Part 3 (2/2)

The familiar feeling of loneliness, of incipient hopelessness, gripped her-a queasiness in the chest she knew too well. Lavie held that story, too-of the first time she had known despair.

It began with unexpected criticism from f.a.n.n.y soon after she began the diary. Florence was bright, her mother conceded, there was no disputing that; she conquered her academics with ease, and charmed people with engaging conversation. But she was unkind to Parthe. Flo could scarcely believe f.a.n.n.y thought such a thing! Was it Flo's fault if Parthe were duller, shyer, and less able-bodied? If she was more inclined to doodle on her sketch pad than declaim memorized pa.s.sages in Father's library? Invariably, docile Parthe cried in frustration while Flo remained dry-eyed. She knew that the gifts and talents with which she'd been blessed (and Parthe, alas, had not) could not be shared by force of will, presuming Flo even had the will to do so. Which she did not.

Not believing that she was a troublemaker, Flo latched on to the flattery instead of the censure in f.a.n.n.y's critique. She had social graces! She was a brilliant conversationalist with a sunny disposition. Buoyed by this praise, a few days later she had written a letter to her Aunt Anne without clearing it first with f.a.n.n.y. Her mother flew into a tantrum. ”I hope you have got safe to your journey's end,” Florence had written. ”And I do hope you saw the eclipse of the moon on the day you went. Papa says that you were blind b.o.o.bies if you did not watch it for a whole hour, as we did.”

The next week f.a.n.n.y began to inquire about an addition to the household staff.

Flo's right foot was numb, she realized. She changed position.

It had taken years for her to grasp what f.a.n.n.y had intended in hiring Miss Christie, that she had another motive beyond educating her girls: to rein Florence in, to instill in her humility and doubt where there had been too many high spirits, too much confidence, a native arrogance that made her impertinent. But at the time, Flo had been excited at the prospect of a governess. She had imagined long romps through the woods and parklands, and hours spent pasting alb.u.m pages with pressed flowers and leaves, bird feathers and b.u.t.terflies. She would ride her pony more than ever under Miss Christie's supervision. Miss Christie would teach her chess, so that eventually she could play with WEN.

Before Miss Christie arrived, f.a.n.n.y warned the girls not to speak unless spoken to, under any conditions. ”That is intended for you, Florence,” she had added. ”I want no outbursts. If you think of something to say, I want you to turn your tongue in your mouth seven times before you speak.” Flo had felt her face redden to be singled out for reprimand.

When the girls were called to the sitting room where Miss Christie and f.a.n.n.y had taken tea, Flo was immediately hopeful. For one thing, Miss Christie looked too young to be a grown-up. Though she had overheard f.a.n.n.y tell WEN that Miss Christie was almost twenty-one, she could have pa.s.sed for fourteen. Flo liked her looks, too. She was tall in comparison to f.a.n.n.y, neatly got up in a navy gabardine bodice and skirt, with blue canvas gloves and a straw hat with a single feather. She nodded at Flo and Parthe, who curtsied as f.a.n.n.y introduced them. ”Good day,” Miss Christie said, smiling.

”Good day to you,” the girls chimed in unison.

Miss Christie listed the subjects she could teach. She'd begin, she said, with the absolute fundamentals, which, Flo was surprised to learn, had nothing to do with numbers or spelling and everything to do with being quiet, paying strict attention, and doing exactly what Miss Christie bid. She handed her references to f.a.n.n.y in two sealed envelopes.

Scanning them, f.a.n.n.y seemed pleased. ”Of course the girls will call you Miss Christie, but I hope you don't mind if I shall call you Sarah.”

”I'd be honored,” said Miss Christie, her cheeks turning pink.

”Thank you for coming. I am quite satisfied that you will fit the bill. You may begin as soon as you can move in. Shall we say on Thursday?” f.a.n.n.y turned to her daughters. ”Girls, do you want to ask Miss Christie anything?”

Parthe shook her head, suddenly shy, while Flo popped off the couch and placed herself directly in front of the new governess. ”What's your favorite game?”

Miss Christie paused and glanced at f.a.n.n.y. Her smile broadened. ”Well, I don't have a favorite, really. You shall have to teach me yours.”

”I would love to!” Flo cried with relish. ”There's Grandma's Basket, Giant Steps, Posey in the Pocket-”

”All right, then. There will be time for that,” Miss Christie said, reining in her smile somewhat.

Parthe could only squeal more joy, while Flo jumped up and down, as high and as fast as she could, coming perilously close to the cranberry l.u.s.ters on the side table.

”But first things first,” Miss Christie added. ”Penmans.h.i.+p-”

”Oh, we already know penmans.h.i.+p!” Flo said, though in truth her characters were still round and wobbly.

”Addition and sub-”

”But we've had that, both of us. Test us, why don't you?”

”Eleven take away four, Flo!” Parthe yelled, peering wildly around the room, ”plus twenty take away eleven.”

”Discipline,” f.a.n.n.y said before Flo could begin to calculate. ”First comes discipline.”

”We've had that already,” Flo said, still jumping.

”Have you?” Miss Christie asked.

”I think maybe it's time for another hand,” said f.a.n.n.y. ”Yours, Miss Christie.” And with that, f.a.n.n.y accompanied her to the door.

”Hooray!” both girls shouted as they rushed upstairs. ”We get Miss Christie, Miss Sarah Christie.” For the duration of the afternoon, they ran from room to room trilling the governess's name.

After Miss Christie moved in, Florence wove baskets for her out of long gra.s.s, bracelets and rings out of dandelions and the wild violets blooming profusely that spring. Florence wanted Miss Christie to know that she was loved. But alas! Miss Christie didn't want love. She wanted obedience.

Days under her tutelage were rigidly scheduled and exceedingly busy. After the maid brushed and coiffed the girls' hair and dressed them in the morning, there was calisthenics, with special attention to legs and arms. Flo had to wear her steel-lined boots all the time. There were prayers morning and evening and, of course, lessons, with an emphasis on rote learning-copying out sentences instructive of both grammar and morality dozens of times to compensate for an error or simply to emblazon them in the mind. The entire regimen left Flo disheartened and frustrated, and despite the consequences, she rebelled. When she left a note saying I don't like writing these copperplate sentences. It's stupid and I don't wish to do it, a corrective aphorism was a.s.signed her: Obedience comes first, understanding later.

There was much discussion of her sudden outbursts of energy and enthusiasm. She was sparky, Miss Christie said, excessively so. Flo's innate vitality constantly threatened to spill over into a spontaneous shout or jump, a shove in Parthe's direction, or high jinks with the animals, such as encouraging the pony to gallop instead of walk. Inside her, something was always bubbling up-a new idea, another question. Also, she was too curious. Morally speaking, f.a.n.n.y and Miss Christie agreed, this amounted to an inability to mind her own business. Life, Miss Christie believed, ought to proceed as solemnly as a funeral.

f.a.n.n.y began to travel more, leaving the girls to Miss Christie's rule for a month or more at a time. Parthe seemed content enough, but Flo missed her mother desperately. f.a.n.n.y's absences felt like punishments. Had she chosen to stay away until Flo was able to sit still, to fall asleep on time, to listen without interrupting when others spoke? It was no good. Even when Flo succeeded in showing her family a covered cage, a wild animal was still racing around inside it.

After several months, a dizzying monologue began to occupy her mind, a nagging voice that chastised her for every unscripted thought. Stop it, she found herself thinking. Do not think about skipping rope or French fables or drawing the dog. To lure f.a.n.n.y home, she sent notes rea.s.suring her mother of her improvement. I am beginning to yield more, and I am more obliging now than formerly. When f.a.n.n.y continued to stay away, Flo slipped into a dark uncertainty. Unable to locate and reform the flaws that so upset everyone, she began to question her very nature. She would have turned herself inside out like a pocket to prove her new purity and bring f.a.n.n.y home. But she did not know how. And then one July evening at dinner, the voice in her head became something else entirely.

The family had gathered over a fancy meal with meat aspics and pheasant pie to celebrate WEN and f.a.n.n.y's return to Embley from a long visit to Tapton, in the north. The conversation fluttered around Flo's head like a flock of gulls. It was small talk and she wanted nothing to do with it. She wanted only to be hugged and kissed and petted by her parents. Perhaps then she could be disciplined and serene rather than impulsive and annoying.

She looked at her place setting. To the right and left and above her dishes lay an a.r.s.enal of silver-four forks, three spoons, and three knives, not counting the b.u.t.ter knife. f.a.n.n.y was proud of her table settings, especially when she threw a hunt ball. There was an implement for each foul or fish, every soup, pudding, and torte.

It occurred to Flo that she did not know the respective functions of the different cutlery. All she knew was that her mother no longer loved or wanted her. She had given her away to the implacable Miss Christie, who was completely resistant to Flo's charms, so much so that Flo had become convinced that she had no charms, that there was nothing about her that might please another. Did anyone love her? Well, Mrs. Gale, certainly, the old nurse, but she loved everyone equally, whatever their flaws, and at the moment, such a generalized affection was of little comfort.

A chill like pure ice seized her. She dared not pick up a single implement, lest it be the wrong one. Her hands remained in her lap, clenched together in a sweaty knot. She wanted to be good-to be perfect-but she understood that she was neither, and far from becoming either. She was a monster, a freak, abnormal as the two-headed chicken that the gamekeeper had brought up to the house last spring, thinking it would amuse the children. It had horrified her.

She felt glued to the dining chair, unable to move. For a while no one noticed that she was not eating, that she was frozen in place. Finally Miss Christie spoke up. ”Are you not hungry, my dear Florence?” she asked.

A scorching in her chest, a sudden widening of the eyes: not yet nine years old, Flo felt rage for the first time in her life. She knew that she was not ”dear” to Miss Christie, that it was just a polite form of address, but at that moment, it was intolerable.

”I am not,” she replied, ”dear Miss Christie,” the last words tinged with sarcasm. ”I am . . . ill.”

Flo could almost feel the sensation even now of that utter desolation. But f.a.n.n.y, she was happy to remember, had not disappointed. She had sc.r.a.ped back her chair, rushed to Flo, and placed her palm on her forehead. ”I believe you have a fever, darling. Shall we go up to bed?”

”Oh, yes, Mother. Please.” Bed meant that she would be warm and alone and, for at least a few moments, the center of her mother's doting concern.

In the girls' bedroom, f.a.n.n.y tenderly helped her into her nightgown and sleeping cap before tucking her in, kissing her forehead and both cheeks until Flo's eyes filled with tears of grat.i.tude. WEN appeared at her bedside a few moments later, leaning over her and stroking her hair, his brow furrowed. ”Coming down with a chill, are you, my little poppet?” he asked, lingering by the bed with f.a.n.n.y until Mrs. Gale arrived with rosehip tea and a piece of toast with jam. Flo ate greedily, hoping she would not be chastised for rus.h.i.+ng through her food. She wasn't, and her parents' faces hung in the dark room like two lockets on black velvet until she fell asleep.

Soon she couldn't bear to be seen by other children, certain that they'd perceive her monstrosity. She who had been pert and chatty and full of spicy confidence became painfully shy, barely speaking. It was not enough to excel at history, to have perfect French verbs. If anything, it was a liability, turning one into a self-absorbed braggart who flaunted her accomplishments. Self-promoting, f.a.n.n.y called it. To please her mother, Flo decided to become the ideal unselfish daughter, allowing no thoughts in her head that did not put the comfort and benefit of others before her own. She tried especially hard to be solicitous of Parthe, not to outs.h.i.+ne her in any way. Pray let us love one another more than we have done, she wrote in a note that Parthe still had. Mama wishes it particularly, it is the will of G.o.d, and it will comfort us in our trials through life.

And then there was that awful daily list Miss Christie and f.a.n.n.y devised to improve her character. A pale spot still marked where it had been tacked to her bedroom wall: I PROMISE:.

To run before breakfast to the gate and back, or if cold and dark take a long walk before and 1/2 hour after dinner To do 20 arms before I dress, and, if ill done, ten more To draw 1/2 an hour regularly Not to lie in bed To go to bed in proper time To read the Bible and pray regularly before breakfast & at night To go to the bathroom regularly after breakfast To go to Church on Sundays To read, write and do the Bible To read any book you put out for me To read this paper every day With such a busy schedule, she was able to keep the monster at bay, at least while in the company of others. When she was alone, though, the monster transformed itself into a habit that had plagued her ever since: dreaming. It bothered no one else, being invisible to everyone but Flo, for whom it proved an enduring anguish, all the worse for being secret. Her long self-centered reveries were not mere daydreams but epic poems: glory unfolded in her mind's eye, in stanza after stanza, where she featured as a person adored by mult.i.tudes for heroic deeds or stunning accomplishments. Florence Nightingale, discoverer of the cure for consumption with attendant audiences with the queen, ceremonies in Parliament, and a stamp in her honor. Or: Florence Nightingale, founder of a school for girls, of a reformatory, author of Blue Books and articles in the Times. Diva, doctor, translator of the cla.s.sics, philosopher, reformer. It was, she knew, an evil pursuit, but no self-imposed edict, no remorse or penance had been sufficient to stop the filthy habit for more than a week or two. Dreaming became the bane of her existence, and nothing short of torture. She could barely keep it under control even now, at age twenty-nine.

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