Mrs. Carrots shuddered. She examined the injury, checked to see no one was listening, then whispered seriously. “Have the banns been posted?”
Elisa’s throat tightened. “I suppose. If they haven’t, they will be, after last night’s engagement party, but that still doesn’t mean…,”
“Of course it does, child.”
Elisa whispered hopefully, “The wedding is not until June. There are a hundred young men at this school, old enough for marriage. If just one of them falls in love with me…,”
“Stop it, child! We have discussed this before. You are seventeen. You cannot disobey your father. If you were twenty-one, the law would be on your side. Until then, you must do as he wishes, and he wishes you to marry, next summer. You told me you have no dowry. The man must be extremely wealthy, to take a wife with no dowry.”
“Don’t men ever marry for love?”
Mrs. Carrots smiled sadly. “A few do, but it’s very rare.”
Lucy Ann hurried up the stairs. “Come on Elisa! We’ll be late for dinner and I’m famished.”
Mrs. Carrots gently pushed Elisa. “Go on, dear. Get dressed. I’ll give you the name of your escort when you come down.”
Elisa’s face lit up. “Who do I have?”
“When - you - come - down. You’re the last to arrive, so hurry. Your trunk is in your room.”
“Please.”
“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Carrots took a card with Elisa’s name on it. Turning the card over, she read, “Colin Edwards, reading medicine.”
Elisa smiled excitedly. “He’s going to be a doctor. Doctors can make a lot of money.” She raced up the stairs.
Mrs. Carrots sadly shook her head. Minutes later, ten excited young ladies fell into line: Elisa and Lucy Ann were the last. Mrs. Carrots gave them a cursory inspection, then marched ahead. The girls followed, two by two, like goslings behind a goose, joining eight similar parties on their way to Heathhead School’s opening ceremony.
When they reached the great hall, Elisa looked through the large windows, into the foyer. She grabbed Lucy Ann’s arm. “Look at all those young men. We must know some from last year. Surely one of them…” She stopped herself from saying more. Lucy Ann had modern views of academia, but traditional moral values. Elisa had never told her she was betrothed to a monster and hoped to elope with anyone else who would have her.
One-by-one, the girls walked up to the door. A stuffy master bored from years of the same routine, asked each girl’s name. After checking his list and matching her with her assigned escort, he called the young man’s name, and sent the couple into dinner.
When Elisa was introduced to handsome Colin Edwards, her mouth dropped open. She looked up into clear blue eyes and a dazzling smile, complete with dimples. His shining golden hair looked like an angel’s halo.
Colin appeared equally delighted with beautiful, slim Elisa. When he offered his arm, she curtsied, blushed becomingly, lowered her eyes, took his arm, and said nothing. Colin smirked approvingly, and Elisa was thrilled. They joined the procession of young couples entering the hall, filling up long tables. Colin held Elisa’s chair, then sat next to her. As other couples joined them, Colin chatted with the boys, ignored comments from the girls, but occasionally smiled at Elisa.
She longed to join the conversation, but forced her gaze to stay low and her mouth to stay shut. If she kept still, she might keep his approval.
*
Robert Dennison arrived at the school with one thing on his mind: Are my pictures all right? He carried his coat and battered suitcase into the masters’ house, hurried up the creaky stairs, and practically ran into a slight, elderly man in a valet’s uniform, sweeping the second floor landing.
“So sorry, sir.” The man pulled his broom and dust pan aside. “I’m Longworth, the house steward. You must be Mr. Dennison, the new art-master.”
“That’s right. How-do-you-do?” Robert smiled and extended his hand.
Unused to such familiarity, Longworth stared at the hand before taking it. “I’m very well sir. Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure. Welcome to Heathhead School.” As he pumped Robert’s hand, a smile spread across his face. Years seemed to fall away. “I’ve tidied your room, sir. The water pitcher’s filled, and there’s a carafe and glass on your bed table. You’ll ‘ave clean towels and bed linens every week and fresh water every day. If y’ wish a hot bath, there’s a tub in the kitchen. I got to know at least a day ahead, in case the other masters want one a’ the same time. There’s ten o’ y’ in the house. The chapel bell just rang, sir, so you’ve only got an ‘alf hour ‘til dinner. Headmaster’s a stickler for punctuality.”
“Just as he should be. Thanks, Longworth. You’re very kind.”
Longworth stared apologetically at the floor. “You’re the only master on the fourth floor, sir. I’m in the other room. ‘ope y’ don’t mind bein’ on the same…,”
“I’m sure you’ll be excellent company. Thanks again, Longworth.”
“Yer very welcome, sir. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
“Will do.”
At the top landing, Robert saw his name, “Dennison,” in a door plate. Pleased that he was official, he turned the key in the door and pushed it open. Dropping his suitcase in front of the wardrobe, he tossed his coat on the bed, filled the water glass and drank thirstily. Pleased to see a new bar of soap on the wash stand, he emptied the water pitcher into the basin, removed his shirt cuffs, loosened his tie, and carefully washed his hands and face.
He looked into a small wall mirror, combed his hair, and spread his still new moustache hairs as far over his upper lip as they could stretch. He pulled his cuffs back on, straightened his tie, and studied his reflection. Like it or not, he was a school-master. He practiced scowling into the mirror, and burst out laughing. If frowning was a prerequisite of the job, he was lost before he even started. He left the room, deciding not to lock the door. There was nothing in there worth stealing.
Remembering Longworth’s warning about tardiness, Robert hurried down four flights of stairs. Once outside, he trotted along the river path, past academic buildings and the boys’ lodging houses. He crossed the bridge to the girl’s side, past the girl’s lodging houses, and the sunflower garden, to the art studio at the edge of the woods. Before turning from the main path, to the studio entrance, he glanced back to see young ladies come out of Nicholas House. Among them was the beautiful copper-haired girl and her academic friend. He fumbled in his pocket for the door key Mrs. Carrots had given him, then walked around the corner and hastily opened the studio door.
Four large wooden crates stood in the middle of the floor. Shipping instructions were written in French and English, and addressed to Mrs. Amelia Carrots. Thank God, and thank you, Mrs. Carrots! Dying to rip the crates apart and unpack his pictures, he checked for external damage. There was none. After dinner, he would change from this new suit and unpack. The chapel bell rang. He sped outside. Remembering the very valuable things in the studio, he locked the door and pocketed the key. He hurried back up the path, slipped into the great hall, and found the masters’ table, seconds before the headmaster said grace.
The food arrived and Robert wolfed down bland mutton, boiled potatoes, and soggy vegetables. School food had not improved since he was a boy. At least it was free and plentiful. Straining to see around the room, he noticed a few tables with young men and young ladies together. Younger boys and girls ate at separate tables, with teachers of their same sex. The few women he could see were plain and simply dressed.
A thickly bearded master leaned across the table and spoke with his mouth full. “You’re new, must be the Latin master. I’m Canterville, Maths.”
Robert half-rose, extending his hand. “No. Art. I’m Rob…,”
“Art? Does one actually teach art?” Declining the handshake, Canterville waved his fork, then stabbed it back into his mutton. “Keeps the young ladies busy, I suppose.”
Nine other masters mumbled thei
r names and specialties. Most seemed put out that they were sitting with a non-academic master. Only the man next to him smiled and offered his hand. “Jenkins, Sciences. How ja do.”
Smiling gratefully, Robert shook his hand. “Dennison, Art… I’m afraid.”
Dr. Jenkins spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Dr. Theodore told me you’re a fine painter. Studied in Paris. Being a scientist, I’m interested in color spectrums. Like to learn more. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to give me a lesson.”
The other masters looked confused, and exchanged troubled glances. Robert was pleased, and amused. They obviously respected Dr. Jenkins’s opinions. He nodded. “You’re very kind, Dr. Jenkins, and… of course. I would be delighted.”
Another master spoke to no one in particular. “Hear about our lad, Malcolm Robertson? Got drummed out of the cavalry. Story is, he fell off his horse. More likely, something to do with the brigadier’s wife.” He coughed out a laugh, and the conversation moved to unpleasant gossip about students and faculty Robert had never met. His thoughts drifted back to his pictures. I can hang some in the studio. There are plenty of easels. I can work in the morning, before the students arrive…
“Do you play cricket?” A monocled classics-master glared at Robert.
Robert woke from his day dreaming. “Sorry?”
“You look fit. Do you play cricket?”
“I did. In school. It’s been a long time. I don’t…,”
“Capital!” He turned to a colleague. “Canterville! The art-master’s mine. What’s your name, again?”
“Um, Dennison.”
The classics-master waved his fork. “Dennison’s mine!”
“Hold on a minute, Hargrave.” Canterville spat a carrot slice onto his gray beard. “I get first pick of the new men.”
Robert cringed.
Dr. Jenkins whispered, “So it goes, Dennison. A minute ago they didn’t want to know you. Now you’re a bone between hungry dogs.”
Robert stifled a laugh.
While the other men argued, Dr. Jenkins continued, “Don’t worry about the cricket. Last year the faculty teams didn’t organize until spring.”
The headmaster stood for his annual welcoming address. There was a rattling of glasses and silverware, then silence, as everyone sat back to listen. He introduced four new masters, Robert being the last. He stood, smiled, sat down, and wished he could leave.
*
When Elisa saw Robert, the man from the train, she wanted to sink through the floor. She had totally embarrassed herself, first by nearly fainting, later by prattling with Lucy Ann. If she had known he was a school-master, she would have stayed silent, like a proper lady.
Colin grinned at Robert, whispering, “I must meet him. My father’s making me read medicine, but I love to paint.”
Elisa spoke for the first time. She whispered, “I love to paint.” It was a total lie. She had not painted anything since she was a baby in the nursery.
Colin looked pleased. “Do you, really? How charming.” He turned away, to speak to a boy at the far end of the table.
Her heart pounded. A woman should share her husband’s interests, and Colin loved art. Sir John wanted her to be a lady. He made sure she had learned everything else. She could already sing, play the piano, recite, speak French, and embroider, but she had never studied art. Ladies should know how to draw and paint. The art studio was on girls’ side. After dinner, Colin led Elisa from the hall, into the cool night air. There was still time before the bell rang for house-hours, so they walked by the river. Fireflies flashed in the mist, crickets chirped, and water lapped softly along the shallow river bank. Colin skimmed a stone, then stood still, his brows pulled together in thought. Elisa watched silently, wondering if he would speak.
After taking a deep breath, he finally said, “Miss Roundtree, I hope you don’t think me a lout with no manners, but I was wondering…,”
Elisa swallowed. “What is it, Mr. Edwards?” She held her breath.
“You are a very sweet girl.”
She exhaled.
He nervously toyed with a stone. “You’re also the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
This was wonderful. She smiled demurely.
“I know we just met a couple of hours ago, but…” He took a deep breath. “Could we possibly call each other by our Christian names?”
“Oh, yes!” She sighed with relief. “Yes, please… Colin.”
“There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how to say your name.”
“Oh, that.” She shook her head. “It’s a German name. It’s supposed to be pronounced: El-ee-zza. Some people say El-ee-ssa. I really don’t mind.”
“Well, thanks, El-ee-zza.” He held out his hand.
She tentatively reached for it. The chapel bell rang and she jumped back. “You’ll have to run. Go quickly or the bridge monitor will give you a black mark.”
“Can’t I walk you back to your…?”
“No! You must hurry. Please!”
“All right.” He took a few steps, then hurried back, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and joined other young men and boys racing for the bridge.
Startled and thrilled, her fingers touched the spot he had kissed. Her mind raced. This was exactly what she had hoped for, a fantastically handsome, rich young man who might fall in love with her. She had to convince her father to enroll her in art classes.
*
As soon as Robert Dennison was able to leave the great hall, he crossed back over the foot bridge, hurried to his room, changed into his old suit, and returned to the art studio. Moonlight shone through the skylight and large windows, dimly illuminating the four large wooden crates. Heart pounding, he struck a match, held it over a wall sconce and turned up the gas. Waiting for the popping sound, he pulled his hand away, just as gas ignited with a sudden hiss. After adjusting the flame and throwing away the match, he lit a gaslight on the far side of the room, and rummaged through a drawer of framing supplies for a hammer.
Very gently, he pried opened the first crate. Biting his lip in anticipation, he removed the top boards and packing rags. Inside, like buried treasure, he found a pile of mounted canvases wrapped in individual cloths. Slowly and carefully, he slid his fingers around the first picture and lifted it from the crate. It weighed almost nothing. He eagerly held the picture under a gaslight, and scrutinized every inch. Thank God! It was perfect.
He allowed himself an extra moment, enjoying the image of a voluptuous nude woman smiling seductively from rumpled bed sheets. He whispered to the picture, “Who are you with tonight, Margot?”
He suddenly remembered that any passerby could see in the windows. He turned the painting toward the wall. He opened one of the floor-to-ceiling storage cupboards, climbed on a foot stool, then placed the painting on the highest shelf. After unpacking the rest of his pictures, he stored all his nudes on high shelves, where no one could see them. Street scenes, landscapes, and pictures of books, flowers, and fruits were hung on picture hooks screwed into the walls. Unfinished pictures were stored on shelves or propped on corner easels, so he could work on them when classes were not in session.
He was startled by a knock on the door. It opened and Mrs. Carrots stood on the threshold. He hurried to greet her. “Mrs. Carrots, thank you a thousand times.”
She took both his hands, glanced eagerly around the room, and saw his pictures on the walls. “They arrived safely? The crates looked sound.”
“They’re perfect.” When they had last met, she wore an oversized gardening smock. Tonight, prim and corseted in a stylish gray frock, her blue-black hair upswept in a pristine twist, she looked the part of an attractive mathematics-mistress.
She hurried to study a large painting on the wall. “This is Paris. I’ve never been.” He eagerly watched her reaction. She stood back smiling. “It’s wonderful. I can practically smell the street. There’s wonderfully strong coffee, fresh rolls, putrid garbage, and a
very old horse.”
He laughed, “Yes, all of that, and those windows -- that garret was my home. I miss it.”
She walked from picture to picture, taking time examining each one. “These are wonderful, even in this bad light. Be careful of that one, it’s too low. Some child is liable to knock it off the wall.”
He quickly removed it. “Right, thanks. I’ll hang it higher, tomorrow.” He put it on a shelf.
She pointed to the highest shelves. “Are those your nudes?”
“Yes, they’re hiding.” He laughed and carefully brought them down, one at a time. She moved away from the windows. He glanced out, into the dark night. “Does anyone prowl around at this hour?”
She studied the image and smiled. “It’s doubtful, but possible. A girl in my house is fond of late night strolls through the woods. She climbs down the trellis outside her window.”
“Is that allowed?”
“Not at all, but she comes from such a restrictive household, I turn a blind eye.”
“Does she know that you know?”
“Certainly not. That would spoil her fun. We’ve no wild beasts in our wood, so I believe she is safe.” She chuckled, studying the painting. “This woman is marvelous. What’s her name?”
Robert sighed. “Margot.”
“She’s clever, I can tell, and very droll. Your special friend?” He colored red and she laughed. “There’s my answer. You must miss her.”
He sighed again. “I do, terribly.” He exchanged her painting for another. “Here’s Sonja -- A stupid girl, but very sweet.”
“And very beautiful. Have you any portraits of clothed models?”
He hung his head. “No. All my clothed portraits were either commissioned, or given as gifts. It never occurred to me that I’d need any.”
Mrs. Carrots raised an eyebrow. “Well, art-master, if you wish commissions, painting your students, these samples will not do.”
“Spot on.” He laughed, and carried the paintings back up the stepladder to their high shelves.
Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1) Page 13
