When I Was Governess At Christie Hall (NYCM 2023 Rhyming Story Round 1)
This year, I’ve been participating in a variety of creative writing contests as a way to improve my craft. Under the time pressure (often only 24-48 hours, up to a week) and stringent word limits, I became judicious with my vocabulary and creative with my sentence structures. All these different challenges have been excellent learning experiences to elevate my long-form writing projects. Of course, some part of me also wanted to compete in these contests for the recognition—to prove to myself that I can write stories which receive acclaim without my name attached to them. Although I haven’t won any, my strong performance has still been encouraging.
As we close out 2023, I want to share some contest pieces I’m particularly proud of. (Many of the contest stories I wrote ended up in my zine collections, which you can purchase digital or physical copies of through my website.) The story I’m posting today was written for Round 1 of the NYC Midnight Rhyming Story Challenge. I had a week to craft a 600-word rhyming story with the following constraints: the genre of historical fiction, the theme “affluence,” and the emotion “underappreciated.” My story placed 4th among my group, which means I get to advance to Round 2 this weekend. If that story turns out well then you’ll see it on my blog in a few months. And if it doesn’t… You’ll still get to see many more stories from me!
Cover PHOTO BY dkatana on PixabayWhen I Was Governess At Christie Hall
I step inside of gilded Christie Hall,
Ancestral faces in oil on the wall.
My leather valise, in one small hand clutched,
Up the stairs—my room, simple, nothing much.
In the parlour, Mrs. Christie, alone,
Says Mr. Christie is often not home.
I compliment her taste, “Lovely decor.”
She finds it tiresome, the upkeep a chore.
“Where are the children?” My eyes scan the room.
“Outside, playing in the garden til noon.”
The young Christies, ages eight, six, and five—
A long stick in eight’s hand, poking a hive.
“Goodness!” I shout, confiscating their toy,
“Go wash up for lunch, be good little boys.”
They observe me with scorn, dirt on each face,
Then run inside, everything’s a race.
Henry, eldest, manages to get first.
Samuel, middle, trips, cries out in hurt.
Edwin, youngest, always finishing last,
Ignores his poor brother, bolting right past.
When everyone is seated for lunch,
Limp Mrs. Christie speaks not even once.
She does not ask whether Samuel’s alright;
Makes no attempt to stop spirited fights.
The boys love to play games; they hide, I seek.
The former governess? Gone in a week.
With siblings waiting for me to send pounds,
I brace myself to chase the boys around.
One week passes, Mr. Christie returns,
But his children remain out of concern.
Business is booming, he is quite proud.
Fills the parlour with men; wives not allowed.
In the salon, sipping tea with ladies,
Mrs. Christie talks of making pastries.
A picture of grace, bound in a corset,
Her form in the kitchen, I’ve not seen yet.
But then, I infer the meaning unsaid:
Mr. Christie, not faithful in bed.
The other wives all attempt to console,
“Such things happen when we women get old.”
He says sorry—gifts her a pearl necklace.
She cannot say or do something reckless.
The household, a pain to run by herself,
“It’s not easy, even with all the help.”
I swallow, keep my burning pride in check;
Without me, I know she would be a wreck.
In the morning, Mr. Christie a grump,
Complains that his wife resembles a lump.
Mrs. Christie, while filling his teacup,
Promises, next time, to be more dressed up.
“Of course.” She must, for the family’s sake,
Else, their honour will be dragged with a rake.
Next month, a soirée to be put on here,
An affair to outshine all of their peers.
Preparations are to commence at once.
“Planning is simple if you’re not a dunce.”
Mrs. Christie does not utter protest,
Delegates her tasks to me and the rest.
Wrestling the boys, penning invitations,
I dream of reaching the Christies’ station.
Each day, always catered to by others,
Who would not want the life of a mother?
Yet, this existence, a sadness to it,
I do not envy the Christies one bit.
During the party, on her husbands’ arm,
Smiling Mrs. Christie puts on the charm.
Guests compliment her dress, the food, the wine.
I find a rare moment to calm my mind.
In a corner I stand. Listen. Observe:
Mr. Christie ogling young womens’ curves.
Mrs. Christie—cheerful, ignorance feigned—
Acts how she must, keeps the marriage sustained.
For three years, I watched her greet, shake, and nod.
Each time, her performance stuck me as odd.
A beautiful, bubbly puppet on strings,
Being pulled by the man who gave her a ring.
I cared for the boys until I was grown,
Then married off, had children of my own.
Now my husband’s actions make me recall
When I was governess at Christie Hall.