by Erica Ridley
Miss Spranklin had ordered the kitchen to prepare exactly enough cakes for one tea, without any for the children?
“It’s no problem at all,” Chloe said cheerfully. “I brought cakes enough for everyone.”
She opened the lid of her basket and tilted the contents so the others could see the large package inside.
A murmur of excitement rippled through the air.
“What time is the girls’ tea?” Chloe asked innocently. “Shall we lay the table now, or should I send the package on to the kitchen?”
Miss Spranklin pursed her lips. “I suppose the pupils may as well have a respite. You and I can talk whilst they enjoy their repast.”
As Chloe suspected, Miss Spranklin did not usher all of the girls into the refectory. Only the ones she considered “real” students. The children she used as unpaid servants were to receive nothing at all.
While the headmistress was herding her pupils, Chloe slipped a second package of cakes to the girl who had tripped over the bucket, and whispered for her to go and share it with the others in the scullery.
Once the pupils were settled at the dining table, Miss Spranklin motioned for Chloe to join her in the doorway.
“As you can see,” said Miss Spranklin in a voice low enough to give the impression of discretion yet still loud enough to be heard by the children cleaning the corridor, “this school is sorely lacking in good help.”
Chloe gave a sunny smile, as if the comment had been directed at her, rather than the poor children. “When shall I begin?”
Miss Spranklin narrowed her eyes. “How do you do with arithmetic?”
“Quite well. I’m told I have a logical mind.”
“And literature?”
“A personal favorite. The best holidays are those spent in the reading room of a lending library.”
“Needlepoint?”
“Plain and fancy,” Chloe assured her, and hoped she wouldn’t be asked to prove it. Tommy was the one who could work magic with needle and thread.
Miss Spranklin harrumphed. “Where are your references?”
Chloe handed her the stack of forgeries at once.
Miss Spranklin began to page through them. “Punctual... responsible... kind but effective disciplinarian... You dealt with our little disruption astutely, I must admit. Children adore you... You’ve taught everything from writing to—This says you speak French?”
“Mais oui,” Chloe said brightly. “Tout le monde ne le peut pas?”
“That would ease my load considerably.” Miss Spranklin’s gaze was calculating. “I suppose you’re expecting a king’s ransom in exchange for this skill?”
Chloe made her most worshipful expression. “Being able to learn alongside you is worth any wage. Whatever you think is fair, Miss Spranklin. The honor is mine.”
A quick, cat-like grin creased Miss Spranklin’s face.
“Ten guineas per annum,” she said briskly. “And since half of the year is gone, you’ll receive five, to be paid in monthly installments at the end of every month.”
Ten guineas was what an average under laundry-maid earned.
Miss Spranklin handed the references back to Chloe.
The message was clear: no further questions would be asked about Chloe’s qualifications, as long as she accepted a wage that was only a third of what she could earn as a governess.
Chloe clasped her hands together and gave an excited little bounce of joy.
“I shall learn so much from you,” she gushed. “When I have my own school, I’ll tell everyone I learnt all of the best things from you.”
“Don’t expect the process to be quick,” Miss Spranklin warned. “You might be here for several years before you grasp the details well enough to succeed with a venture of your own.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Chloe agreed, keeping her expression bright.
Miss Spranklin’s eyes narrowed anew. “Were you expecting board as part of these wages? I don’t allow any extra souls after nightfall. For the children’s safety, of course.”
Blast. Nighttime would have been Chloe’s best chance to search the school.
“I understand,” she murmured in acquiescence. “I will present myself here every morning at the hour you indicate and leave when the work is through.”
Miss Spranklin twisted her lips. “Very well. Be here at six every morning, and don’t expect to sneak away until six o’clock at night.”
Chloe nodded obediently. She retrieved a pencil and leather notebook from her basket and made a show of jotting down Miss Spranklin’s instructions.
Tomorrow’s basket would contain a few more surprises to slip to the girls.
Mrs. Spranklin strode back to the refectory. “Pupils, your respite is over. Resume your seats and read quietly whilst I give Miss Brown a quick tour of our school.”
The girls scrambled to their feet.
At Miss Spranklin’s black look, they sat themselves back down at the table and rose quietly as mice, slinking to the schoolroom without a further sound. The headmistress must indeed be a strict disciplinarian if even the favored pupils feared her.
“They’re improving,” Miss Spranklin assured Chloe. “It’s the younger ones that forget their manners whenever there’s a distraction. They’ll get used to you soon enough. The challenge will be minding their deportment one month from today.”
“A month from today?” Chloe repeated, her expression carefully blank.
“It’s our annual summer musicale,” Miss Spranklin explained, “and the one time per year we allow visitors.”
“Parents, you mean?”
“Parents and guardians of current students, yes, as well as prospective students and their parents or guardians. The salon will be overflowing.”
No it would not. The Wynchesters would have rescued the girls and shut down the school by then. In a week or so, all of these children would find themselves in far happier circumstances.
“It is of utmost importance,” Miss Spranklin was saying, “for the adults to be impressed by what they see at the musicale. It is far easier to keep existing business than to secure new clients, but I have discovered that mingling the current with the new allows our existing parents to promote the school for me. The more pleased they are with their child’s progress, the more praises they’ll sing, and the more likely that the interested parties will sign contracts as well.”
That was... clever.
Miss Spranklin was right. Any parent who despaired of educating their child would take one look at these apple-cheeked darlings tapping out melodies at the pianoforte and dream of giving their daughters the same opportunities.
Which meant the boarding school wasn’t a complete lie.
Miss Spranklin got away with exploiting poor children because she also performed a valuable service for wealthier children. The parents who attended musicales and fetched their daughters every year for Christmastide would be pleased indeed with the progress their offspring were making.
And the guardians who dropped off unwanted wards in order to wash their hands of them... would never know just how different the “special” program really was.
“If you’ll follow me,” said Miss Spranklin. “Down that corridor…”
The visit to the kitchen was quick—a mere hand wave indicated the washing area and the servants’ quarters. The oldest of the unpaid girls was fifteen or sixteen, at best. She ordered the others about briskly and efficiently, but with grammar that indicated her lack of education. All of the children held themselves perfectly stiff at the sight of Miss Spranklin, visibly fearful of giving the headmistress any reason for ire.
Chloe committed the names and features of each child to memory. Many were orphans just like she had been. She would not fail them.
The tour was cursory, and over in less than thirty minutes. Miss Spranklin either did not think Chloe required more detailed information, or else did not wish her students out of her sight for more than half an hour. Chloe glimpsed several closed doors, but with
Miss Spranklin at her side, there was no opportunity to try the handles in search of a private office.
“You’ll be here at six o’clock tomorrow morning?” Miss Spranklin asked.
Chloe beamed at her. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Miss Spranklin gave a sharp nod. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“Oh,” Chloe exclaimed. “I almost forgot!”
Miss Spranklin turned around, one eyebrow arched. “What is it?”
Chloe handed her a stack of paper. Miss Spranklin accepted the documents reflexively. Chloe wrapped both of her hands about the handle of her basket so that she could not accept the papers back.
“My references,” she said brightly. “I almost carried them back home with me!”
Miss Spranklin gazed down at them as though willing them to disappear. “I’ll put them in my office.”
She spun away from Chloe, striding back down the corridor and making a sharp left.
Chloe dashed forward silently in order to glimpse which door Miss Spranklin unlocked, then hurried back to her original position before Miss Spranklin came back around the corner, free of Chloe’s references.
“Six o’clock,” Miss Spranklin said briskly. “You’re to begin with French lessons, literature, and composition. I will manage mathematics, comportment, music, dance, and other accomplishments. We will reassess in a fortnight. Perhaps by then, you will be able to take over more of my duties.”
On a pittance. Chloe nodded earnestly. “I look forward to it.”
She looked forward to shutting the operation down. All the way home, Chloe’s heart ached for the terrified children working as unpaid servants. She wished she could tell them it was only for a little while longer, but she could not take the risk.
The rain was sleeting even colder when the carriage reached the Wynchester home. The front door swung open and Graham stumbled outside.
“There you are.” His golden bronze features were pale and drawn, his normally springy black curls plastered to his forehead. “The doctor is here.”
Chloe’s stomach dropped.
Of course the doctor had come. They’d sent for him. He was supposed to inform them that Bean was fine, or would be so shortly. To scold the siblings that their love for Bean had caused them to overreact.
She followed her brother into the house on leaden feet. “Did the doctor say anything?”
Graham closed his eyes and gripped the bottom of the banister to steady himself.
“Smallpox,” he whispered.
The wicker basket fell from Chloe’s limp hand.
“When?” Her voice cracked. “How?”
Her siblings appeared at the foot of the stairs.
“Bean caught it in the past week,” Jacob said grimly.
“As for how, you know Bean and his philanthropic visits...” Elizabeth gripped her cane. “He could have been anywhere.”
Graham’s brown eyes met Chloe’s and he gave a wan smile. “The good news is that it is possible to survive smallpox. If anyone is stubborn enough not to die, it’s Bean.”
“I’m going up to him.” Chloe started up the stairs.
Graham caught her arm. “Smallpox’s bad humors can linger in the air.”
The doctor appeared on the stairs. “You’re not to go near there.”
“Avoid the sickroom altogether?” Chloe’s legs trembled and she gripped the banister tighter. “Stay away from Bean?”
“Baron Vanderbean’s orders,” the doctor said gruffly.
“We’re no good to him or the orphans if we fall ill, too,” Graham murmured.
Chloe’s shoulders curved. If Bean didn’t want them in the sickroom, then they would honor his wishes. “I’ll stay outside the door.”
“No,” the doctor said. “I recommend avoiding this corridor altogether. Smallpox is highly infectious. I’ll need to check all of you, as well. It would be irresponsible and perhaps deadly to put others at risk.”
Deadly. Surely he didn’t mean— Bean—
“We’ll move Bean to the other side of the house until he recovers,” Jacob said. “The empty wing shall be a hospital, catering to our patient.”
“We?” Chloe repeated.
“Jacob and Marjorie both had smallpox as children,” Graham reminded her.
Jacob’s case had been light. Marjorie’s had left pockmarks on her fair skin and taken away a fair portion of her hearing.
“We’ve two maids and a footman who are safe to attend him,” Elizabeth added. “Bean will be well taken care of.”
But not by Chloe. She had been sent home specifically because she could not bear to be far from Bean if he needed her, only to discover she was to be no help at all. The only way Chloe could be of use was by stopping Miss Spranklin.
Chloe touched a hand to her heart and gave a small nod. “For Bean.”
Chapter 7
Two days later, just before dawn, Chloe and her siblings gathered in the sick wing, in the corridor leading to Bean’s closed bedchamber. Their shoulders pressed to the wall separating them from the closest thing most of them had ever had to a father.
Chloe had been the first of the siblings to be adopted and her siblings looked to her for instruction. But she was only the temporary leader. Bean was the leader. He was the glue that held the family together. The Wynchesters were who they were because of Bean. They had never spent so much as a single day without him.
“He will be fine,” Chloe said firmly.
Her siblings bobbed their heads in agreement, but none of them met each other’s gazes.
They’d all lost everything they’d ever had to lose before. What was to stop Fate from snatching away someone they loved all over again?
Jacob cleared his throat. “Marjorie and I will stay with him.”
Marjorie nodded. “We’ll read to him, if he feels up to a little company.”
Chloe’s heart twisted. How she wished she were the one reading to him from his latest novel! Lazy afternoons with a good book had always been a special treat she and Bean had shared.
But she could not be in two places at once, no matter how deeply she wished to.
The children at the Spranklin Seminary needed the Wynchesters’ help. Bean would not want them to waste an opportunity to help someone in need.
“The carriage is here,” Graham said with obvious reluctance.
Tommy and Chloe pulled away from the wall and trudged down the stairs after their brother.
Chloe had peeked through the sickroom door on several occasions.
The truth was, Bean didn’t look good. He was covered in horrible pustules.
That was what smallpox was, Chloe reminded herself. Plenty of people had scars all over their bodies. It had been painful, but they’d lived through it.
Just because Bean was advanced in age didn’t mean...
“Shall we discuss the mission?” Graham said once they bundled into the carriage.
“Yes,” Chloe said fervently.
It was much better to think about things they could change than to dwell on what they could not.
Her siblings looked at her expectantly. It was Bean who guided the planning sessions, Bean who suggested tools and refined strategy.
But until he recovered, it would have to be Chloe. Head of the family for the next fortnight or two, when Bean emerged from the sickroom. She could not let him worry about how things were going without him. The siblings would have to manage without his presence or counsel.
Could they manage without his presence or counsel? What if Chloe missed some detail that Bean would have seen, and they failed to rescue the children before the construction began? What if Bean left the sickbed only to discover Miss Spranklin’s newly enlarged boarding school now housed double the quantity of frightened and exploited children?
No. They had to save them. For the girls’ sake, and for Bean. She straightened her spine.
“Good news.” Her voice barely wobbled. “Fortunately, it’s an old building with the same style of loc
ks as the orphanage. I could pick them in my sleep.”
Her siblings’ tight shoulders visibly relaxed. Missions were proceeding as normal, even if their home life was suddenly anything but.
“As soon as I can sneak in, I’ll find those contracts,” Chloe promised.
“It is deeply satisfying that Miss Spranklin’s self-serving greed works in our favor,” Graham said. “She tries so hard to take advantage of others, it never occurs to her that others might have ulterior motives, too.”
“The bad news is that I scarcely have a moment alone,” Chloe said. “The girls are starving for attention and affection. You should see their faces whenever I try to leave them. Somehow, Miss Spranklin always senses when I step away. She materializes right in front of me in the corridor with a new task I’m to add to my repertoire.”
Worse, Chloe was making personal connections with each of the girls. The ones taking lessons, and the ones scrubbing dishes and cleaning chamber pots. It felt like the orphanage all over again. The days when Chloe had taught herself to pick pockets in order to buy a crust of bread to share with the others. She had been too young and powerless to save them all back then, but she was grown and capable now. She could not allow her attachment to the children to distract her from doing what must be done to rescue them.
Chloe turned to Graham. “What did you learn from the older girls in the scullery?”
He opened the journal he was keeping for this case.
“It’s as we suspected,” he said grimly. “The parents whose children are being taught believe their girls to be in a proper school, and have nothing but respect for Miss Spranklin. They think her a stern headmistress, but the girls come from families that believe in discipline, or are also orphans themselves. The guardians are all happy with their choices.”
“And the others?” Chloe asked.
His jaw clenched. “The worker girls have no parents, nor proper guardians. They were either foundlings, or orphans dependent upon their parish for charity. The people who sent them to the inexpensive, year-round ‘training and placement’ program believe they’ve done well by these girls.”
“Believe they’ve done well?” Chloe repeated, appalled. “Terrified six-year-olds engaged in unpaid labor?”
