Dear Miss Whitcombe,
Word of your unfortunate circumstances has reached me, and I find myself in the position of being able to offer assistance. As you may know, my three daughters are in need of consistent companion; one who can provide appropriate guidance as they navigate their entry into society.
Eveline's jaw tightened. Companion. Not governess, not tutor, but companion—that careful word that meant neither servant nor equal, forever suspended between stairs.
Given your evident education and what I'm told was once a respectable, ifmodest, background, you would seem suited for such a position. The terms I propose are as follows:
*- Annual salary of twenty pounds, paid quarterly
Accommodation in the blue room (third floor, east wing)
Meals taken with the upper servants to maintain appropriate boundaries
Half-day free weekly, every other Sunday to attend church
Duties to include: chaperoning my daughters at approved events, reading aloud during their needlework, correspondence assistance, and light mending as required*
Twenty pounds. The Harringtons had offered sixty. But of course, the Harringtons were merchants who didn't understand the delicate calculations of charity versus employment.
I trust that, given your present circumstances, you will find these terms more than generous. A woman in your position cannot expect to maintain all the privileges of untainted reputation, but I am prepared to overlook the recent unpleasantness provided you conduct yourself with appropriate gratitude and discretion.
Should you accept, you may begin Monday next. I will expect a written response by tomorrow morning, as I have several other candidates to consider should you decline.
Mrs. Horace Granger-Ashton
Post Scriptum: You would, naturally, be expected to avoid any mention of your previous... scholarly pursuits. My daughters require a model of proper feminine accomplishment, not dangerous intellectual pretensions.
Eveline set down the letter with trembling hands. Not from distress, but from pure, crystalline fury. This was what awaited her, not just in Manchester, but everywhere. Each position would be slightly worse than the last, each employer a bit more confident in their charity, until she was grateful for scraps and called it kindness.
A knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. "Come," she called, expecting Mary again.
Instead, Harriet entered, looking unusually pale beneath her bonnet. "I'm sorry to arrive unannounced, but my aunt summoned me rather urgently this morning, and I've just come from..." She stopped, taking in Eveline's expression. "What's happened?"
"Read this." Eveline handed over the letter. "See what my future holds according to Mrs. Granger-Ashton."
Harriet sank into the opposite chair, scanning the letter with increasing indignation. "Twenty pounds per annum? Light mending? Meals with the servants? This is insulting beyond measure!"
"This is reality. A month ago, I had my pick of positions, modest though they were. Now? Now I'm meant to be grateful for the privilege of darning stockings for women who wouldn't acknowledge me in the street."
"You cannot seriously consider..."
"Of course I'm not considering it." Eveline rose, pacing to the window. "But don't you see? This is what comes next. Manchester is just the beginning. Once I'm there, once I'm established as a governess grateful for employment despite my scandal, the next position will be worse. And the next worse still."
Harriet was quiet for a long moment, her hands folded tightly in her lap. "Speaking of positions and gratitude," she said finally, her voice carefully controlled, "I have news of my own."
Something in her tone made Eveline turn from the window. "Harriet?"
"My aunt had a specific reason for summoning me. It seems she's been quite busy arranging my future." Harriet's laugh was brittle. "Mr. Geoffrey Malbrooke has made an offer for my hand. Or rather, he's made an offer to my aunt, who has accepted on my behalf pending my grateful acquiescence."
"Malbrooke?" Eveline returned to her seat, studying her friend's face. "The merchant with the shipping concerns?"
"The very wealthy merchant with extensive shipping concerns," Harriet corrected. "Also forty-three years old, twice widowed, and in need of a hostess for his business entertainments. My aunt was quite clear about the advantages; security, comfort, elevation in circumstance. The fact that we've exchanged perhaps twenty words in our entire acquaintance is apparently irrelevant."
"Harriet, you cannot..."
"Can't I?" Her friend's composure cracked slightly. "I'm twenty-four, Eveline. My parents left me a pittance that dwindles each year. I have two younger sisters who need help launching into society. Mr. Malbrooke is kind enough, respectable, established. He doesn't love me, nor I him, but he needs someone to manage his household and I need..." She paused, struggling for words. "I need not to be a burden any longer."
They sat in silence, the weight of their respective futures pressing down like physical things. Through the window, London life continued its noisy progression, indifferent to the quiet desperation playing out in modest sitting rooms across the city.
