Endings and Beginnings

There is a question that pervades even as times change and grow and regress. In every household, in every relation, the inevitably of separation cannot be ignored. The art of the goodbye is not one that can be mastered, but is all the more likely simply endured to the best of one’s ability. Therefore, the question remains: is it easier to leave or be left?

For as long as Elizabeth Griffith–affectionately referred to as Ms. Griffith by her charges–was a governess, she had almost never experienced the former part of said question. The Williamsons had a lovely home in the south of England, teeming with beautiful children, six of them to be exact. They were everything that Ms. Griffith had never hoped for and became everything that she could have ever wanted.

Charlie, the eldest, had been but six years old when Ms. Griffith arrived. He was unruly and rather unsightly, a frizz of red hair bursting from the top of his head. He particularly disliked lessons, much to Ms. Griffith’s dismay, and took to screaming and crying until they were over. Eventually Ms. Griffith found herself numb to the screaming, and silence began to feel eerie. That is not to say that she found peace in such shrieking, and there were many occasions in which she longed to throttle the child so that her head might stop pounding. But he began to settle into her care, and she learned to love him in spite of his tantrums.

They fell into a rhythm alongside the march of time. As Charlie grew larger, she would play various games with him. Of course, she did not have the knees to run in the same manner as he did, but she found ways for them to play outside together. The father was often away, but Ms Griffith was not unathletic so to speak. She tended to enjoy racquet sports, but her ability to throw a ball was nothing to laugh at. Charlie particularly liked games that involved getting covered in mud much to the chagrin of Ms. Griffith and the launderer. But trying to keep a young boy from becoming dirty was an awful lot like trying to keep the sun from rising. And she learned to enjoy a bit of dirt.

When the new baby came, to keep Charlie away from the baby that seemed prone to screaming at all hours of the day, she taught him to garden. At first he was horrific at it, and his uncoordinated stubby fingers seemed to crush any flower he touched. But he grew gentler and became exceptionally good at weeding as well as watering.

They fell into a routine together. Charlie told her every thought that bounced into his head, and Ms. Griffith told him stories of her imagination. She had never had much of a chance to be creative before. The roles of a housewife do not include such fantasies. But Charlie loved her stories so much that he told them to his little brother as well.

And soon more children were added to the bunch. After Charlie and baby Tyler, came a rather precocious if not cunning baby girl. The wildness of two boys under the age of five running around the manor meant that the Williamsons welcomed baby Annie with a delighted and rapturous embrace. Annie was easier to manage in many ways, but she had her own challenges. Her mind was far more active, her imagination more rampant, so Ms. Griffith’s stories had to become more whimsical to match her curiosities. Annie, even from a young age, had a peculiar fascination with the uncanny, and she adored Ms. Griffith’s tales of faeries and changelings even though some of them were a little too dark for her own taste. But it was Annie’s insistence that the tales they wove together fit into the lore of such folktales.

After Annie came a sweet boy named Timothy. Unlike his brothers, he was not prone to shenanigans or wildness, and Ms. Griffith felt he had a rather sad disposition. He found sorrow in beauty and peace in dreariness. He sobbed his little eyes out when flowers began to wilt and die in the fall, and although Ms. Griffith despised them, Timothy adored rainy days and would watch them through the window for hours.

Though she had felt her heart chilled after her marriage, these children were a hearth by which she might defrost. They adored her, the little ones babbling at her ankles, wishing to tell her their every thought, and as the elder children grew older, they would bring her their sorrows, trusting her to fix them when they were broken.

The youngest boy was a wild one, a fighter with a stubbornness almost as unyielding as his love for his siblings. They named him Adrien, and Annie doted on him especially, likening him to one of the heroes from her favorite epics.

As life loved its contradictions, the youngest girl could not have been more different. Marie was the most timid out of all the Williamsons, which made her and Adrien to be a lovely pair. When the neighborhood kids did not immediately take to her, Adrien declared that to be unacceptable and went from house to house to interview who might be good enough to be a playmate for his baby sister.

They were a wonderfully odd assortment, a blend of wildness and sweetness. When Timothy had nightmares, Charlie would protect him with a structure made out of pillows and blankets. Moments like that, where childish innocence and loyalty seemed to cast away all the horrors of the world, Ms. Griffith felt her heart swelling. She loved the children as her own, with a fierceness she had not thought herself capable of.

Children had never really been in the cards for her marriage, and if Ms. Griffith were to be honest, she might admit to being one of those grouchy individuals that groaned when a child entered a seating area, already assuming a tantrum was on the horizon. And truly the Williamson children were far from perfect. Although Adrien was incredibly loyal to his siblings, he was prone to instigating arguments and problems if he got bored. The arguments were often between Charlie and Tyler, and the shouts scared the younger children to tears, though they eventually grew used to such noises.

As the eldest, Charlie carried the weight of his family’s legacy on his shoulders, but what he truly loved were the arts. Even as he grew into his adolescence and his father began to instruct him in the rules and regulations of trade, Charlie always lit a candle late into the night, trying to capture the moon’s glow on the sleeping earth with his oils.

When Charlie was a child, Ms. Griffith had not the slightest idea of how to entertain him or care for him. She soon learned that what Charlie needed above all else was someone to listen to him. When the others were small, all of his parents’ attention was on the newest babe, and as he grew older, expectations began to gather atop his small shoulders. Ms. Griffith made an effort to give him some attention and listen to him as he talked about his worries. So often was she taking care of the younger children, but she knew Charlie was grateful for whatever time she could spare.

Although she had never expected to have an opinion on the matter, Ms. Griffith found herself saddened by the sight of them growing. How precious they had been with easy smiles and bursting giggles. There was pride swelling beneath her breast at the people they became, but there was sorrow that that simplicity was lost. Even timid Marie grew into a quiet, yet driven woman with notions of how to change the world.

Charlie was the first to leave, but this was to be expected. As the eldest boy presumed to take over his father’s trade, further schooling was necessary. Still the long hug he gave her, one that was far too emotional for someone being crafted in his father’s image, made her chest ache. Annie left next, much to everyone’s surprise. She had managed to convince her father that if he truly wanted to focus on procuring a good match for her, it would be better if she was educated. Educated women were a valuable commodity she insisted. And so she left for the big city where she would study with academics, but Ms. Griffith had suspicions that she simply wanted more material for her stories. There was a woman, Annie had whispered to her one day, in London who studied literature about folklore with a focus in faeries.

The older the children became, the less need they had for a governess. They came to Ms. Griffith for a confidant or a figure of support, but they had no need for her lessons, not when their own lives were beginning to teach them plenty. She still dried tears and soothed tantrums, but the children were taking flight, and she was to remain on the ground.

Marie was naturally the last to leave, though her own departure was far more odd than that of the others. Being the youngest, she always had a sibling she could visit or live with for months on end while she explored. By the time she found her husband, a strapping young man who looked at Marie like she hung the moon, Marie had hardly resided in the manor of recent.

By then Ms. Griffith had become used to the odd stillness in the manor house, though she was not used to the permanence of said stillness. With a child whose primary residence was still technically under their roof, Mrs. Williamson kept Ms. Griffith on. Her role shifted to aid the housekeeper in keeping track of affairs. She assisted the gardener and aided the housemaids in tidying the rooms, but her days were centered around the letters she would receive from the children regarding when their next visit would be.

She missed them terribly and relieved the times where she would play with the young ones or teach the elder children, each space around the house holding vivid memories.

It should not have been a surprise although it still felt like one when Mrs. Williamson sat down with Ms. Griffith for tea one day to discuss her departure. With all the children grown, they had no need for a governess anymore.

Ms. Griffith had felt her bones chill at the words, and she was suddenly unable to meet Mrs. Williamson’s eyes. Mrs. Williamson had been a beautiful young woman in her youth, motherhood accentuating the glow of her skin and the shine of her hair. Six children later, Ms. Griffith felt as though she was looking at her for the first time. Being fifteen or so years her elder, Ms. Griffith had not thought it possible that Mrs. Williamson’s face could sport any symptoms of age. But there was an unmistakable hint of gray to her roots, and her once porcelain skin was creased with evidence of a life lived.

Time had not stopped for any of them so it seemed. Children grow with such blatancy that it cannot be ignored. Adults age with subtlety in such a way that the changes are hidden up until the moment they become unmistakable. Ms. Griffith had noticed a newfound heaviness to her joints herself.

“Of course, we shall not let you be turned out on the streets. You are welcome here for as long as you need.” There was a kindness to Mrs. Williamson’s eyes that softened the sharpness of change. Mrs. Williamson had spent the last thirty or so years as a mother. This was her opportunity to wade into the quietness of aging with her husband.

“Absolutely. I am not sure of my plans presently, but I-”

Perhaps sensing the disguised distress in Ms. Griffith’s voice, Mrs. Williamson interrupted in a light tone, “Please do not fret. There is no need for haste. We simply thought that change that comes about with a hint of foresight is often more palatable.”

The nerves thundering under Ms. Griffith’s skin calmed though not completely. The Williamsons were kind, and this was by no means an act of malice or indifference, but the prospect of having no succinct plan at what she would do next made Ms. Griffith rather uneasy.

“Of course, ma’am. Thank you. I will begin to have a think about what I will do next.”

Mrs. Williamson smiled, some of the light of her youth returning to her eyes. “Why, whatever you want. We will of course be paying you a handsome severance fee as we are well aware that you have taken over some of the duties of a nanny as well as a governess. The world shall be yours to explore, and you shall be free to do whatever you like.”

Ms. Griffith smiled thankfully as she knew she ought to. “Thank you. That is truly generous. Perhaps I will travel.”

An odd smile crossed Mrs. Williamson’s face as if she had not expected anyone not still in their youth to have the desire to explore. Afterall, the world is most grand while it lacks the weight of negative experiences and mistrust.

The younger woman leaned back in her chair, allowing herself a moment to watch the sun peek out from behind the clouds and bathe the garden in a warm light. “What a grand idea.”

***

Although the Williamsons had been deliberate in their insistence that there was no deadline for her to move out by, Ms. Griffith was not one to doddle. Her first plan involved visiting an old friend from her youth who lived in Surrey. They had maintained semi-regular contact over the years through letters, and Ms. Griffith had inquired about if they might find a time to reconnect in person now that her time as a governess had come to an end. Mrs. Delia, who had been a cheery one even in their youth, instantly invited her to visit her estate and spend some time together.

It was a bittersweet goodbye, leaving the Williamsons. Without the children, whom she should perhaps be referring to as adults, the manor felt empty of its former light and energy. Mr. and Mrs. Williamson were very sweet with their farewells, but Ms. Griffith rather felt like she was saying goodbye to the skeleton of what her former life had been.

Though she aimed not to shed any tears, she found her cheeks wet in the carriage to the train station, sadness finding its way to be heard without her permission. She would have liked to say that she never looked back and focused solely on her new life and new plans, but that was not the case. Through the back window, Ms. Griffith watched the Williamsons’ estate until it grew to be a speck in the dance. Memories became corporeal, and she could almost see herself lifting Charlie into her arms after he had tripped and hurt his little knee.

Goodbyes, even welcome ones, can pull at the soul.

***

Mrs. Delia had affectionately been called Little Ester in their youth, though there seemed to be nothing little about her presently. She had always been small in stature, but her sweeping laugh made her appear larger than life itself. Her eyes had become creased with age, though they were no less bright or warm than they were before. There were hints of gray in her hair now, but Mrs. Delia could make anything look fashionable.

She welcomed Ms. Griffith with the utmost affection, having already ordered a grand supper to celebrate her coming. Ms. Griffith did not have a lot of luggage, having kept her belongings to a modest number whilst living with the Williamsons, but what she did have was taken up to a lovely guest room.

The Delias’ estate was a rather large one, just to the south of London. The city was just over an hour away via carriage ride, and Mrs. Delia had promised that they could easily head to the city for shopping should Ms. Griffith need anything.

The Delias had several children, two boys and a girl, though they were all grown now. They were largely in the same chapter of life that the Williamsons had found themselves in. After so many years of dedicating their lives to their children, they were now presented with the opportunity to dedicate it to each other once again.

Ms. Griffith found herself in a simultaneously similar and dissimilar position. While she too was suddenly presented with freedom after spending so many years devoted to childrearing, she had no marriage to turn to, no static life to return to.

The days spent with Mrs. Delia were marvelous. They traded stories about what they heard had become of friends from their youth, and giggled over bottles of wine. Ms. Griffith felt rather like a schoolgirl again. Mrs. Delia introduced Ms. Griffith to several of her friends from town, and they all exchanged tales of their own childrearing woes. Ms. Griffith, it appeared, was quite fortunate that none of the children developed any bachelor-like habits. It was with a swelling of pride that she spoke of the Williamson children. Though they were of course not her blood, she felt as though she was a vital part of their upbringing.

It did occur to her, after several days, that the vast majority of the stories she told or heard were about children. There was nothing wrong with this of course. Children were meant to be the hopes of the future, but it did strike her as a little worrisome that she had nothing worth telling of her own life and that other women felt similarly. Mrs. Delia, though skilled in all manners of gossip, had a habit of relating anything she heard to something that had occurred to one of her sons.

It wasn’t until Mrs. Delia’s brother visited that Ms. Griffith noticed a distinct change. Mr. Harrison was strikingly similar to his sister. They had the same love for life, and they both laughed as freely as the wind. Ms. Griffith had known him in her youth in passing. He had been several years older and was always off studying or planning something with his friends. Time had been gentle with him. Though his hair had grayed at the edges, the lines on his face were merely slight divots, emphasizing wisdom and a refined strength of character.

Mr. Harrison was a doting uncle, but had no children of his own. Mrs. Delia had whispered to Ms. Griffith that he had never married, but she failed to share the reason with her. It was evident that he visited often from his knowledge of the estate, but he was still welcomed warmly as if the siblings had not seen each other in years. And his welcoming supper was the first instance where childcare was not mentioned once.

From what Ms. Griffith could discern, it was not that the topic was avoided due to a tragedy that no one wished to bring up once again, but rather that Mr. Harrison’s tales were so magnificent that they were all anyone wished to hear about. He had traveled across the world on several occasions. His most recent trip brought him to mountains in Chile and Argentina, but his previous trips had taken him to Southeast Asia, the southern tip of Africa, North America, and Northern Africa. He spoke of traveling down to the very end of Cape Horn, at the southernmost end of Chile, and staring across the ocean towards where Antarctica lay.

Ms. Griffith listened with rapt attention as he explained that although he could not see the unexplored continent from across the Drake Passage, he could feel the presence of something powerful in the distance. He spoke of different lands so reverently that Ms. Griffith could imagine that she was there as well.

She tried to recall her lessons from secondary school regarding cartography and geography, but if memory served, she had been rather poor at those subjects, and the odds of remembering anything useful were slim. That night, she borrowed one of Mr. Delia’s maps and an old globe from the library. In the candlelight, she traced her fingers across worlds, delighting in finding a place that Mr. Harrison had mentioned in his tales.

She was particularly interested in where a place called Machu Picchu was resting in the Andes, but was horrified to see just how far away it was. Argentina and Chile were half a world away, and suddenly the adventures that she had pictured with such ease in her mind felt so far away.

She vowed to ask him of closer places in the morning, but when she rose with the sun, he had already left for the majority of the day with Mr. Delia. Instead she walked through the gardens with Mrs. Delia, which was rather lovely, but felt like a very small affair. She wondered what other flowers existed that she had never seen before. When she was younger, her mother had told her of a flower that looked like a bleeding heart, though from what he recalled, they were mostly in Asia and the Americas. As lovely as the lupines were that she saw cascading across the English countryside, it would be lovely to witness a flower that appeared much like a work of art.

As they walked along the gardens, gardens that were so similar to the ones she traversed for years at the Williamson’s estate, Ms. Griffith began to feel as though the English countryside was a pocket, a microcosm of what the world could be. Mrs. Delia, for all of her youthful cheer, appeared perfectly content in her bubble of happiness. Perhaps the intimacy of her marriage and her family had given her roots in these pastures.

When Mr. Harrison returned, she attempted to mask her enthusiasm, not wanting to cause him any discomfort. Surely the last thing he wanted was an inquisition when he returned home to see his sister. But Mr. Harrison was a clever man, and he immediately saw through her deceptively casual question.

“You have mentioned travels that have taken you so very far, Mr. Harrison,” She had said over their lamb roast. “How do they compare to travels that are shorter in distance?”

A kind smile appeared. His face was lined with marks formed by smiles and laughter. Each line was evidence that he had lived well, and it made Ms. Griffith wonder about her own complexion that she had been so worried about keeping smooth. “Do you have a particular place of interest that you wish to hear about? Places you wish to see?”

Heat bloomed in Ms. Griffith’s cheeks at being seen through so easily. “I simply mean that I have heard of many Grand Tours around Europe. Have you done anything similar?”

He still appeared to doubt the vagueness of her question, but he answered nonetheless. “I did a Grand Tour of Europe when I was fresh from university, and there were many experiences I will cherish forever. I do, of course, return quite frequently to several of the places from that Tour.”

“Tell her about Romania.” Mrs. Delia said, raising her wine glass to gain the attention of the table.

Mr. Harrison’s low chuckle filled the air. “In due time, dear sister. There are other things I would like to touch upon first.” He turned back towards Ms. Griffith, taking a long breath, unafraid that people might grow bored of the anticipation. The room’s undivided interest was his to play with. He was a commanding if not animated speaker, and Ms. Griffith felt that in a past life, he would have been one of the men telling the history of their people around a fire for all to hear. Even Mr. and Mrs. Delia, who had most certainly heard these stories several times, waited with baited breath.

He began with tales of France, the place any young Romantic would of course wish to travel to first. His stories intertwined history and anecdote, and he painted such a vivid picture that Ms. Griffith felt that she could see the rage of the French Revolution almost as well as she could imagine a young Mr. Harrison nearly tripping over a mime on his way to paint the Eiffel Tower.

The south of France was wondrous by his account with beautiful seaside towns and mountains that would take even the least pious man’s breath away. The people, he said, were quite wary of him during his first visit when he was unused to cultural differences, but they soon warmed up to him and aided him in his travels.

In each place he traveled, he was met with completely different people with different values and different ways of life. There were similarities of course, places in which values overlapped. Wherever he went, he made a point to notice as much as possible. He noticed the liveliness of cultures, and which ones valued rest as much as play.

He went to Spain and visited castles, learning about Kings and Queens, the Spanish Inquisition, and the caballeros of legend. He visited La Mancha to pay homage to stories he had learned during his schooling.

Portugal was next with more beautiful castles and ocean-side views. Each city seemed more grand than the last, though Mr. Harrison was unwilling to say which was his favorite. Favoritism is not a matter of taste as much as it was a matter of the present mood according to him. He saw the magnificent artwork of the Italian masters, learning of Ancient Rome and the power families of Florence. Then he sailed around the Greek Islands as Odysseus did in the stories, though to his relief and disappointment, there were no sea monsters with whom he could grapple. The ruins of Athens were indescribable, though he tried his best to describe them. He also climbed Mt. Olympus, hoping to meet Zeus, but he had no such luck.

The story that Mrs. Delia had wanted him to tell had been in regards to Dracula’s castle in Romania. The Alps had been positively breathtaking, and he had chosen to really delve into the superstition and mythology of the area. He had listened to a very kind, but ill-informed (or perhaps scheming) innkeeper, who said that Vlad the Impaler’s soul roamed the dungeons some nights, lamenting over the time he spent imprisoned in the castle. Mr. Harrison’s youthful self had of course been entranced by such a story and all but willed the rumor into existence as he spent a night in the castle and scared himself half to death when the wild dogs in the surrounding woods began barking.

Every experience, through his storytelling, felt whimsical and fantastic. Even as he described the terror that had hollowed his stomach at the thought of Vlad the Impaler coming for him in the dead of night, the atmosphere surrounding the dinner never ceased to be joyful. He had gone to Russia after his visit in Romania, to see St. Petersburg and the grand palaces built by the Tsars.

Every night, they spoke more of his journeys, and Ms. Griffith felt herself seeing the world through his eyes. Mr. Harrison was only meant to stay for four days, but he extended his visit by one more night on the pretense of missing his sister dearly. Ms. Griffith had a suspicion that he was simply overjoyed at people fawning over his travels. It was right after dinner on his last night when she lingered as the table was being cleared. The Delias had already gone up to bed. Dinner had been full of tales of the North American continent. He had seen a grand canyon that spanned over 200 miles, and watched the Northern lights fly overhead as he went in search of the archipelagos to the North.

“What grand adventures you have had, Mr. Harrison. I suppose it makes this estate feel rather small in comparison.”

Mr. Harrison smiled, a man of many words, all of them chosen specifically for their importance. “Actually I have found that sometimes the smallest lands have the most comfort.” He paused thoughtfully as he searched for the words he wished to say. “No matter how extravagant the rest of the world, I always long for home.”

The words brought an uncomfortable pang to her chest. The word home ringing in her head like a bell.

“What I mean to say is that often one finds their home when they know what they long for, when they learn about themselves.”

A little sadness cracked through Ms. Griffith’s smile. She knew not what to say nor how to respond. It felt like Mr. Harrison was giving her valuable insight, but her own thoughts were muddling his meaning.

“You have an adventurer’s heart, don’t you Ms. Griffith?”

A laugh bubbled from her lips. “I do not know what has given you that impression.”

He was unfazed by her laughter, a kind smile continuing to crease his eyes. “You wish to see the world, do you not?”

Ms. Griffith busied herself by folding the napkin that had been on her lap during the meal. She felt strangely exposed, like it might have been more proper to excuse herself along with the Delias. But there was something electric about being forced from one’s position of comfort. It would have been too easy to laugh away any thoughts of adventure with Mrs. Delia. With Mr. Harrison’s undivided attention, she felt forced to confront the truth of the matter.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Ms. Griffith waved her hand dismissively.

Mr. Harrison considered her words. “No, I don’t believe so. Some people are quite content with the quiet life.”

Ms. Griffith smiled politely, etiquette a shield against the deeper questions that had been plaguing her. It would be a lie to say that she had not thought of what it would be like to adventure somewhere far away herself. Yet to have those same imaginings so easily read from her countenance left her feeling rather exposed. “I suppose some people feel they ought to rest.”

“I believe all people need to rest,” He responded. “I find that at least from a personal perspective, travel helps nourish my soul whilst my mind rests.” He chuckled to himself. “If you’ll excuse the rather cliche turn of phrase.”

She felt her curiosity expanding, overtaking the worries and doubts that had littered her thoughts. “How does one’s mind rest whilst traveling? I would have thought that it would be rather stimulating.”

As he pondered her question, he reached for his water glass, tracing its neck. “Perhaps rest is the wrong word, but I feel as though I am doing rather than thinking when I travel. There is no room for rumination, only action.” He cleared his throat abruptly, his smile turning shy. “I do not mean to speak out of turn. I merely thought that you were taking a curious interest in my stories and thought that I would offer my advice should you wish to plan a trip of your own. If I have been too bold, I do sincerely apologize.”

Ms. Griffith assured him that his comments were welcome. “But I do believe that I could not possibly travel alone, and I am lacking a companion.”

Mr. Harrison’s hand left the water glass to fold itself over its pair atop his lap. “Why do you believe you could not?”

Her own hands politely clasped together as well, she became oddly aware of her own body, as if it was suddenly too large for the space. The idea that she could be so bold as to travel the world on a whim was daring, but the sort of daring that made people think of madness. She had never given much thought as to why she could not travel alone. It simply felt like something so unachievable that it had not been worth thinking about.

Only she had been thinking about it. She had thought of exploring the magnificence of the world, but to be faced with the very prospect made it suddenly feel too real. Perhaps this was madness.

“Ms. Griffith,” Mr. Harrison interrupted her musing. “I bring this up because it has occurred to me that you are in a very special time of your life. So many people have things rooting them to the very spot they stand. You are free.”

A forced chuckle left her lips. “Freedom appears rather frightening, I must admit.”

Mr. Harrison nodded, his eyes earnest. “It certainly is frightening.” Reaching over the side, he produced a small bound book with fraying leather straps. “I must apologize for its present state, but it occurred to me that this might help you.”

Ms. Griffith accepted the book graciously even as her eyebrows knit together at the sight of it.

“It’s my travel journey, the very first one.” Mr. Harrison explained. “It details my first trip around Europe. If you do choose to travel, I hope that it brings you comfort.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, fiddling with his water glass once again. “If you do not, perhaps it would make for an entertaining read. Either way, I wish to leave it with you.”

Her fingers ran over the worn leather. It had been rebound several times, yet pages still felt loose as she turned it over in her hands. “Mr. Harrison, this is wonderfully thoughtful, but this clearly holds so much meaning for you. I couldn’t possibly let you part with it.”

Mr. Harrison held up his hand as she made to return the journal. “I do not believe I will be parting with it forever. Perhaps one day I will get to read of an adventure you had when you return it to me.”

***

He left early the next morning with a big hug from his sister and a promise to write. Ms. Griffith waved farewell from the front door, not wishing to intrude on the siblings’ goodbyes, but she kept replaying the words they had shared last night. It was not his kindness that had struck her as much as it was his faith in her as an adventurer. Ms. Griffith had never done anything of the sort in her life. Living as a governess had made her feel more a nurturer than an explorer. Yet his words lingered.

Ms. Griffith did not tell Mrs. Delia of their conversation. It felt too heavy a topic for their usual conversations of town gossip and reminiscing. But when they went into town that day so that Mrs. Delia could take Mr. Delia’s shoes to the cobbler, Ms. Griffith found herself lingering by a bookstore. In the window, she saw several leather journals not unlike the one that Mr. Harrison had given her. She told Mrs. Delia that she wished to see if they had any books on Greek mythology, which although it was not entirely a lie, was not the whole truth either. It raised no questions when Ms. Griffith purchased a bound leather journal in addition to a book on Greek myths and antiquities. Perhaps Mrs. Delia saw in Ms. Griffith the same thing that her brother did.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, she stayed up until the early hours of the morning reading the Greek myths as well as Mr. Harrison’s journal. A terrifying sort of wanderlust had overtaken her. She felt the urge to fly around the world as if she were a bird who knew not in which direction she should land.

Doubts plagued her until Mrs. Delia sat her down with the guise of having a chat over a cup of tea. She said with no uncertainty that Ms. Griffith shared the same light in her eyes that her brother did. It was Mrs. Delia who insisted that they go to see this lovely couple in town about the particulars of booking passage to another country. “Live,” Mrs. Delia told Ms. Griffith, “live unencumbered by what you think you should be doing.”

***

Passage was booked the next day. She was to sail to Athens in three days time. Extraordinarily grateful for the hospitality of the Delias, Ms. Griffith sought to find a way to repay them for their efforts, but they insisted that she was like family and that it had been lovely to have her stay with them.

It was rather odd that the moments leading up to a drastic change could be scarier than the change itself, and Ms. Griffith found herself telling herself thousands of reasons why she should not venture on this journey. But she did not listen to them. With a tearful, yet heartfelt goodbye, she left the Delias’ estate and found herself on a ship headed for the Grecian shores.

The voyage took several weeks. Each day was met with conflicting emotions, from awe at the ever expanding ocean before her to self-chastisement at setting out on such a ridiculous journey. The crew was lovely, and she wished to say that she was positively amazed when the Grecian islands appeared in the distance, but she was simply relieved at the prospect of spending a night on land.

It was only when she stood on the docks with a new world before her that she realized she hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do. Life had suddenly become so full of opportunities that it was overwhelming. She supposed the first thing to do was to find lodging. It was already midday, and she was weary from travel. Exploration could happen tomorrow. She found a traveler’s inn not far from her point of arrival. It was run by a sweet elderly couple whose English was heavily accented, yet perfectly understandable. They set her up in a lovely room.

There, in the comfort of a bed and with Mr. Harrison’s stories to keep her company, she let her mind wander about what tomorrow would bring. Gone was the apprehension she had felt on the voyage. Moments before taking a leap were far scarier than the leap itself.

Greece was absolutely wonderful even if she had to sheepishly request that anyone she interacted with speak English to her. She went to the most marvelous museums and learned tales of gods and heroes. She went to the Parthenon and the temple of Zeus. Everyday was filled to the brim with excursions and some of the best food she had eaten in her life.

With a group of other people on their own Tour around Europe, she went to the Greek islands. Walking along the beaches of Ithaca, she wondered what Odysseus thought right before he had left for the Trojan War, if he had dreamed about this very beach for the ten years he spent trying to get back home.

Her mind full and fresh with wonderful experiences, she caught a ship to Italy, comparing Mr. Harrison’s encounters with the ones she was writing in a journal of her own. Based on the similarities of the Roman and Greek gods, Ms. Griffith had expected Rome to feel remarkably akin to Athens, but Mr. Harrison’s characterization had been correct. Greece was the land of myth and legend, but Italy was inseparable from its art. Both nations placed art in a position of high importance, but Ms. Griffith felt unable to tear her eyes away from the paintings and sculptures of the Renaissance.

She had always been appreciative of art, yet she felt as though she had never truly understood the talent of the masters before. In the Vatican, she saw mosaics with such detail that she thought they were paintings until she inspected them further. There were statues made from marble with folded cloth so lifelike, she was certain that it would be soft to the touch. The Colosseum was undoubtedly grand, yet she found herself booking a train to Florence to look at more art. The Statue of David and Boticelli’s the Birth of Venus became etched into her brain.

In her explorations, she found herself in the city of Venice, searching for more of the grandeur that made her feel as though she was just opening her eyes for the first time. It was there that she discovered the concept of a ‘riposo.’ It had been mentioned in some degree in Mr. Harrison’s journals. He had experienced something similar in Spain with a ‘siesta.’ In that sense, Ms. Griffith should have been prepared for everything to close in the afternoon as people returned to their homes to rest, but she was not. Perhaps Rome and Florence had been so full of travelers that she had not noticed the city slow its pace in the afternoon for a few hours, and she did not truly understand until she attempted to look at the interior of a church in Venice only to be turned away.

The man who locked the door to the church told her, in broken English as she had stared at him blankly when he spoke Italian, that she should go home and rest. The concept felt undeniably foreign to her. Traveling had been so thrilling that to slow down for a few hours felt counterproductive. There was so much to see. How foolish it was to wait quietly in her room. Instead she traversed the canals, wondering at the magnificence of the city and making her plans for the upcoming days. While she had been slightly spontaneous in her desires, she had been organized in the scheduling of each day. In Greece as well as Italy, she had known down to the minute when she would have to leave for a museum and how long she would spend there before moving to the next thing. She had packed each day full of sights and exploration. A riposo was an obstacle to her timeline.

In her wandering, she found a cafe hidden behind a closed gelato shop by the bridges of one of the canals. It had outdoor seating and a lovely view of the sun’s rays cascading through the stained glass window of a nearby church. The cafe’s owner was in the middle of clearing the last trays when she asked if she could simply sit there. After several hand gestures it was determined that she could so long as she understood that she couldn’t buy anything until the cafe reopened after riposo.

She sat in a wooden chair underneath the shade that the canopy provided. Mentally, she reviewed her plans for the day, adjusting her mealtimes and brainstorming about when she could return to the church. Certainly the presence of this unnecessary rest time would mean that she had to adjust her schedule going forwards as well. Perhaps she could set this time aside for journaling or taking a stroll, or she could try her luck sketching one of the beautiful churches or canals in the afternoon light. She wished she had not left her journal back at the inn. It would have been brilliant to jot down a tentative timetable of how she could fill the day.

Yet even with her planning, productivity during riposo eluded her. The next afternoon, she attempted to walk for longer around the canals, but she ended up back at the same cafe, failing to concentrate well enough to sketch the church as the light hit it. The next day held the same difficulties. She brought her journal to the cafe, but wound up barely writing a word.

It was on her next attempt that the cafe’s owner brought a tray to the table she sat beside. He gestured for her to choose between an espresso and a cappuccino, explaining that he wasn’t sure which one she would like. His English was rather good with the lilting accent of his native tongue extending certain vowels. She apologized for her lack of Italian, but he waved her apology away and continued explaining that he had thought she was English, and Englishwomen usually preferred tea, but he brought out an espresso anyway because that was what Italians usually drank after meals.

Ms. Griffith thanked him and accepted the cappuccino; he had guessed correctly that she would not enjoy the strong taste of coffee lingering on her breath. They sat in silence for a moment, enjoying their drinks and staring at the canals.

When he asked her why she couldn’t seem to enjoy the riposo, she didn’t have an answer. She liked to be productive, she told him.

He frowned at that, and she worried that she had offended him, but it appeared that he was simply searching for the right words. “One cannot be productive if one is afraid to sit still.”

He asked her to look around her and think about what she loved about Italy. She immediately answered that she adored the art.

“In order to create art and beauty, relaxation is important. No one can create from a brain that won’t rest. It is in rest that beautiful things begin to appear.”

Ms. Griffith fingered the handle of her cappuccino and thought about the words carefully. “How does one rest?”

He shrugged. “It is always different. Sometimes cleaning rests my mind. Sometimes I sit and read. But each time it is about doing what I want and not what I think I should be doing.”

The conversation replayed in her head for the rest of her trip. She continued to visit beautiful churches and explore the most beautiful vineyards in Tuscany, but each day, she found herself taking a moment to think about the conversation she had with that cafe owner. During riposo, she would spend a moment basking in the sun instead of cataloging her next move. It was a difficult thing, to learn to be okay with stillness. So long had her life revolved around the bustle of a full house. It seemed uncanny to have a quiet moment. But in these periods of forced relaxation, she found her mind calming, and she began to feel more at ease with herself.

She took that lesson with her all the way back to England, where she found a small townhouse just outside of London. Each day, she thought about her travels and realized how one might fall in love with seeing the rest of the world just as Mr. Harrison had. When she had finally settled in her new house, there was a knock on her door. She assumed it was Mrs. Delia once again, bringing her a housewarming plant, but when she opened the door, Charlie Williamson stood before her.

Charlie had grown into a dapper young man, though the youth of his cheeks was still present for those who knew where to look. He promised that his siblings would visit soon as well, but he had heard she had moved into the city and wished to greet her. He was astonished to hear that she had begun to travel the world and wished to hear all about it. Ms. Griffith made him a cup of tea and told him all that she had seen and learned. It was rather lovely to have a story to share that was about herself for once.