Anne liked Miss Oliver, and once she had adjusted, she liked Bath, too. There was always something doing, something new to think about, someone new to meet. She enjoyed the company of other girls of her own age, though she could never achieve any great intimacy with them. She was so in advance of them intellectually that they were a little reserved with her. And she never managed to get over the feeling that her residence in Bath was temporary, that at any moment Papa would come back for her. For the next five years she lived from letter to letter, waiting for the sound of wheels on the cobbles, the knock at the street door, which would herald the return to real life. Even now, in the moment of confusion between sleeping and waking, she would sometimes wonder if today would be the day. Then she would wake fully and remember, and the pain was fresh and bitter every time.
In 1797, Captain Peters had attained flag rank, and had been despatched up the Baltic on a diplomatic mission. He had never sailed in Northern waters before, and sent Anne excited letters describing the marvels of this new territory, the scenery and his trips ashore, the things he had seen, and the people he had met. He spoke of coming ashore again when this mission was over. Since the war began, in common with many other sailors, he had not set foot on English soil; he had not seen his daughter since he left her at the school. But when he had made his report to Their Lordships, he would surely be granted some period of leave, and then he would come straight to Bath.
He also enclosed a pair of pearl earrings for her seventeenth birthday.
My girl is growing up now, he wrote. Soon some other man will take my place in her heart. Well, that’s as it should be; and though I don’t suppose I’ll think him good enough for you, my Anne, I know enough of your good sense to be sure that you will not part with your precious self to anyone unworthy. So turn up your hair, my darling, and put these in your pretty ears, and enjoy the things that belong to youth; and think sometimes of one who never ceases to think of you, with blessings.
Anne put her hair up and wore the earrings at dinner on her birthday. Miss Oliver, who was very fond of Anne, ordered a special dinner, and allowed her and the other senior girls to taste wine for the first time. They drank a toast to her while she sat blushing under the unaccustomed attention, her brown eyes bright, her cheeks pink. There was no gentleman there to notice it. Anne knew no young men: for all her intellectual maturity, she was as innocent as a rose; and, on that day at least, as lovely.
It was on the following day that the letter arrived to say that her father had died of typhus at Riga six weeks before. Contrary winds had delayed his last letter to her; and it seemed somehow a bitter thing that he had already been dead a month, even as she read his happy words to her and unwrapped his birthday gift.
The mind does not retain a clear recollection of great anguish, only that it occurred. It was as well, Anne thought, or how should we ever survive? She remembered little of the darkness that overwhelmed her, or of the fear and loneliness that followed when, night after night, she would wake to the knowledge that she was alone in the world, that there was no single soul who bore any responsibility for her, who owed her any affection, care or protection. For the rest of her life, only her own labours, or cold charity, would keep her from starvation. It was too aweful a thought for a seventeen-year-old.
Miss Oliver, good friend that she was, kept Anne on at the school for a time, earning her keep by instructing the younger pupils, then helped her to find a position as a governess to a private family. Anne was without family or fortune, and it was the only profession open to her. She took up her position with the Murrays in April 1800, to teach Miss Murray and Miss Caroline, who were then fourteen and twelve years old.
Lady Murray was a very silly, ignorant woman, but there was nothing ill-natured about her, and her placid good humour was only ruffled if she were obliged to do something she didn’t like, or if her daughters were not sufficiently admired, or if her son Hartley’s extravagances were forced on her notice. Then she would grow vexed and fancy herself ill, and the house would be thrown into a turmoil. But she hadn’t the force of intellect to be really bad-tempered, and Anne discovered that if caught in time she was easily distracted into a better frame of mind.
The Miss Murrays, though inclined to be uppish, contrary, idle, and conceited, like most girls of their station and upbringing, were good-hearted enough underneath it all, and Anne soon learned the knack of coaxing and jollying them into doing what she wanted. Accomplishments fit for the drawing-room were all that was required for them, but for her own pride she extended the frontiers a little, and the Miss Murrays were tricked into learning quite a number of things more than their friends and contemporaries.
Life in the schoolroom jogged along comfortably for most of the time. There was no conflict of authority: any attempt by the girls to enlist their mother’s support against their governess met with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘For heaven’s sake, Maria, your father pays Miss Peters a handsome salary to know best about these things.’ The Miss Murrays were as fond of their governess as it was in them to be, and occasionally they even allowed themselves to enjoy her company, when there was no entertainment to compete with it.
Anne had little to do with the male division of the family. Sir Ralph never noticed lesser beings unless they annoyed him; and though Mr Hartley had liked playing practical jokes on her when she first arrived – putting a frog into her bed or a handful of gentles into her reticule – he soon tired of it and turned to other sports, after which he acknowledged her only by a nod of the head if they happened to pass on the stairs.
So she settled in at Margaret Street. Her room was comfortable, the servants treated her politely, and she ate with the family unless they had guests. She even found something to admire in Lady Murray. As the daughter of a self-made man, her ladyship hated to see money wasted, which was the principal cause of her dissatisfaction with her son, who liked doing nothing better. She ran her household efficiently, and though she liked show, she was rarely misled by the tawdry, having and instinctive understanding of value for money.
Her manner towards Anne, though offhand, was never insolent. Indeed, she boasted to her acquaintance of Miss Peters’s intelligence and good family.
‘Indeed,’ Lady Murray would say, nodding over the tea-things, ‘if only the poor thing had any money, or was a little more handsome, she might have made quite a good match, for her mama, you know, was a Miss Strickland, and related to the Talbots of Northallerton.’
Lady Murray soon began to call on her for all sorts of extra services. Anne gradually took on the duties of secretary, sorting and reading her correspondence, accepting and refusing invitations, and replying to letters at Lady Murray’s dictation. Lady Murray liked novels, so when there was no company in the evening, Anne was required to sit by her mistress and read to her, or, when even the effort of listening was too great, to play cards. Lady Murray discovered that Miss Peters’s needlework was superior, and began to give her those delicate little tasks like repairing the hem of the lace ball gown, embroidering a silk bed gown, or trimming Lady Murray’s chemises.
Anne accepted it all with a good grace, for though she had a great deal of pride, she also craved human warmth. She had no home, no family, no human beings on whom to centre her life, apart from her employers. So whether ordering the dinner or arranging the flowers, preventing Miss Murray from buying the violently purple silk shawl she saw at the Pantheon Bazaar, or obliging Miss Caroline to practise her piece rather than sit staring out of a window, she entered wholeheartedly into the life of Margaret Street, and tried to become indispensible..