Read Another Governess / The Least Blacksmith: A Diptych for Free Online Page B

drawing room is delighting to guests. It is filled with fine high sounds. There is no smell. There is a smell, but guests do not notice a smell. A lady does not notice smells. Tamworth must not study smells. Tamworth must study the different sounds of the strings. That is how a lady does not notice the squealing. When the wind comes from the dairy, from the fields of the farmer, from the lanes of the town, the open ditches of the town, the coal bins of the town, the earth closets of the town, when the wind comes down the staircase, across the mess on the staircase, from the nursery, from the crib in the nursery, there is a smell, but a lady does not say, There is a smell. A lady sings between her lips, which are open only slightly. She does not say, There is pus in the milk. There is ocher and water in the milk. There is piss in the paint. There is a bucket of piss behind the curtains. There is a drawing Master with my daughter. They are behind the curtains. There is squealing. They are squealing in the curtains. The guests are in the drawing room. They cannot see behind the curtains. Only from the orchard could they see behind the curtains, through the glass to the backside of the curtains. A lady pours the milk from the pitcher in the tea. I have failed in my lessons to Tamworth. Smells and rocks are not for a lady. Squeals are not for a lady. Tamworth must listen to the sound of strings. She must put her ear to the hole in my foot. She puts her ear to the hole in my ear and listens for the chiming, the pealing, the thin sound of metal striking metal in the hole.

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    I walk to the crib and touch the iron rails with my fingers. I look down at the crib, at the rags in the crib. The rags are piled very high. The squealing is very loud. I put my hand in the crib. I apply pressure to the rags. The rags compress. The rags compress. They are cold and damp. Nothing moves in the rags. Nothing moves. There is squealing. Give it ragbaby, says Tamworth. She gets out of her chair and crawls on the carpet. Her skirt does not cover her thighs. Spot crawls after Tamworth on the carpet. He pulls Tamworth's skirt. Ragbaby, says Spot, Ragbaby, but it is Tamworth's skirt, the folds of her skirt. I take the knife from the tray and stroke the rails of the crib with the knife, so that they make a high, fine sound, and I sing a note that is louder than the squealing, a high fine note. Make this note, I say to Tamworth. She struggles with Spot on the carpet. He has taken off his shirt to truss her hands. He trusses so her hands are palm to palm, and she slips her hands free. She shrieks. She hits with her hands. She kicks a leg of the rocking horse. She kicks a leg of the table. Spot laughs. His cheek spiders with cracked veins from the hit. He kneels on her thighs. Spot does not know how to truss. He does not know knots. He must study knots. Boys must learn knots. The nursery is damp and the smell is stronger. I drop the knife in the crib. I back away from the crib. I feel Tamworth's damp hand close around my ankle. I look down at her face. Her hair has come loose from her braids. The colorless hairs stick to the wet skin of her face, the pink veins that raise the skin of her face. The walls of the nursery come closer. They come closer. The nursery is damp and cold. A nursery is a crib with high walls and a lid. It is a crib of damp stone. I crouch. I cover my face with my arms. I am pushed against Tamworth and Spot. I am pushed against Tamworth and Spot by the walls of the nursery. They breathe hard. They move beneath me.

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    The tray is empty. The pitcher is empty. Flakes fall from the corners of Spot's mouth. White flakes fall. Tamworth rubs deposits from her teeth with the hem of her dress. The deposits are white. That is where the milk has gone. It has dried on Tamworth's teeth. It has dried in the corners of Spot's mouth. Children need milk. Children need milk to grow. On the carpet, there is narrow-necked bottle. It has a rubber