The Taste of Knowledge

Chapter 181

The next morning, Freya awoke slowly, the sunlight filtering through her bedroom curtains feeling unusually gentle. Her throat felt a little scratchy, and a dull ache throbbed behind her eyes, but the overwhelming terror of the previous day had receded into the hazy realm of a nightmare.

Elsie, the young maid who had bravely alerted her parents, was sitting quietly by her bedside. A small pitcher and a goblet rested on a nearby table.

“Good morning, Miss Freya,” Elsie said softly, a kind smile on her pale face. “Lady Amelia… that is, your Mother and Father asked me to look in on you.”

“Elsie,” Freya whispered, her voice hoarse. “Where… where are Mother and Father?”

“They are just outside, in the sitting room, Miss Freya,” Elsie replied, rising to pour a little water from the pitcher into the goblet. “Having a quiet word, they are. Would you care for a drink, Miss Freya? Your throat sounds quite dry.” She offered the goblet to Freya.

Freya nodded, pushing herself up, taking a small sip. The memory of her parents’ faces, their fear for her, returned with a pang. She had to tell them again how sorry she was.

She slipped out of bed, Elsie helping her into her dressing gown and slippers. As she approached the sitting room door, she heard voices – her father’s, low and firm, and Mrs. Gable’s, shaky and pleading.

“…cannot overlook such a lapse, Mrs. Gable. The potential consequences… they are too dire. I made the terms of your engagement in this household abundantly clear. Freya’s safety is paramount, above all else.”

“But m’lord, I… I only dozed for a moment! She’s usually so good, she never wanders…”

Freya pushed the door open. Her father stood near the fireplace, his back to her. Mrs. Gable was before him, her face crumpled with tears, her hands twisting her apron. Her mother sat on the settee, her expression pained.

“Therefore,” Lord Alaric continued, his voice heavy with regret but unyielding, “I must dismiss you from my service. You will be given a generous provision, of course, enough to see you comfortable for a time, and passage back to your village…”

“No!” Freya cried out, rushing into the room. “Father, no! Don’t send Nanny away!”

Lord Alaric turned, surprise and something akin to weariness in his crimson eyes. “Freya, this is an adult matter. Mrs. Gable…”

“It wasn’t her fault, Father!” Freya insisted, tears welling in her own eyes as she ran to stand beside the weeping nanny. “It was my fault! I was playing, and I saw the door, and I just… I just went in. Nanny didn’t know! She was counting! Please, Father, don’t send her away! She’s the only one who plays with me all the time! She tells me stories, and she sings silly songs, and she helps me with my dolls! Please!”

Lady Iris rose and came to stand beside her husband, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Alaric, darling,” she said softly, “Mrs. Gable has served us faithfully for seven years. Never a mistake, never a moment’s worry until yesterday. And Freya is right… it was a child’s innocent misadventure, not a deliberate dereliction of duty on Mrs. Gable’s part.”

Freya looked up at her father, her small face earnest, her crimson eyes pleading. “Please, Father? I promise I’ll never, ever go near that bad place again. I’ll be so good. But please don’t send Nanny away. I need her.”

Lord Alaric looked from Freya’s tear-streaked face to his wife’s imploring gaze, then to the utterly desolate Mrs. Gable. The weight of his responsibility, the terror of Amelia’s potential wrath, warred with the simple, heartfelt plea of his daughter and the memory of Mrs. Gable’s long, devoted service. He sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. His wife’s hand tightened on his arm, a silent message of support.

He looked down at Mrs. Gable. “This… this was a failing of monumental proportions, Mrs. Gable. One that nearly cost us… everything.” His voice was still stern, but the unyielding edge had softened almost imperceptibly. “However…” He paused, his gaze returning to Freya. “Given your past record of diligence, and Freya’s… intervention…” He looked at Lady Iris, who gave him a small, encouraging nod.

“This is your absolute last chance, Mrs. Gable,” Lord Alaric said, his voice firm again, but without the earlier finality. “One more lapse, one more moment where Freya is not under your direct, vigilant supervision, and there will be no further discussion. Do you understand?”

Mrs. Gable, who had been bracing for the final blow, stared at him, her mouth agape. Then, comprehension dawned. Tears streamed down her face, but these were tears of overwhelming relief. She sank to her knees, clutching at Lord Alaric’s trousers.

“Oh, m’lord! Thank you, m’lord! Thank you, Lady Iris! And thank you, my sweet Miss Freya!” she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. “You won’t regret this! I swear, I’ll never take my eyes off her again! She’ll be safer than the Crown Jewels! Thank you, thank you!”

Freya smiled through her own tears, a small, watery ray of sunshine in the dim, oppressive room. For a moment, at least, a tiny piece of her frightening new world had been set right.

Mrs. Gable, still on her knees, finally rose, her face blotchy but her eyes shining with a fierce, renewed determination. She reached out and pulled Freya into a tight, warm hug. “Oh, my brave little lamb,” she whispered, her voice still thick with unshed tears. “You saved this old nanny’s bacon, you truly did. Thank you, Miss Freya. From the bottom of my heart.”

Lord Alaric nodded, his expression still weary but softened. “See that you keep your word, Mrs. Gable. Vigilance. Always.” He then turned to Lady Iris. “Come, my dear. Let us leave them be for a while. I believe we both require a moment of… quiet contemplation.” Lady Iris, her own eyes showing the strain of the morning, nodded in agreement, and they quietly exited the room, leaving Freya and Mrs. Gable alone.

Once they were gone, Mrs. Gable gently led Freya to a small chair by the window. “Now then, my little Starlight,” she said, her voice regaining some of its familiar warmth, though a tremor still lingered. “Let’s get these tangles out of your hair. You look like you’ve been wrestling with a badger in your sleep.”

She picked up a silver-backed brush and began to gently work through Freya’s long, dark locks. The rhythmic strokes were soothing.

“Nanny,” Freya said softly, looking at Mrs. Gable’s reflection in the vanity mirror. “I’m so sorry. For yesterday. For getting lost and making everyone scared. And for nearly getting you sent away.”

Mrs. Gable paused in her brushing, her kind face serious. “Now you listen to me, Miss Freya,” she said, her tone firm but gentle. “What happened yesterday… that was my failing. I’m your nanny. It’s my solemn duty to keep you safe, to know where you are every blessed second. I dozed off, child, even for a moment, and that was wrong of me. Terribly wrong in a house like this. You were just being a child, playing a game. The fault was mine, and mine alone, for not being watchful enough.”

Freya looked down at her hands, fiddling with the sash of her dressing gown. “But Father was so angry with you.”

“And rightly so, lamb. Rightly so.” Mrs. Gable resumed her brushing. Inwardly, however, her thoughts churned. *A house like this…* Who was this Lady Amelia, truly? She’d initially heard whispers among the staff upon their arrival, some referring to Lady Amelia in relation to Lord Alaric, but the term had been vague. 

Then, young Miss Freya herself had called her ‘sister.’ But Amelia was clearly a grown woman, and Lord Alaric seemed far too young to be her father. Yet, what kind of relation, what authority, did she wield that inspired such abject terror in the Lord of the estate and his Lady? What power made a grown man, a nobleman, shrink in her presence? 

Mrs. Gable had served in noble households before, seen her share of eccentricities and stern masters, but nothing like this. Nothing that felt so… unnatural. She’d never questioned her employers before, not truly. A nanny knew her place. But the absolute prohibition of the West Wing, the palpable dread that clung to Amelia’s name… a flicker of uncharacteristic curiosity, sharp and unsettling, pierced through her usual deference. Why was that wing so forbidden? What secrets did it hold that could make a kind man like Lord Alaric look so utterly defeated? The questions, unbidden and unwelcome, began to take root in her mind.