found herself feeling terribly irrelevant.
As Constance had precociously observed, without realising the enormous meaning of her conclusions, governesses inhabited a strange space in between the servants of the house and the family. In another version of the same life, Miss Dawlish would have been the social equal of the family — she had certainly been raised to be. And this was an inescapably awkward truth that nobody ever acknowledged outright.
There are two schools of thought when it comes to admitting governesses into the family's society. One is to exclude them from family and social gatherings to remind them where they fall in the hierarchy.
The other is to include them in family and social gatherings to remind them where they fall in the hierarchy.
Lady Avery believed in the devil you know, and so she decided, one day, to invite Miss Dawlish to sit down to dinner with the family.
She also did it on an evening when she knew her husband would be at home and dining with them.
The devil you know.
Unbeknownst to her, Lord Avery had — since he had nothing better to do that day — invited his secretary Mr Weasley to sit down to dinner as well.
When Lord Avery and Mr Weasley entered the dining room, just as the ladies were about to be seated, the lord and lady of the house stared at one another in consternation.
"I've invited Miss Dawlish to dine with us, dear."
"Well, I've already asked Weasley."
Having to entertain one person who was certainly not a servant but definitely not a social guest was one thing entirely. Having two of them at once was disconcerting.
What sort of a strange dinner party was that supposed to be?
"Please don't allow me to intrude," offered Penelope, sensing the awkwardness even whilst it seemed a bit of an overreaction to her — but ultimately, she understood her station. "I'm perfectly happy taking my dinner upstairs as usual."
"No, I want Miss Dawlish to stay!" exclaimed Constance, as if her governess were about to be shipped off to Siberia.
"Hush," shot Lady Avery.
"Please don't leave on my account," interjected Percy, who'd also noted the discomfiture in the room.
Inside, however, he was a little less understanding than Penelope and more annoyed at the implication that inviting him to dinner was some act of magnanimity. He, after all, was a gentleman's son and was not a member of the house staff.
He could, however, recognise that this had never been intended as a dinner party but was primarily a family gathering, into which he and the governess were now thrust, and at which nobody would have much to say to one another because, truthfully, nobody actually cared.
"I have quite a few letters that still need answering," he added, beginning to back away.
"Stay here, Weasley," said Lord Avery easily, and Percy allowed himself the tiniest, inaudible sigh.
He really did have letters that needed answering.
Once the situation had been deemed unavoidable and they'd all sat he made a polite but perfunctory enquiry of Miss Avery, who was sat beside him, as to how her lessons were going. Then he fell silent, unless and until somebody desired his opinion about something.
Throughout much of dinner, Lady Avery kept an expectant eye on her husband and the governess. But much to her consternation, Miss Dawlish didn't attempt any perceivable flirtation with Lord Avery, and Lord Avery didn't ogle Miss Dawlish or give any indication that he thought she was the least bit interesting.
Lady Avery didn't actually know what — if anything — she would do, precisely, if she ever did catch her husband in a public flirtation. But she'd at least have been able to stew about it like she was entitled to.
What she didn't know was that Lord Avery had already done his ogling, which he was just discreet enough to do outside his wife's presence.
Percy had caught it, though, when they'd encountered Miss Dawlish one day outside Moorpark Manor as she waited for Miss Avery to fetch something inside, and Lord Avery stared appraisingly over Percy's shoulder in the direction of the governess as the two men spoke.
Miss Dawlish had dark chestnut hair and a pair of eyes to match, and while her face wouldn't have been considered beautiful by most, she wasn't plain either. If Percy had been pressed for an opinion, he might have described it as pleasant.
She smiled too much, though.
For a governess.
Percy didn't know what on earth Lady Avery had been thinking, bringing such a young woman with such a softness about her into this house.
But Lord Avery kept his escapades away from home and would have been a fool indeed to try to seduce the woman who was supposed to be raising his daughter to be virtuous and marriageable.
In addition to which, Percy supposed (judging from everything he'd observed of the world so far) that if every lady with a wayward husband refused to hire young women to work in their homes, no maid or governess would ever find employment before the age of thirty-five.
So as Lady Avery kept her eyes on her husband and the governess at dinner, Lord Avery kept his eyes on his food and Miss Dawlish kept her eyes on whomever happened to be speaking for an appropriate amount of time before returning her attention to Constance.
Indeed, Miss Dawlish managed in every aspect to return her attention to Constance, never allowing the conversation to linger too much on herself whenever asked a question. She was modest and knew her place and inspired enthusiastic input from Constance about her lessons (which Lady Avery hadn't actually wanted) and seemed to have a silent command of Constance's attention — such as when the girl began to slouch in her chair and swing her legs in boredom, and Miss Dawlish discreetly placed her hand below her own chin and drew herself up straight in demonstration, and Constance immediately sat up again.
It was terribly frustrating.
Lady Avery had a trip planned to visit her cousin in Somersetshire and hadn't originally planned to take Constance, but after that dinner she decided it was the thing to do.
After the fact, she would swear never to do that again — for as it turned out, minding one's own child for a week was terribly disruptive.
.
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The day before Lady Avery and her daughter left to visit her cousin, was the day Major William Weasley came home to Burrough House.
Percy was at Moorpark, but everyone else were at home in eager anticipation, for they'd received a letter from him two days before telling them the date.
It was a clear day, and Ron, Ginny, and the twins were playing at cricket in the nearby field where they had a decent view of any arrivals at the house. Mrs Weasley was in the parlour pretending to sew, looking out the window every thirty seconds for any sign of Bill. And Dr Weasley was in his study, correctly assuming that he'd be alerted in no uncertain terms when anything important happened.
And so, when the chaise pulled into the short drive to the house, it was seen simultaneously by Mrs Weasley and the children; the former called out to her husband and hurried to the front door, while the latter all ran towards the house.
"Ginny!" exclaimed Mrs Weasley, hurrying down the steps as her children came into view and the carriage prepared to stop.
She tried to smooth back bits of Ginny's hair as Ginny fought her off, protesting, "It's only Bill! It's not as if we're having company!"
The boys stood to the side, George leaning casually on the cricket bat propped on its end, all intending to stay out of the way until Bill was free of their mother's clutches.
"Bill!" cried Mrs Weasley joyously when the door to the chaise opened and his tall figure unfolded itself from within. He looked older, somehow, than any of them had remembered, and had allowed his hair to grow long during his time on the Continent.
Mrs Weasley stepped towards him with her arms wide, a little confused when he didn't immediately come to her, instead flashing her a warm smile and commenting fondly, "Mama!" before turning his attention back to the carriage.
A delicate hand came into view from within.
"What," blurted Fred in astonishment.
An unnatural stillness came over the group assembled there, as the owner of the hand appeared and Bill handed her down with the greatest care.
George lost his balance on the bat and almost fell over.
"Shut your bone box, you fatwit," muttered Fred to Ron, who promptly stopped gawping.
Even with her grey eyes wary as they swept over the scene and her face guarded, with a hint of a frown, she was the most beautiful woman any of them had ever seen.
Even Ginny smoothed her hair subconsciously.
Then six brains — reeling as they were from shock — did some quick thinking in the fraction of a moment before Bill spoke again.
There were two possibilities here, and each seemed equally absurd.
Because whilst Bill (even if he were the sort to have an arrangement with a woman) certainly wouldn't have brought her home to meet his mother, on the other hand surely they would have all known if he had —
"Mama," said Bill proudly. "Allow me to present my wife!"
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Even the younger and wilder Weasley children were capable of feeling a sense of chagrin at the state in which they were presented to their (very elegant) sister-in-law and future mistress of the house (even if it wasn't their fault that Bill hadn't warned anyone about this!) And so after the introductions were made, Ginny, Ron, and the twins retreated to their respective rooms to make themselves more presentable, leaving Dr and Mrs Weasley in the parlour with Bill and his wife Fleur.
Except for "Yes" and "Thank you" when Mrs Weasley offered tea, Fleur was silent as Bill told his parents about how they'd met in Austria, their small wedding with Fleur's family, their travels back to England. When Fleur wasn't looking at Bill, she was surveying the room and its contents. It was inelegant but well kept (though did they really only have one maid for all of these people?) It was a nice-looking house from outside and with the sun out she had to admit the surrounding country was charming.
But Fleur had not been used to charming and quaint; she had been used to the society of other émigrés in Vienna and the promise of one day returning to a noble country she couldn't actually remember but loved desperately anyway.
And she shuddered to think what her mother's reaction would be if her younger sister ever appeared under any circumstances in such dusty disarray as Ginevra Weasley had today.
It was a little difficult, really, to believe William had actually been brought up here.
And as she sat appraising all of these things, she didn't miss the fact that her mother-in-law was silently appraising her.
Neither of them may have known exactly what the other was thinking — but they would each walk away from that interaction with a good idea.
Mrs Weasley, who'd done very little since Bill's arrival but stare at Fleur in abject shock and mistrust, took immediate offence at Fleur's lack of enthusiasm for anything. Her daughter-in-law's conceit was evident; she carried herself like a duchess, travelled in a dress that was likely more expensive than Ginny's finest gowns, and now she sat here taking inventory of the parlour like everything in it already belonged to her — and worse, as if she didn't care for it one bit.
When her youngest children had finally regained their sense of comportment and appeared in the parlour properly dressed, they sat and talked for a time — Ginny making the occasional attempt to engage Fleur in conversation — until Fleur whispered something in Bill's ear and Bill said:
"Ah, yes. Mama, Fleur will need to take some rest after that journey. I wonder whether she might — "
"Yes, of course, dear. Now the sleeping arrangements do present a bit of a challenge, but of course I'm glad to have both you and Fred home together, so it's nothing to worry about! You and Mrs Weasley — " She forced the name out through her teeth with a smile, for she certainly wasn't intimate enough with her daughter-in-law to call her Fleur — "will of course have your old room, and Percy will share Ron's room."
"Percy will not!" Ron protested, scandalised — and when his mother shot him a warning look, he insisted, "Percy has a room all to himself at Moorpark; I don't see why he and I should have to share again. And what's Harry meant to do when he comes?"
"Oh, no, Mama!" Bill interjected into this. "Fleur and I will stay in the village at the inn; I just wonder whether Ginny might be so kind as to allow Fleur to rest in her room for a while?"
"Why, you can't stay at the inn! I'll not hear of it; this is your house!"
"Maybe I'll go stay at the inn," Fred quipped to George under his breath as they watched this scene beginning to unfold.
"Nevertheless," said Bill firmly. "Ginny, would you be so kind until we've sorted this all out?"
"Oh, yes! Where's Chudleigh? We must have her bags brought up."
After a significant commotion over the complex matter of taking someone and their luggage up the stairs, Fleur was led to the relative peace and quiet of Ginny's room, and Bill subsequently found his mother fussing over the table arrangement in the dining room.
"Mama?"
Good heavens, Mrs Weasley realised silently: Fleur was going to take precedence over all of her children at the table and would have to be seated at Dr Weasley's right hand.
"Mama."
She looked up to find her son watching her measuredly.
And in that moment she couldn't help herself.
"Oh, Bill, are you certain about this?"
"I hope so; it's rather permanent, in my understanding."
She sighed and cast about for something — anything — to occupy herself.
"What's wrong, Mama?" He spoke with a tone one might use when humouring a sullen child.
He'd expected his mother might be a bit flustered by it all, but he crossed his arms and became significantly less indulgent in his demeanour when Mrs Weasley began by fretting, "She's… Bill, she's… !"
Bill raised his eyebrows forbiddingly at whatever criticism his mother was attempting to make, but Mrs Weasley pressed on.
"She's French!" she whispered at last.
"Yes, well, so's the decoration of your sitting room, if I recall."
Mrs Weasley scowled at a vase of flowers, and they passed a tense moment in this manner until Bill sighed and pulled out a chair.
"Sit down, Mama."
Mrs Weasley sank onto the chair, her face now carefully blank. Bill pulled out another chair to face her, but instead of sitting he leant with his arms crossed atop the back.
"She's hardly a revolutionary," he said bluntly. "Her family escaped to Vienna years ago; she doesn't even have a conscious memory of France. I guarantee she despises Bonaparte even more than you do.
"And I must say," he added wryly when she made no response, "I believe this is the most nationalistic I've ever seen you."
"Is she a… Catholic?" she whispered tragically.
"Mama." Bill placed his face in his hand with a sigh and then composed himself with a frank look. "I am married. That's all there is to it."
Tears pricked at Mrs Weasley's eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Bill's face betrayed a bit of guilt. "I suppose I didn't want to put it in a letter. I wanted to see you myself. And when it came time to leave Austria I didn't want to be separated from her, and I could hardly have taken her anywhere with me before being married, you know.
"I thought you'd be happy," he added with some disappointment.
"She's hardly said above two words to any of us," Mrs Weasley sulked.
"She's shy," he insisted. "And tired. And overwhelmed; this isn't her country. Have a little sympathy."
When she did not respond, he placed a hand on her shoulder with a firm, "Please, Mama," and left her to brood in peace.
Bill next found his father in his study.
"Talk to your mother?" he enquired lightly, setting aside some notes, once Bill had sat down across from him.
Bill's eyes filled with irony as he passed a hand over his mouth in restraint.
Dr Weasley let out a little chuckle, but Bill raised his lips from his fingers, remarking grimly, "It isn't funny."
His father grew sober. "No, I suppose it isn't… But it's a bit of a shock to her. Hmm?" He raised his eyebrows pointedly and Bill sighed and nodded in acknowledgment of his own part in that.
After a pensive moment passed in silence, Bill cleared his throat and looked smart once again. "How is everything here?"
"Oh, fine, fine. Here."
Bill caught the inflection on the last word. "And elsewhere?"
Dr Weasley shook his head slowly, staring at an indistinct spot on his desk. "I'm not certain what to do about my brother."
"Uncle Bilius?" Bill asked, as if there were any possibility his father had been referring to Godfrey.
Dr Weasley nodded.
"How bad is it?"
"I've no idea what his debts are these days. There's little income, if any, but the estate's vastly over-encumbered."
The estate they spoke of had been Dr Weasley's father's and was now held by his eldest brother, who was a profligate man with a particular fondness for gambling. He had no children and the estate was entailed; and as Godfrey the next male in line had no biological heirs either, the estate was sure to come to Arthur's line eventually — poorly managed and debt-ridden.
"Surely he could employ a steward?"
"Oh, he did, he did," offered Dr Weasley. "But as it turns out, stewards like to be paid, too. Funny, that."
"Funny that," echoed Bill dismally.
.
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Percy's attitude towards rooming with Ron for the foreseeable future was an approximation of Ron's attitude towards rooming with him. And so, for at least the time being, he did avail himself of the room he frequently occupied at Moorpark anyway.
On the second morning of this arrangement, Percy was taking a very early breakfast — not bothering to wait for his employer, frankly not knowing whether he'd even come home the night before — when his attention was drawn upwards from the newspaper by a startled greeting.
"Oh, Mr Weasley!" Miss Dawlish had stuttered to a halt just inside the doorway. "Good morning."
Without putting much thought into it, Percy stood and gave her a terse bow.
"I beg your pardon for the intrusion," she continued.
"Not at all. I've just finished anyway."
She hesitated and he gestured her her to sit. And as she did he resumed his seat before realising he'd just said he was leaving. And now he was going to have to sit here for at least another minute to avoid resembling a jack-in-the-box.
"I didn't know anybody else would be here at this hour," explained Miss Dawlish as she poured out some tea. She had a refined, placid way of speaking. "It's earlier than I've been used to breakfast with Miss Avery, but she and Lady Avery are away and I'm sure I don't know what to do with myself."
Percy gave a noncommittal nod and finished his coffee. He'd never found himself in conversation with a governess and wasn't at all sure what to do about it. What could they possibly have to talk about?
"Do you stay at Moorpark frequently?" she enquired.
"I do." No need to volunteer the fact that he was presently staying because his own home was woefully undersized and overcrowded.
"Lord Avery quite depends upon you, I believe," she added regardfully.
"Yes, he's very busy."
Eyes down, Percy folded up his newspaper.
"You're not from Devonshire," he observed of her speech, in a way that was neither a question nor precisely a statement.
"No, Worcestershire. But I find it lovely here."
Percy didn't react except for one more brief nod. Then he stood.
"Good day, Miss Dawlish."
"Good day, Mr Weasley."
The following day, thinking to avoid interrupting someone's morning again, Penelope deferred her breakfast until the time she would usually take it with Constance.
She was reading a book and enjoying her tea when it became apparent that someone else had had the exact same thought.
Percy managed to control the look of surprise on his face just before Penelope blinked up at him. And though her voice was unruffled as ever, in that moment she couldn't keep her eyes from laughing.
"We meet again, I see."