“My good woman, you must impart your knowledge from abroad on the children,” said widowed father Edward Tillings, desperate for the aid of a gentle, yet firm, feminine hand in raising his three young wards. “Yet we shan’t have them speaking like those wastrel Frenchmen too often. I entreat you, only speak French to the children on Tuesdays.”

“Wednesdays and Fridays are for practicing the piano, and a bit of arithmetic each day should do,” added Tillings, showing the governess to her thin cot across the hall from the children’s nursery. “Please read aloud to them each night before bed, stories which are wholesome and enriching for the mind. But do remember, French literature is only suited for Tuesdays.”

“Now, children, be good for Miss Brimsworth,” commanded Tillings, drawn away by the obligations of his business affairs at the port and a fox-hunting expedition later that day. “Miss, I will return in a fortnight’s time to see to the children’s progress.”

At press time, the housekeeper was never to set foot in that locked room.