“You make it seem like the cross was yours to bear, alone, do you really think you are brave? Let me tell you, who the brave one is, it’s each and every member of your family who didn’t slap you silly the first time you went awry, the first time you brushed your children aside for merriment. It’s your children, Mr. Lockwood, they are the courageous ones. Not you, you are nothing but a coward. And all for what? For your own selfish needs and whims, your own desire to be alone and free. Free from pain, was it? Or do you really want to leave a debauched legacy? Well are you free Mr. Lockwood? I don’t see any shackles on you; Are you free from the pain and happy, truly happy?……No passion is great enough for you to lose sight of what’s your duty, and the right thing to do. For that is not passion, but madness. You’re mad Mr. Lockwood, completely, utterly, mad.”
Thus begins the fiery odd relationship between Jane, the governess, and her employer, the widowed landowner John E. Lockwood. But Jane has her own crucible as well, and it’s hers to bear alone. Find out what Jane, The Governess, is made of. After all, True Worth has no regrets and takes no detours. Should you?
A movingly passionate and introspective character analysis of lonely people living through emotional abuse, grief and guilt.
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Targeted Age Group:: 18-45
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
The idea that there is more than one way to be happy in life.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Developing the male protagonist Lockwood was an after-thought. This is really the story of Jane, the wronged woman trying to get back on her feet and gather her sense of self.
Book Sample
Three women had been abused in his lifetime. All by him. Mary had suffered his love for her, put up with his insane detachment to the children, and endured the smothering affection. Truth be told, he had been the sick one, not her, and had killed her with all his rousing needs, fetching for her, inviting her, teasing her, tempting her. She had never asked him for anything. He never let her. She was always so charmed by whatever he did for her, that there had never been a need. But he wondered whether he could have done it differently, whether he could have been better with her. She had been his veil, his mask, who hid his conceit, his arrogance, his self-assured stuck up self, his intensity and his temper, and let the world only see his zest, his devotion, his remarkable infallibility. Whenever he overwhelmed her, whenever she tired of him, he thought he had won. He enjoyed his hold over her, the push, the inappropriateness of it all. And she had made light of this affliction, this lovable pest who lived with her, indeed she even enjoyed it. But now as he stood there in the big corridor, thirty feet away from the image the governess was staring at, the image he knew every curve and breath of so well, he wondered, he wondered whether Mary had ever regretted meeting him, whether she had ever tire of his dependency on her, whether she had ever wanted to say no or tell him that he was wrong. She loved him and maybe that was why she kept quiet. Just like everyone else in his life did around him. He was never told that he was in the wrong. Apparently he had a hold over those closest to him, the ones he loved the most; maybe they were too afraid of him to sanction him. At the end of it all, he had refused to let her go even in death. Flattering, he thought, it would be for any woman to have a man in service, to be this faithful, kneeling at the altar of a gone love, a woman who had vanquished his spirit, his mind, his life. But what had he given her? Left for her? What had he sacrificed for her? Did she make a humble man out of him? Was she able to make a balanced man out of him? Or had she simply suffered the consequences of being in love with a man who always had his way? In his heart of hearts, he could not decide who he should be sorry for, her or himself.
Then there was Nora. Darling Nora. She was selfish and delicious. In some ways she was just like him: unaffected by rules, infact condescending of them, and over-riding them rather than wasting her time thinking quizzing or questioning the way things were or should be. She was the kind of woman you could soar with and fall with, and not care which side you ended up in. She was also as far removed from anything he had ever grown up with as was possible. It was no accident that he found himself following her, intrigued by her. She was not Mary, she was not innocent, feminine or timid. She had all the aspersions that men had and all the desires men were supposed to have and the money and status to get away with it. There was a force in her that was almost predatory, but that was what made it exciting to be around her – a force he recognized in himself, though not envious of it, that air of forceful neediness and an equally repulsive detachment. She was unlike him in other respects. Her life did not begin with him nor would it end with him. She was a woman determined by her passions, just like him, and undone by them as well – again just like him. Since in their minds, they were valid enough, they felt no moral or holy obligation to be good, or better or saner than anyone else. There was no competition, no race to win. There was nothing to lose either. They were almost like those currents of the ocean that remain still, maintaining their ritualized rhythm, until something jolts them out of their stupor and makes them sit up, flow, dismember, move, think and evolve. For her, it had been this realization that she loved him like she had not loved another. That made her feel alive and afraid at the same time, breaking the slumber. It was when one started caring about things and people that the real trouble began. That was when one was thrust with responsibilities, worry and hope. He mattered to her. He knew it. But what had he given her in return? He had taken from her, all that glorious love, all those dizzyingly numbing hours, all that reckless gaiety and yet, she had been nothing more than a ceremonial memory. He felt awful. He had brought her into the chaos of his mind and body and spirit, made her work her way through him, convinced himself and her that that was what he wanted and yet he had failed to develop a taste for her, a habit of her beyond the present, or the ordinary. That was how cruel he had been to her.
And then there was This Woman. Standing by the picture, this Jane Pritchard Adams, this weak-boned woman who had been crushed beyond imagination and broken his slumber. She stood there proud and satisfied, complete even. He felt small. What had she not gone through? Everything she had held dear in her life, her father, her reputation, her marriage, her unborn child had been taken away from her. And yet she had maintained her dignity. This woman had shown more of a courage than he, the owner and obsessor, ever had. She had remained true to herself while he had let himself be governed by imitations and meanness. She had nothing to her name, no children to give hope, no person to call her own. And yet this wrecked woman showed more passion for things and people than him; was still more attuned to the needs of others, entirely unrelated to her or her benefits, than him; she felt more and yet was able to keep her wits about her and not run off with the first man who ever showed an errant interest in her or the first burst of money that luck would give her or be shamed into solitude or hold herself back; She was here, in a most subservient of positions with the most inept of incomes, and yet her only complaints had been for the benefit of him and his family. She could have been like other servants, the ones who never ceased with their demands, of better pay or more leaves on account of some misfortune or the other – usually of the concocted variety – or charity of some sort or stories of wrongs by fellow workers, and ofcourse she would not have been out of line to ask for some sort of guidance from his aunt if not him, any kind of legal assistance or to be introduced in better society or simply be given a throwaway dress at the end of the year, but she had kept her troubles to herself, and used her miniscule privileges to strengthen herself. Inspite of all his generosity towards her, he had not been kind to her, maybe in actions but never in demeanor or expression. He looked down upon her as if she were deficient, as if there was a speck of her he disapproved of, but if there were a speck, a blip, it was her stubbornness to make good and be good. Infuriating it was, and beguiling it remained, for he had trouble reconciling with a truly charitable soul. Everyone wanted something from the other. Those who did not made him even more suspicious. And she had wanted nothing more from him than what he was willing to give her. She put up with his roughness, all the putdowns because she knew she was better than him and no amount of money, manhood or spirit would change that. She knew who she was, that’s why she was never lost. For all his magnanimity in acknowledging her talents and usefulness, it was she who by her mere presence had brought order in his life. The woman who had nothing to give to anyone, for she owned nothing, and whatever she did possess was tattered or broken, and yet she had still managed to give him something, to show him a way. And she had done it without pampering him, without succumbing to him, without letting herself go. He felt very small.
He hated her for making him feel this way. He pitied himself for feeling this way. There was no escape from one’s self was there?
He had been in the corridor long before she stepped out of the study. She was as she always was. Prim, efficient, graceful. And yet he was seeing her for the first time. She had done something with her hair, it was tied a bit more loosely. She had taken a step on the stairs when she had stopped to look at his wife. She seemed deep in thought, engrossed by the face captured in the portrait. She was wearing what appeared to be a new dress, a green one with a crimson bodice, buttoned to the base of the neck. The cloth was of lower quality than that of the dresses she had worn before but atleast it was something new. He knew enough of current fashions – having been trained to be so while shopping for his aunt and significant others – to know that it was tasteful but minimalist, and magnified her poverty more than her preference. It had the rose motifs he had become familiar with, embroidered into the border of sleeves and back. Her face had more radiance than the last time he had seen her. There were less creases on her face, less gloom. She was certainly more transparent to him, her motivations, her leafless history made her all the more intriguing, inspiring. He had uncovered a part of her no one else knew. He was privy to the vile secrets not of her making. He was not proud of it. He certainly did not expect it and had made no aim towards it. And now, having found it, he could not shake off his guilt or her vulnerability. He had been in her house, her room and her garden. He had walked through the remnants of all that she had known and loved. He had deceived his way skimming over everything. He knew her better because of it but the price was more concealment. It was almost as if he had broken a nameless faceless trust all for his own amusement. And he could not speak of it to her or anyone else. He could not bring himself to call out to her or go away. But he had to start somewhere.
About the Author:
Noorilhuda has done her Masters in Psychology and Bachelors At Law. However, most of her career is rooted in the field of journalism. She is currently working as a broadcast producer and freelance journalist in Islamabad, Pakistan.
She usually writes on socio-political and security-related issues. A collection of her cover stories and other published pieces for leading English-language newspapers and monthlies is available at: https://www.scribd.com/noorilhuda
‘The Governess’ is her first foray into the world of fiction. The e-novel is available in all Amazon countries under the Kindle Select and Prime programs, including but not limited to U.S. and UK.
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