I missed out on the rest of my father’s master plan for our chess game, as something roused me fro my restless sleep. I woke with the opposite problem that I had faced the day before. Instead of being exhausted, I was wide awake, and the sun had only started to come up. I tried to remember why the dream had been about my papa and chess, and what this was meant to say about my present troubles, but I could not think straight.

At the very least, I could be sure that my sanctuary had not been violated. I could tell by the wax that the old man had dripped down the hall that he had come, tried the door, found it locked, and erroneously concluded that the room was unoccupied.

I knew that my first step had to be to wash my face, and so I went back to the room that had been assigned to me and did so.

That room was quite different. There was wax all about. Clearly, the old man had been there, fumbling about in the room with his candle. And, I reasoned, probably with an organ that greatly resembled a candlestick, all primed for invasion. Even if he could not remember the names of anyone in his family, he appeared to be very well able to remember where the young women of the household were sleeping. And that was rather alarming.

I sank back into my own bed, or rather the bed that I had been given when I first arrived, and drew a hand over my face.

The defenses that I was using were not going to work forever. Surprisingly enough, the man was strong enough to break down doors. And eventually, he would break down the door to the spare bedroom and look for me in there. If I tried to choose another room, I would risk exposing myself to the whole household, and I would almost certainly be forced to make a bed in a room that did not have a locking door.

One of the best steps to take would have been to ask for help. And yet I had already asked for help and gotten nowhere. Mrs. Barlow, though she was willing to great lengths to protect her daughter and to shield her future daughter-in-law from any discomfort, had already said that she would not protect me. Miss Barlow was concerned, but could offer nothing. And Mr. Luke Barlow seemed to feel that his grandfather was simply old, and that the family was doing nothing wrong.

I tried to think of another way out of my difficulties that did not involve leaving the family, probably without a reference. Or would Mrs. Barlow give me a reference? She would not want me exposing anything that I had seen, of course, but I was not in a position to blackmail her. And she did sincerely wish that Miss Barlow have more formal tutelage before she came out. Probably she was just waiting about for the old man to die, so that she would have more money and everyone could abandon Woodshire. After all, waiting for the “right” person to die seemed to be one of the primary activities of rich families.

I rubbed at my eyes. Perhaps I was also waiting for the old man to die. Did that mean I was starting to think like a member of a rich family, with all of the greed and lack of decency that went along with that status?

I did not answer my own question. I could not, as without warning, I fell asleep on the bed.

When I awoke, I was both starving and late to breakfast. It seemed most expedient to solve one of those problems, so after a hasty attempt at a respectable toilette, I arrived at the breakfast table. All of the women were already seated and beginning to eat, though both the old Mr. Barlow and young Mr. Luke Barlow were notably absent.

Miss Courtenay, of course, was dressed in an impeccably crafted light green day dress and her hair framed her face beautifully. I wondered why it was that she seemed completely protected from the old granddad while I was left to fend for myself. If the house was a primitive jungle, I wondered how the Barlows had managed to give Miss Courtenay the sturdiest little hut while not even bothering to worry that their governess might fall prey to the same man.

“It is quite late, Miss Quinton,” said Miss Courtenay. “I hope that you are well?”

She hoped no such thing, and we both knew it. I had no answer for her question, for spending an entire night trying to stay safe from a predator does not do wonders either for one’s complexion or for one’s peace of mind.

“I am quite well, thank you,” I told her, helping myself to a slice of toast.

“Well, if you are well, you might think of coming to breakfast a little earlier,” she simpered, taking a sip of her tea.

“If you are quite well in your mind, you might think of extending a little more courtesy,” I said, unable to keep biting my tongue for the woman.

I saw Miss Barlow suppress a smile. Her mother, however, did not seem quite so amused.

“Miss Quinton,” said Mrs. Barlow, “I am sure Miss Courtenay only means to put you on your guard. I am quite sure that you shall be able to solve this trouble with punctuality if you only apply yourself to the problem.”

“I am to fix the problem myself, then?” I asked her, genuinely amazed and almost unable to be angry. “Why should I even be on my guard?”

I was on my guard about the nighttime attacks, of course, but that was a different matter entirely.

“Because you want to keep your position,” said Miss Courtenay. “And so would any young woman in your place. I am quite sure that employment at Woodshire is most coveted.”

I only gaped at her. “You feel that I should not come late to breakfast, or I might be sacked?”

Mrs. Barlow cringed at this, but did not disagree.

“Why yes, my dear,” broke in Miss Courtenay, who could not have been more than two years my senior but apparently had decided that she was allowed to prematurely take on a matronly role in view of her upcoming marriage. “After all, the best way to start the day is with the discipline of early waking and exercise. I have already been out for a turn this morning, and I can assure you that such a habit does wonders for my figure.”

I knew that my only two choices at that point were to attack Miss Courtenay with my fists or to run away from the ladies at the table. Miss Courtenay was despicable, but Mrs. Barlow should have known better, as she knew that I was having to fend off the old man at night. She was probably trying to keep this from Miss Courtenay, true, but she could at least have acknowledged that I was not sleeping in for my own amusement. But instead she sat there simpering, saying stupid things about punctuality. I felt at once that everyone wished me ill for different reasons, though even through my tears I knew that Miss Lillian Barlow was horrified by the whole scene.

And as I rushed out into the garden, I realized with a sinking feeling that it was my birthday. I was twenty one, scared, exhausted, and absolutely sick of my new position.

Perhaps it did not bode well for the year to come.