She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands.
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