The two children plodded along ahead of her. Overfed and underexercised, they did not even run like normal children. Cyril made a dark, squat blot on the grass. His legs were like sausages stuffed into his tight trousers. Abigail, wearing a blue velvet coat – Marianne knew she would be blamed for every spot on that coat – emitted squeals of terror as her brother pursued her. She had reason to be afraid. Cyril had no imagination, his routine never varied, and both Abigail and Marianne knew what it would be. First he would trip his sister, then he would fall on her, inflicting as many bruises as he could before someone dragged him off. If scolded, he would claim that the fall had been an accident.
The fall duly followed. Abigail's shrieks rose to high heaven. Marianne caught Cyril by the collar and jerked him to his feet. No wonder Mrs. Pettibone insisted on a young governess. Cyril was a solid mass of bone and fat.
As she lifted him, he kicked out at her. This was another unvarying part of the performance, and Marianne had learned to watch for it, though not before her shins had acquired several livid bruises.
She stepped briskly aside and Cyril, caught off balance, landed with a thud on his well-padded posterior. Abigail was still on her back, kicking like an overturned beetle and screaming like an engine whistle.
Marianne looked about for a weapon. Really, it was like dealing with a pair of mad dogs! They had reached the edge of a small copse of trees that bounded one side of the property, and although Mrs. Pettibone inspected this grove daily and lectured the gardener about any negligence, there were sometimes a few fallen branches to be found. On this occasion she was lucky. She was able to pick up a stout stick, which she held in one hand as she addressed Cyril.
"Get up and leave your sister alone."
Like a dog, Cyril had an instinctive skill in judging how far he could go. Something in Marianne's voice and expression – not to mention the stout stick – told him he had lost this round. He got to his feet, eyeing her balefully, and Marianne knew she would have to be on her guard the rest of the day.
She lifted Abigail up. The little girl's eyes were quite dry, but her nose was running. It usually was running. The concept of allergies was far in the future, so Marianne had attributed Abigail's running rose to general ghastliness, and indeed, who is to say she was wrong? She wiped the nose, dusted off the blue velvet coat as best she could, and they went on, with Abigail clinging close to her side.
Sunlight filtered through the branches onto the well-trimmed path they followed. Nothing on Mrs. Pettibone's property was allowed to grow naturally; even the undergrowth was restrained. Yet the grove did shelter animal life, the only place on the property, where it could live, and Mrs. Pettibone did not allow traps to be set because of the children. For this reason the grove was Cyril's favorite walk. He was too slow to catch a normal bird or animal, but occasionally he would find one that was sick or hurt; and in spring – oh, bliss! – there were often nestlings fallen to the ground.
On the first day of Marianne's employment they had gone walking in this grove. Cyril had run ahead of her while she was trying to console the howling Abigail – and nursing the pain of her bruised calf. When she caught up with him, he had found a small animal. There had not been enough left of it for her to identify its species; in fact, after the first appalled glance she had turned aside and been sick, not because of the condition of the creature – as a country girl she had seen animals mangled in various unpleasant ways – but because of the fact that Cyril had obviously enjoyed mangling it.
Now she quickened her pace slightly, dragging the reluctant Abigail with her, as Cyril ran ahead. She was so tired, physically and emotionally, that even slow movement was an effort. With incredulous disbelief she remembered spring mornings when she had run like a deer through the fresh green grass. It seemed like centuries ago.
The angry cries of the birds warned her of what was happening, and suddenly, quite without warning, a great wave of fury swept away her fatigue. Dropping Abigail, she bounded forward, around the curve in the path that had hidden Cyril from her sight.
The bird was a robin. How Cyril had managed to catch it she never knew; perhaps it was old and sick and ready to die… but not at Cyril's hands. Its breast heaved and its beak opened and closed as Cyril jerked the feathers from its tail.
Marianne was on him so quickly he had no chance to escape. In the relief of allowing the suppressed rage of days to show, she felt abnormally alert; as she plucked the bird from his hands she thought it did not appear much hurt, and she placed it carefully to one side before twisting her hand in Cyril's collar and dragging him down the path, far enough from the bird so that no carefully calculated kick could strike it.
What she did next was done quite deliberately. She stood still for several long moments, automatically avoiding Cyril's kicks, while she contemplated her intentions. Then she sat down on a picturesque, moss-covered log, and arranged Cyril over her knee.
Country bred, she was much stronger than her fragile appearance led people to expect, and on this occasion anger lent power to her muscles. The stick came down with a thoroughly satisfactory thwack on the seat of Cyril's trousers; and the first blow astonished him so much that he stopped squirming, so the succeeding blows landed right on target. In an era where regular caning, on the naked backside, was an accepted part of educational training, the beating she gave Cyril was trivial, but he shrieked as if he were being skinned alive. He was unaccustomed to physical chastisement and, like most bullies, did not even try to defend himself against a stronger opponent.
How long Marianne would have gone on spanking him if nothing had happened to stop her is debatable. However, the interruption occurred before she had gotten her anger out of her system. A cry of outrage, louder even than Cyril's howls, echoed through the grove. Marianne, who had been watching the dust rising from Cyril's trousers with genuine enjoyment, looked up to see that she had an audience – not only Mrs. Pettibone, but a strange gentleman.
Marianne released Cyril, who rolled away like a hedgehog, and rose to face her employer.
"I must ask you to accept my notice," she said coldly. "Effective immediately."
"Notice? Notice?" The words were barely intelligible; Mrs. Pettibone – as she was to tell her husband later – was gasping with motherly indignation. She took a few deep whooping breaths and recovered herself sufficiently to continue. "You give me notice? I give you one hour in which to remove yourself! How dare you, you… I shall give you in charge! Not an hour, not five minutes
… Cyril, darling, come to Mama."
Cyril started to snivel. He crawled to his mother.
"She hit me. She beat me, Mama. I'm bleeding, Mama. Cyril hurt!"
Mrs. Pettibone caught Cyril to the maternal bosom. Fixing Marianne with one last, terrible look, she swept away. She had forgotten Abigail. The child stood with one finger in her mouth for a few seconds; then she scuttled off after her mother.
Reaction left Marianne shaking. She dropped back onto the log. What had she done? Back to London, with its manifold terrors, and the specter of Bagshot hovering over her.
"It was worth it," she said aloud.
"I certainly hope so," said a voice. "I have never seen bridges more thoroughly burned."
After the first quick look, Marianne had completely forgotten the strange gentleman, who had effaced himself behind a tree trunk, from which vantage point he had watched the confrontation with considerable interest. She had thought herself alone; the shock of hearing a stranger made her start. An even greater shock ran through her when the gentleman stepped out from behind the tree, and she recognized him. The Alhambra, the table to the right of the stage, on the last night… She had thought him handsome then – a dark, Byronic hero.