There was one stone-cold moment when Jane thought the girl had literally vanished. Then she heard small feet pounding on the staircase and her heart came stuttering back to life. Jane took off from the room, shoes skidding as she hurried after Dorie. Most unladylike, she thought to herself as she hiked her skirts up to better maneuver the slippery stairs. Small wonder so many governesses had given up. It wasn’t the fey after all—it was the lack of dignity.
Jane chased the small creature out the back door. Her first shout of “Dorie” had gone completely unheeded, so she saved her breath and remaining shreds of dignity to run silently after the child, who was running pell-mell toward the black forest. The old saying sprung sharply to mind: Don’t go into the woods past the last ray of sunlight. Her iron mask threatened to slide around her head as she ran, so she held it with one hand and grabbed her skirts with the other. Jane pounced on Dorie about ten feet from the edge of the clearing. Her foot slid as she caught Dorie’s shoulders—Jane stumbled to one knee, nearly knocking Dorie off her feet.
So much for dignity. Jane held Dorie there, panting. “You are not to go into the forest,” said Jane firmly. “It is not safe. Your father would be worried.” She looked past Dorie into the dark woods, but saw nothing but trees, trees and the flat black shapes between them. Sunlight did not reach very far in these woods.
Dorie turned under her arms and twisted to look at Jane. With Jane on her knees, the two were nearly at eye level. “Father?” Dorie said wistfully, and Jane felt a small tender twist at her tone.
Jane squeezed Dorie’s shoulders. Through the layers of skirts her knees turned damp in the grass. “Your father is very busy,” she said gently. “He can’t always be around to play.”
Dorie’s shoulders slumped. She pulled away from Jane and went slowly back toward the house, kicking stiff legs through the clumps of wet grass. Jane heard a sharp clicking sound—Dorie clacking her tongue in frustration, in time to her steps.
Crossness rose as Jane stood and followed—but it was for Dorie this time. Where was her father, and why couldn’t he come down more often for Dorie?
The hair rose on the back of her neck as a low voice said behind her, “I thought she was going to run straight into the forest.”
Her dress suddenly seemed too warm for the foggy day, all hot and constricted around her wrists and throat. “She might have,” Jane said, and tried to sound calm and firm, a wise and skilled governess with no grass stains on her skirt. “But I caught her.”
The faintest smile hovered around the corner of his mouth—she identified it and it was gone. “I saw the tackle. You see you are our soldier; I hired you for your trim fighting form.”
“Father!” said Dorie, and she ran to him, even as Jane tried to puzzle out whether she should be flattered or made cross by the comparison.
Mr. Rochart dropped a kiss on Dorie’s head and steered the small girl back to the house. “Do not go in the forest, love,” he reminded her firmly. Dorie rubbed her head on his leg and did not answer. “Now march quietly back to your rooms with Miss Eliot.” Dorie went as bidden, twisting back every few feet to check that her father was following.
“You are settling in?” he said. “Your rooms are sufficient; the fire is lit, the floors swept; all ets are ceteraed?”
“They are,” affirmed Jane, suddenly at a loss. She offered, “The dinners are very good. Creirwy is an excellent cook.” Her fingers twisted in her skirt. Weren’t there things she had wanted to say? Truths to ask, riddles to unriddle? And all she could do was mouth bland nothings about the food.
She fell silent, and so was he, as they trailed Dorie up the stairs. He walked them to Dorie’s rooms as if escorting them back to a cell they should not have left, Jane thought.
He stayed in the hall, clearly not intending to come in. Dorie looked up at him with big eyes. Jane was sure she read behind that blank face the desire for her father to stay. If only some of that hero worship could be transferred to Jane! Then perhaps Dorie would try reading and adding and using her hands.…
Using her hands.
Lunch had been delivered while they were outside. Stewed beans and bowls of applesauce sat on two trays by Dorie’s room. Seized with a sudden impulse, Jane said, “We were going to try using a spoon today. Perhaps you’d like to watch.”
“Of course,” Mr. Rochart murmured. He did not come over the threshold, seemed poised to flee. But he stood, watching, and Dorie looked up at him expectantly.
“We’re going to try applesauce,” Jane said, and she set one of the blue-rimmed stoneware bowls in front of Dorie. She used the spoon to demonstrate eating a bite herself, then she held it out to the girl. “Now you try,” she said.
Dorie looked sideways up at her father, as if deciding whether to humor Jane. Mr. Rochart just stood, waiting patiently, so Jane carefully took Dorie’s arm and showed her how to lever her spoon into the applesauce and up to her mouth.