Seven Minutes in Heaven(21)

“That was your new governess.”

“Yes, I heard,” Otis said, completely unconcerned. “I’m going to charge six pence for this trap, sir, what do you think? I expect I could make quite a lot of money in the market.”

“Would you pay that amount?”

“No, but I don’t mind living with mice.”

“I doubt that a mouse will be fooled by the cheesecloth, because it would feel unsteady,” Ward pointed out. “What does Jarvis think?”

One of the reasons Miss Lumley had to be dismissed was that she had been adamant that Jarvis, a plump rat with long whiskers and bright black eyes, live in the stables.

“Jarvis is asleep,” Otis said, peering into the small canvas bag he had slung over one shoulder. “But I see what you mean.” He walked a dirty finger along the ramp and paused on the cheesecloth. “It wiggles.”

“You’d better go upstairs and meet Miss Midge,” Ward said. “She’s expecting to find you in the nursery.”

“I’ll go up there in a bit. If I put a ramp inside, balanced on a rock, the mouse would step on it and the ramp would plummet down. He’d be stuck in the box.”

“Possibly,” Ward said, choosing not to commit himself. A blind mouse might be fooled, although he’d have to be terribly hungry to mistake a piece of bath sponge for cheese.

“It will take more wood for the ramp, so I’ll charge seven pence for it,” Otis said, starting for the door.

“Would you like to learn to fish?” Ward asked.

Otis stopped and cocked his head. “Not particularly. I imagine that Lizzie would be interested in dissecting a fish. She wouldn’t like to see it die, though.”

“We could keep it in a bucket of water,” Ward said.

“They gasp for air as they die. I don’t think it feels very good for the fish. Lizzie wouldn’t like it.” He slipped out the door.

Otis had never said a word about their mother’s death. Not a single word. Was that normal? Ward had no idea.

Surely his brother hadn’t been present when their mother died. Or had they been living in a one-room caravan at the time? He didn’t even know. And he didn’t know whether he should ask.

Was it better to look into a tragedy of this nature, or simply let the memories fade?

That was surely a question for an expert.





Chapter Eight





Fawkes House

Wheatley

Wednesday, April 22, 1801



Dear Mrs. Snowe,

You will be glad to know that Miss Midge has arrived. She clearly has great ambitions for my brother and sister. They had a preliminary skirmish when it came to light that my siblings were not in the habit of saying bedtime prayers, but Miss Midge prevailed and the household is the more holy for it.

Otis showed me a mousetrap he has designed, so if he is unable to attain the heady heights to which Miss Midge aspires, he can make a living as a rat-catcher which, I believe, is a thriving business in London.

Do you think it is normal that neither Lizzie nor Otis have mentioned their mother since the day they arrived? As you know, Lady Lisette was not conventional in her opinions nor her behavior. She was as fizzy as champagne, and not in a good way. A hedgehog might have made a better mother.

Your most obedient servant,

Edward Reeve

P.S. I have made up my mind that your given name is either Georgette or Rosamond.



Eugenia’s clients occasionally sent notes to her, when a son won the house tennis cup, for instance, or a daughter trounced her suitors at archery. This letter was altogether different.

She was trying to decide how to respond when the door opened and Susan’s head appeared. “I’m making up a list of our waiting families, and we’re short twenty-three governesses. Shall we schedule another training course for next month?”

When Eugenia had first opened the registry office, she had thrown herself into the enterprise. She had loved conducting training courses and watching her newly minted governesses go out into the world and put her ideas into practice.

It was only now that she’d reached the top of her profession that she found the business growing wearisome. She pushed away the stack of letters and stood up.

“I suppose we must. Come have a glass of sherry. It’s already late.”

Eugenia went to a cut-glass decanter that had belonged to Andrew’s mother. She poured two glasses of sherry and handed one to Susan, along with Mr. Reeve’s letter. “Have a look at this.”

“That’s a lot of cheek!” Susan exclaimed a moment later.

“How so?” Eugenia sank into a nearby chair and took a healthy sip of golden wine.

“You’re a respectable widow.”

“He’s merely asking for advice.”