Miss Hartwell's Dilemma (4 page)

“Tell me at once, Amaryllis. It is most unfair, when I have confessed already.” Her pale eyes sparkled with amused indignation.

“Think how unfair it will be to my aunt if I tell you first. No, you must wait.”

“Then let us leave at once. I cannot imagine what extravagance you have committed.”

When they reached home, Ned came out with a gloomy face beneath his ancient cap surrounded by its fringe of snow-white hair. A small, weatherbeaten man of indeterminate age, he was the only male in the establishment and tended to be the butt of the pranks of the livelier damsels. He was never so happy as when they all left for the summer. The prospect of their return was responsible for his present, long-suffering air.

He carried the parcels up to the private drawing room, muttering about lumbago on the fourth trip up the stairs. Amaryllis tipped him a half crown.

Still in a teasing mood, she insisted on saving three mystery packages for last. Mrs. Vaux scarce glanced at the piles of histories, plays, and poetry as they appeared but pounced on the novels. She considered them the only literature fit for a lady of fashion, unlike Miss Tisdale, who read them with guiltily defiant enjoyment.

The room filled with brown paper and tangles of string as they unwrapped their new but practical and dull winter dresses of brown, black, and grey wool. At last Amaryllis relented.

“This is for you, Tizzy,” she said. “I decided we had more than enough saved in our emergency fund, so I bought something impractical for once.”

“Quickly, open it,” urged Mrs. Vaux, handing her the scissors as she struggled with a knot. “We have enough string saved, too. Do cut it.”

The rustling paper parted to reveal a shimmer of lavender silk. “Oh no,” said Miss Tisdale, “you have given me the wrong parcel.”

“No, that is yours,” Amaryllis assured her. “I stood in the middle of the shop with my eyes closed, picturing you in it. Hold it up and let us see if I was right.”

“But I have not worn colours in twenty years!” Half reluctant, she drew it out and stroked it with apprehensive fingers. “Lavender!”

“The colour is perfect,” said Mrs. Vaux decidedly. As arbiter of taste for the household, she always had the last word on such subjects.

“How well you taught me, Aunt. Here is your reward.”

Mrs. Vaux’s new gown was deep blue with a light blue stripe, and Amaryllis had chosen a rich moss green for herself. As they were ready-made, none of them fit perfectly, but Mrs. Vaux vowed that the necessary alterations would be no trouble at all.

“But when shall we wear them?” she wailed. “They are not at all suitable for school.”

“You know Mr. Majendie always invites us to his Christmas assembly at the castle,” Amaryllis reminded her. “This time we shall be properly dressed for a festive occasion. We shall positively dazzle our neighbours.”

The widow looked up at her, caught her eye, and glanced at Miss Tisdale, who was still stroking the silk with reverent hands, her face dreamy.

“The vicar,” she breathed silently. “Of course.”

Miss Tisdale stood up, hugging the gown to her flat bosom. “‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,’” she said. “Ecclesiastes 1, verse 2. But I do not care. Thank you, dear Amaryllis, it is simply beautiful!”

As she lay in bed that evening, gazing through her open window at the moon-bathed castle, Amaryllis wondered if it would go on forever, this life so drab that a new dress was a great event, a party still four months in the future a cause of excitement.

All the same, she decided, it was probably better than going to Philadelphia to sell nails and…whatever else ironmongers sell.

The next day she wrote to her father. She was delighted to hear from him, glad he was doing well, and grateful for his invitation. However, she was too busy at present running a select seminary for young ladies of good family to consider joining him in America. She sent greetings to her Stepmama and her half-brothers and hoped to hear from him again before another six years had passed.

As she sealed it, she realised dejectedly that she might as well be writing to a stranger. The only thing she had in common with the Philadelphia ironmonger was the past.

The next day, she was distracted from her blue devils when Mr. Majendie’s groom brought in a bundle containing the past two weeks’ issues of the Morning Post. The owner of the castle, an elderly gentleman both kind and learned, he had encouraged the school from the start. He sent his newspapers to keep them in touch with the doings of the Fashionable World. That, he was wont to say with a twinkle in his eye, was surely the most important part of any young lady’s education.

The Morning Post was full of reports of the proceedings in the House of Lords over the Bill of Pains and Penalties against Queen Caroline. George III had died in January. The Prince Regent, now George IV, was desperately anxious that his estranged wife, whom he loathed, should not be crowned at his side. If the Bill passed in both Lords and Commons, she would forfeit her rights as Queen and be divorced into the bargain.

Mrs. Vaux pored over the sordid details with unabashed fascination. This was undoubtedly the sole topic of conversation among the ton and, though exiled for six years, she had spent most of her life in that world and still felt a part of it.

Miss Tisdale was clearly revolted by the testimony of the Queen’s Italian servants who revealed, under close questioning, the state of dress, or undress, in which they had seen her and her ‘chamberlain,’ Pergami, on various occasions. Tizzy blenched when she read that Her Royal Highness’s hand ‘was in the small clothes of Mr. Pergami,’ but she read on. This was history in the making, and it was the duty of any instructress worthy of the name to be fully informed.

Amaryllis had mixed feelings. Chief among these was outrage. George had taken countless mistresses over the years, not to mention his deceitful marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert. Many of the Lords now sitting in judgment had reputations that would bear no scrutiny. How dared they condemn Queen Caroline? Yet she had, it was clear, deliberately set out to embarrass her husband and cause a scandal by rampaging about Europe in black wig and short skirts and without doubt having an affair with her chamberlain. Papa’s running off with the daughter of the Spanish Ambassador seemed a minor disgrace in comparison.

The day before school started, Amaryllis carefully locked up every newspaper in a cupboard in the private drawing room. Stained sheets and hands upon private parts had no place in the curriculum of her young ladies.

After that there was no time to feel blue-devilled. Carriage after carriage rolled up to the gate, and the house filled with gay, chattering voices as the girls unpacked their trunks and valises and bandboxes.

There were five new pupils. Two had older sisters and a third, a fifteen year old, already knew several of the girls. Miss Hartwell had received a note from Lady Carfax saying that her daughter Louise would arrive a few days late owing to a sprained ankle. Thus Miss Isabel Winterborne was the only one with whom Amaryllis need particularly concern herself.

She had not been greatly disturbed to hear from the vicar that Daniel Winterborne was a rake. After all, the Viscount Hartwell had been a rake himself, judging by his endless pursuit and conquest of women. During her years on the town she had been protected by her social position from the attentions of libertines. Now she was armoured in her concealing cap and her dark brown worsted dress. The most persistent of womanisers was hardly likely to make a respectable schoolmistress the object of his illicit affections.

Lord Daniel appeared shortly after three in the afternoon accompanied by a pale, thin child with ginger hair and huge dark eyes in a solemn face under her Leghorn bonnet. Her blue woollen dress was a size too large about her middle and much too warm for the day, which had turned hot after an early autumnal chill.

Ushered into Miss Hartwell’s office, Isabel released her father’s hand just long enough to bob a clumsy curtsy and whisper “How do you do,” then clutched it again. Her father looked equally anxious.

“How do you do, Miss Winterborne,” said Miss Hartwell, coming forwards with a smile. “Why don’t you take off your bonnet and sit down, and we shall have some lemonade before I show you the rest of the school.”

The child fumbled with her bonnet strings. Before Miss Hartwell could go to her aid, Lord Daniel was on his knees beside her untying them.

Daisy brought in a tray with a glass of lemonade, a pot of tea, and some biscuits.

“Will you take a glass of wine, my lord?” Miss Hartwell asked.

“Thank you, no. Tea will do very well, ma’am.” He stood protectively beside his daughter, his hand on her shoulder, his face set.

“For all the world as if he was leaving her in the lion’s den,” Daisy reported to the kitchen.

“Pray be seated, sir. Miss Winterborne, I should like to ask you some questions. You can read?”

“Yes, ma’am. Papa taught me.”

“Do you like to read?”

“Oh yes, ma’am! I often read to Papa in the evenings. We have read Robinson Crusoe and Macbeth and Childe Harold and Tom Jones...”

Lord Daniel flushed and scowled as Miss Hartwell looked at him with her eyebrows raised in disapproval.

“An interesting variety,” she responded, hoping that the little girl had not understood the half of what she had read. “And can you sew?”

“I hemmed a handkerchief for Papa. He carries it always with him.”

His lordship’s hand went to his breast-pocket as if in confirmation.

“Embroidery?”

“No, ma’am. My Nan only knows plain stitching,” confessed Miss Winterborne worriedly.

Miss Hartwell’s gentle questioning continued. As she had begun to suspect, the child was well versed in such subjects as might interest a gentleman. Otherwise, she was ignorant of all except the little she had picked up from her nursemaid.

Meanwhile, Lord Daniel was growing visibly impatient. “Enough of this interrogation!” he broke in roughly.

She looked at him coldly. “We must not keep you, my lord. I am sure Miss Isabel is over her first shyness and will do very well on her own now.”

“Isabel.” There was pain in his voice.

She rose and went to stand in front of him. “I must learn to be a lady, Papa,” she said gravely. 

He hugged her close.

“I promise you, my lord, I shall neither eat her nor beat her.” Miss Hartwell intended to make her tone light, but it came out sarcastic.

“Beat her!” He jumped to his feet, outraged.

“I said I shall not. I really think it is time you left, sir, before we come to cuffs. Miss Isabel is perfectly safe in my charge, I assure you.”

“I shall be here to see her on Sunday,” he said grimly, “and she shall return home immediately if she is not happy.”

“As we agreed.”

Miss Hartwell turned to fiddle with the papers on her desk, giving them a little privacy for their farewells. She heard the sound of his boots, then the door opening and closing again. He had gone without taking his leave of her.

She turned back to the girl. “I am sorry to disagree with your Papa,” she said gently. “He is only concerned for you welfare, I know.”

Isabel’s lips trembled. “It is not your fault. Papa has quarrelled with all the neighbours and his family, too. Nan says he carries on like a bear with a sore head. He will be so lonely without me,” she added desolately.

Miss Hartwell put her arm round the thin shoulders. She was fond of all her pupils, but for some reason she was particularly drawn to this brave child with the swimming eyes.

“He will miss you, I daresay, but gentlemen always have a great deal of business to take care of, so he will not have time to grieve. You will be busy too and will soon make friends. Come, let us go to the window, and you shall wave to him.”

As she expected, his lordship gazed towards the house before climbing into his carriage. He saw his daughter and waved back. Then the coachman urged on the horses, and soon they were out of sight.

Miss Hartwell took Isabel up to her bedchamber and introduced her to two of the girls she was to share with. They were sisters, one her own age, the other sixteen and in her last year at school. Isabel was polite, solemn, and uncommunicative, and the others soon stopped trying to draw her out. After making sure the eldest was helping her to unpack and put her clothes away, Miss Hartwell left them.

As she closed the door, she heard the younger sister whisper, giggling, “She has red hair!”

“Hush,” said the older repressively. “Miss Hartwell has red hair, too. I have seen her without her cap and it is monstrous becoming, I assure you.”

So much for eavesdroppers hearing no good of themselves, thought Amaryllis. As she passed the door of another chamber, she heard the voice of the fifteen-year-old new girl.

“Tell me again about the teachers. Now I have met them I shall know who you are talking about.”

Guiltily but irresistibly, Amaryllis halted and stayed to listen.

“Miss Tisdale, that’s Tizzy, is shockingly strict. Mrs. Vaux is a dear. We call her Gardens because of Vauxhall Gardens, but she is the one who should be called Tizzy because she gets in a terrible tizzy if something goes wrong. Miss Tisdale stays calm through anything. Then Miss Hartwell, she is sort of aloof, if you know what I mean. But she’s kind, they are all kind. If I was in trouble like, oh if I had broke my leg or something, I would go to Tizzy.”

“If you had a broken leg, you would not go anywhere.”

“Well then, if you broke your leg. Tizzy would know what to do. But if I was really in the briars—if I was really unhappy—I should go to Miss Hartwell because I think she has been unhappy herself and she would understand.”

Miss Hartwell continued down the stair with a thoughtful expression. Aloof, but kind and understanding—not a verdict she could quarrel with. A perceptive young woman, though her mode of expression had been far from elegant. Mrs. Vaux—Gardens—must set her some extra exercises in polite conversation.

For the next couple of days, Amaryllis was busy working out a schedule of classes as they gradually sorted the girls into groups with comparable abilities in various subjects. By Thursday all was running smoothly.