Autobiographical fiction; England -- Fiction; Feminist fiction; Governesses -- Fiction; Single women -- Fiction
To begin with the head: Mr. Murray was, by all accounts, a blustering,
roystering, country squire: a devoted fox-hunter, a skilful
horse-jockey and farrier, an active, practical farmer, and a hearty
_bon vivant_. By all accounts, I say; for, except on Sundays, when he
went to church, I never saw him from month to month: unless, in
crossing the hall or walking in the grounds, the figure of a tall,
stout gentleman, with scarlet cheeks and crimson nose, happened to come
across me; on which occasions, if he passed near enough to speak, an
unceremonious nod, accompanied by a “Morning, Miss Grey,” or some such
brief salutation, was usually vouchsafed. Frequently, indeed, his loud
laugh reached me from afar; and oftener still I heard him swearing and
blaspheming against the footmen, groom, coachman, or some other hapless
dependant.
Mrs. Murray was a handsome, dashing lady of forty, who certainly
required neither rouge nor padding to add to her charms; and whose
chief enjoyments were, or seemed to be, in giving or frequenting
parties, and in dressing at the very top of the fashion. I did not see
her till eleven o’clock on the morning after my arrival; when she
honoured me with a visit, just as my mother might step into the kitchen
to see a new servant-girl: yet not so, either, for my mother would have
seen her immediately after her arrival, and not waited till the next
day; and, moreover, she would have addressed her in a more kind and
friendly manner, and given her some words of comfort as well as a plain
exposition of her duties; but Mrs. Murray did neither the one nor the
other. She just stepped into the schoolroom on her return from ordering
dinner in the housekeeper’s room, bade me good-morning, stood for two
minutes by the fire, said a few words about the weather and the “rather
rough” journey I must have had yesterday; petted her youngest child—a
boy of ten—who had just been wiping his mouth and hands on her gown,
after indulging in some savoury morsel from the housekeeper’s store;
told me what a sweet, good boy he was; and then sailed out, with a
self-complacent smile upon her face: thinking, no doubt, that she had
done quite enough for the present, and had been delightfully
condescending into the bargain. Her children evidently held the same
opinion, and I alone thought otherwise.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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