It was a miracle that I woke in the morning. If they had not sent a maid in to get me, I might not have been able to get up at all. My sleep had been quite solid, as I simply did not have the energy to worry that the old man might come back, but even so the hours I had wasted on the night’s incidents meant that I felt as though I had not slept at all.

And if the household did not already know what had occurred, they were soon to discover the truth. For the door was quite clearly broken, and I had to remove a chair that I had used to prop it closed before the maid who was knocking could enter.

This maid did not comment on the broken door, and said only that she had been sent to wake me for my breakfast. But only minutes after she had left, she returned to my room again, this time with a tray of hot tea and three perfectly round biscuits.

“Mrs. Bicester said to give this to you, miss,” she said, and with an embarrassed curtsey she left the room.

What a farce. Clearly, the woman had been embarrassed but not shocked. The whole household knew of the mad old man, though I was the only person willing to speak of him. And I knew that in my anger I would not be able to face any members of the family early that morning. In fact, it seemed that rage was the only thing keeping me awake. That, and the sweet biscuits, which were truly uncommonly delicious. They should have advertised them in the description of the position.

After all, apparently what the Barlows wanted was a governess who would gently fight off the grandfather, protect herself without complaint, and not ask for anything but a relatively modest salary in return.

Bypassing the breakfast table, and thus avoiding my despicable employers, I went straight to the study. The day before, Miss Barlow had shown it to me very briefly, confessing that she did not spend quite as much time there as she ought.

When she came in, fresh from breakfast, I was rummaging through her books. It was a beautiful library, to be sure, but there was nothing in it that had been purchased in the past ten years.

“Not very modern, is it?” I asked Miss Barlow when she entered. “Don’t mistake me, it is fitting for an old house.”

She grew a bit pink. “I do wish to buy more books. But ever since our father died, nothing has been added. Mama does not like to buy them, and my brother rarely disobeys her. Granddad has not been able to read for years.”

Everything I said to the poor girl seemed to bring up another horrid tragedy.

“I’m very sorry about your father,” I said to her. “I did not know that he had died.”

In truth, I had known, as the family was a famous one and anyone could have looked up that fact. But Lillian Barlow accepted my condolences with sincere regard and good breeding. Her social graces were indeed impressive, and I knew my assumption that she would easily find a husband had been a correct one.

“Thank you,” she told me. “I’m afraid I only know about papa’s love for books from Luke. I scarcely remember.”

“I was also young when my father died,” I told her, and realized that we shared that peculiar experience. My mother only sighed when she talked about my father and how he had not been able to provide for us. But I knew that his birthday had been March 30th, and I saw my mother pass that date each year with great sadness. I felt sure that if I had known him, our lives would have been very different, and I would not be trapped in an old house trying to teach the granddaughter of a horrid and dangerous man.

It didn’t do to dwell on that little revelation, though.

“Anyway,” I told Miss Barlow, “We ought to get started on your French.”

Her French was tolerable, a fact I had noted the day before when I had gotten only a few minutes alone to quiz the girl. She had an excellent accent, apparently due to her mother’s having learned the language from a Gallic grandmother. But when Miss Barlow read and tried to translate, she had very little confidence in her interpretations. And when she used the dictionary to aid her, she only grew flustered.

So I assigned her a stack of translations, then decided to tackle the hardest of them for her. If I could translate the dusty tome called “The French Heritage” myself, that might provide inspiration to my young charge.

Not an hour later, I was learning about France in quite a different manner.

“Paris is worth seeing, of course,” said Miss Courtenay, her voice hissing into my ears like a poisoned serpent. “But it doesn’t compare to London. Nothing does, my dear. You shall learn that soon enough.”

As my eyes fluttered and I began to wake up, I heard Miss Barlow’s response with a mix of apprehension and pleasure. “I should like to see all Europe,” she said. “Not just France, but Rome and Istanbul.”

“Oh,” Miss Courtenay said, with a laugh that was high and sharp. “Those savage men of Istanbul would eat you alive, my dear. If you take your future sister’s advice, you shall stay in London, and then in only the best of quarters. There are plenty of French people in London, you needn’t even bother crossing the channel. Especially since in these times, those barbaric French would not give your rank any respect. Quite the opposite, I am sure. No, darling, do stay in England.”

I tried not to move. It was the opposite of the advice I would have given. Since my girlhood, I had dreamed of seeing Paris, and the danger inherent in such a trip only made it seem more exciting. But unlike Miss Courtenay, I could not claim firsthand knowledge.

“You can learn French in London,” she was tittering. “At any rate, much more French than you are learning here! What a scandal.”

I felt her hand pointing at me as clearly as if I had been able to see it, and I flushed in spite of myself. I could imagine what the scene looked like. The diligent young girl with a well-worn French dictionary, the scheming young bride with her fancy little fan, and the would-be governess slumped in a sleepy heap over the table.

With a spy like Miss Courtenay about, my position was not safe. And though I hated to admit it, her analysis was not completely wrong. I had abandoned my charge in order to nap with my nose in a book. If I were to hold my position and get even a farthing of the wages that I had been promised, I would have to find a way to get more sleep.