Miss Hartwell's Dilemma (8 page)

Louise emerged from her scolding utterly unabashed. “Don’t be frightened,” she whispered to Isabel, who was nervously awaiting her turn. “He’s nice.”

By the time Isabel came out to confirm that, excepting her Papa, the vicar was the nicest man she knew, it was too late for him to return to the vicarage before dinner. Miss Augusta might have hysterics if she wished, he would know nothing about it. Thus, Amaryllis sent Tizzy to entertain him with a glass of Madeira until dinnertime.

“‘Wine that maketh glad the heart of man,’” said Miss Tisdale. “Psalm 104, verse 15. I do not believe my father ever used it for a sermon, but he was wont to quote it after dinner.”

The meal was greatly enlivened when Daisy poured a glass of water for Mrs. Vaux and a frog leaped out of the pitcher in a shower of droplets. Several girls jumped up onto their chairs, squealing, though how that would save them was unclear as the frog was hopping about the table. The unfortunate creature sprang for shelter and landed in a dish of salad. Louise grabbed the offending beast as it scrambled out, trailing greenery and leaving oil-and-vinegar footprints on the white tablecloth.

“Shall I put him outside, Miss Hartwell?” she enquired, trying hard to suppress a look of unholy glee.

“If you please,” Amaryllis answered, the corners of her lips twitching. “And you will see me in my office immediately after dinner.” So much for her theory that Mr. Raeburn’s presence would be conducive to superior decorum.

“Yes, ma’am.” Eyes sparkling, Louise whispered, “It was worth it!” in Isabel’s ear as she passed.

“‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine,’” opined Miss Tisdale. “Proverbs 17, verse 22. But take away that salad, if you please, Daisy.”

“I hope you will not punish Miss Carfax too severely,” begged Mr. Raeburn, who had been surprised into a most unclerical guffaw. “Bless my soul, I have not so enjoyed a meal in many a long day.” When he plodded out into the rain some time later, he was still chuckling at the memory.

Miss Hartwell had half a mind to ban Louise from the outing to Colchester. However, that hardly seemed fair since she had studied hard. Besides, there would be no excuse for Bertram to join them if his niece was not to be of the party. Instead she had her write an essay on cruelty to animals. The frog had certainly been much more alarmed than anyone else.

On Tuesday afternoon it was still raining, and the trip to Colchester was in doubt. After school, Louise and Isabel were found doing a most extraordinary dance in the vestibule. It involved a lot of stamping, gyrating, and waving of arms. Louise explained.

“My brother learned a rain dance from an American boy at Eton. It is what the Redskins do to make it rain when there is a drought. So we are doing it backwards to make it stop.”

Apparently the theory was valid, since by five-thirty it was clearing. Wednesday dawned sunny and by breakfast time promised to be warm.

“It’s called an Indian summer,” said Louise with satisfaction.

At nine o’clock the chaise from the Bell Inn was waiting at the gate, and a few minutes later Lord Pomeroy’s smart curricle drew up. He had his own chestnuts harnessed and his equipage altogether took the shine out of the hired carriage.

There was some squabbling before Louise, Isabel, and one other girl squeezed into the curricle with his lordship and the disappointed four climbed into the aged chaise with Miss Hartwell. Lord Pomeroy looked as if he was inclined to join in the squabble when he saw her disappear inside with her charges.

The curricle could have reached Colchester in half the time but, to Louise’s vociferous disapproval, her uncle chose to remain close to the chaise all the way. With a noted whip behind him, the Bell’s ostler pushed his horses all the way. They arrived before noon.

The confectioner, warned in advance of their coming, provided a cold collation, which was barely touched, and a great many cream cakes, all of which disappeared. Lord Pomeroy paid the reckoning and was enthusiastically thanked by his niece and her friends. It was with a certain torpor that they repaired to the ruins of the Roman city.

Miss Hartwell had made this excursion twice before and was well primed with facts for their edification. Before she could begin her lecture, she found herself drawn off along a secluded path by his lordship. As soon as they were out of sight, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, instantly dispelling the notion that indolence was responsible for his attachment.

“Bertram, you must not!” she gasped as he released her, and she put up her hands to straighten her bonnet.

“Did you dislike it?” he asked with a glint in his eye. “I did not notice that you tried to kick my shins.”

“How could you ask such a question?” she said severely. “Of course I disliked it excessively. I am not accustomed to being mauled by those I had considered gentlemen.”

He smiled. “It’s my belief I should have tried it years ago. It does not pay to be too much the gentleman. However, I beg your pardon, and I promise not to do it again. This afternoon. Unless you tempt me beyond bearing.”

“I must go back to the girls at once.”

“All right, I promise. No conditions. Let me have you to myself just for an hour,” he coaxed. “They cannot get into a great deal of mischief in a single hour.”

“What makes you think that? With Louise among them, five minutes will suffice.” Nonetheless she allowed herself to be persuaded and they wandered on while she told him about the frog in the water pitcher.

She enjoyed the afternoon, and to her relief the worst trouble she found when they rejoined the young ladies was a torn ruffle. To be sure they had not learned much history, but as Bertram said, the ancient Romans were not a common topic of conversation in the best society.

That evening she lay in bed, thinking back over the day.

Bertram was excellent company, and she was looking forward to his promised visit on Sunday. It was delightful to be with someone who saw her as a beautiful woman and a member of the Haut Ton, not as a dowdy schoolmistress. Yet his kiss had disarranged her bonnet more than her composure. Judging by the novels she had read, a lover’s kiss ought to thrill and agitate a maiden even to swooning. She was not given to swooning and hesitated to put her trust in the emotional accuracy of a novel, yet surely she should have felt more than surprise.

Perhaps she had known him too long to experience excitement at his touch. She knew that when they were married he would be a gentle and considerate partner. Yes, she would marry him, next summer when the school year came to an end. She would marry Bertram, she thought sleepily, and Tizzy would marry Mr. Raeburn, and Aunt Eugenia...Bother! What about Aunt Eugenia? Before Amaryllis could tackle that problem she fell asleep.

The next day the skies were blue again. As soon as the morning sun had dried the dew from the lawn, Miss Hartwell took several girls out into the back garden to sketch. There was a huge old oak, its leaves now beginning to yellow after the first frosts, which made an excellent subject. Later she would have them draw it leafless, with gnarled skeleton exposed, then in the spring, clad in fresh golden-green.

Ned trudged up the garden and came to her side.

“Would ‘ee come look at the brollycolly, miss,” he urged with an extraordinary series of winks, gestures, and shrugs.

“At the broccoli, Ned?” said Miss Hartwell in surprise. The old countryman considered the vegetable in the light of a sinister foreign plot and had baulked at being requested to grow it, but he had never before asked for advice on its cultivation.

He jerked his head, winked again, and waved his arms at the young ladies. “Aye, miss, and the serrelly too.”

“Have the rabbits been at it again?”

“Jis’ come see!” begged Ned.

Mystified, Miss Hartwell followed him down to the kitchen garden and gazed at the celery bed. A mistle thrush was pecking at a snail, and an orange-breasted robin perched on the handle of the gardener’s fork and sang a few liquid notes to her.

“Arr, ‘e be awaitin’ for I to dig ‘is dinner fer en,” Ned explained.

“He is charming. Is that what you wanted me to see?”

“Nay, then. Din’t want to fright the young leddies, did I?”

“Fright the young ladies? Pray tell me what this is all about, Ned. What is wrong with the celery?”

“Nowt, miss. Best serrelly I iver growed. ‘Tis the furriner I mun tell ‘ee of.”

“A foreigner! Not a Spaniard?”

“Dunno ‘bout thet. Dark, ‘e wor, and dressed up fit to kill. Flash cove. ‘E wor axin’ ‘bout the school and the young leddies. Din’t tell en nowt, did I?”

“He spoke English?”

Ned cackled. “Better nor I, miss, better nor I. ‘Ceptin’ when ‘e swore at I, ‘twere in some furrin lingo.” The memory amused him so much that he bent double with laughter and tears came to his eyes.

“Thank you, Ned, for telling me, and for not telling him, and for not frighting the young ladies. You will be sure to let me know if you see him again?”

“Aye, miss,” gasped the old man. He touched his ancient cloth cap and hobbled off, still snickering.

Momentarily distracted from her worry by the question of whether the cap was ever removed from that hoary head, a matter of perennial interest among her pupils, Miss Hartwell walked slowly back to her class.

The Spaniard again. There could not be two dark-visaged foreigners making enquiries about the school. Six years since Papa had absconded with the Spanish Ambassador’s daughter. Could it possible have taken six years for a vengeful relative to find her?

It had taken Bertram six years, she reminded herself. The thought brought no comfort, since it implied that Bertram had not tried very hard, and that the mysterious foreigner might indeed be on her trail. If he was seen again, she had best warn Tizzy and Aunt Eugenia to be on their guard.

By Sunday, there had been no further reports of the Spaniard. Amaryllis decided she had been making a mountain of a molehill and went off to early service in a cheerful mood. Today she would return the bank draught to Lord Daniel. Let him dare to look at her with that cynical expression after that! When she reached home, she left word with Daisy to tell his lordship that she desired a word with him. Shortly after ten, the parlourmaid appeared at the common-room door and announced that he was waiting in her office.

Isabel bounced up.

“May I go down, Miss Hartwell?” she asked eagerly.

“You may come down to the vestibule and wait there, but I wish to speak to your father before you go out with him.”

The bright eyes clouded. “Have I done something wrong?” she whispered.

Miss Hartwell gave her a quick hug. “Not at all. You are an excellent student and I was proud of your improvement in church this morning. I have business with Lord Daniel.”

“Pray do not let him make you angry,” begged the child, her solemn face still worried.

“Miss Tisdale says he that is slow to anger is better than the mighty,” announced Louise.

“Thank you, Miss Carfax, I shall bear that in mind,” said Miss Hartwell drily. “Come, Isabel, let us go down.”

Lord Daniel was pacing the office like a caged panther, his dark hair ruffled, a frown creasing his broad forehead. He swung round as she entered and strode towards her.

“Is something wrong with Isabel?” he demanded.

“No, nothing. I merely wished to return this to you.” She moved past him to the desk and took out the draught. “I told you I should not accept it,” she said, handing it to him.

He looked down at the paper, then at her with surprise in his eyes.

“I cannot suppose that the school brings in enough for you to turn down such a windfall,” he said harshly but with some confusion.

Her chin went up. “We do well enough to make it unnecessary to accept bribes, my lord.” He did seem to have a genius for destroying her composure.

“My apologies, Miss Hartwell. It must be gratifying to see the success of an establishment you have built from nothing.”

There was warm admiration in his tone, and it was her turn to be surprised. Before she could respond he spoke again, as if he regretted the lapse in his hostility. “Is Isabel ready to go out?”

“She is waiting for you in the vestibule.”

He bowed and was gone. Shaking her head in amused exasperation, Amaryllis watched through the window as he and his daughter went down the garden path and into the waiting carriage. In spite of his unmannerly exit, he left her feeling that he understood her pride in the school.

She recalled Bertram’s impatience when she had told him that she could not leave at a moment’s notice. He seemed almost to regard it as a joke that she was a schoolmistress. When she was married to him and a countess, would she look back on these six years as if they had been a mere aberration in her life?

The arrival of the object of her musing put an end to her reflections. He sauntered into the office and bowed gracefully over her hand. “Daisy told me you were in here,” he explained. “I said she need not announce me.”

It was typical of his charm that he should already have learned the parlourmaid’s name. She was probably ready to eat out of his hand.

“All the same, Bertram, it will not do to let the whole world know upon what terms we stand,” she said severely. “As the uncle of one of my pupils, it is proper that you wait to be announced.”

“Fustian, my dear! Now go get your bonnet and let us be off.”

“Bertram, I wish you will listen to me and understand my position. We are not in London now, where it is perfectly proper for a gentleman to drive a young lady in Hyde Park in an open carriage. I cannot go out with you.”

“We shall take Louise along for chaperone.”

“Even if Louise were sufficient chaperone, which she is not, I have five or six girls expecting to go walking with me this afternoon. We do not get so many fine days at this season that we can afford to miss the opportunity for exercise.”

“Miss Tisdale or Mrs. Vaux might take them.”

“They have duties of their own.”

Lord Pomeroy inspected his glossy, spotless Hessians and sighed. “I daresay it is not out of reason muddy where you intend to go?” he asked hopefully. “I shall come with you. In fact,” he cheered up, “this will do much better than taking that inquisitive little brat with us. The others will serve to keep her out of our hair.”