Daisy wasn’t about to admit dinner gowns were in abundance in her wardrobe. She was quite sure she had never worn some of the frocks she found in her wardrobe at Ariley Place, wondering if perhaps her father had a modiste make them by taking the measurements off one of her old gowns. The joke would have been on him had she gained a stone or two since her time in Kent. Instead, she had lost some weight, given how the outline of her collarbones appeared whilst she dressed the morning of her interview with Mr. Streater. She hoped her elaborate fichu hid the evidence of living on meager funds this past year.
The reminder of those few months when she had gained a bit of weight came back, and she found she had to redirect her thoughts or she would have trouble breathing.
“Do any of the instructors have a home—a husband—to go home to at night?” she asked as they entered Omega House. She used her key to access her apartment and opened the door.
“Only Mrs. Pendergast. She’s quite private. Comes to teach her two classes and leaves when they’re done. None of the rest of us is married,” Jane explained, her gaze going to what she could see of Daisy’s apartment. “Mrs. Fitzgerald has been a widow as long as I’ve known her. We have rooms here at Warwick’s. In Alpha House. But none are quite like this,” she added, her look of surprise coupled with admiration.
“Will you join me for tea?” Daisy offered, hoping her hunger wasn’t apparent in how her stomach growled just then. She hadn’t had breakfast, and she still didn’t know where the servants ate their meals. “And a biscuit or two? I managed to steal a few before I left my last accommodation.”
Jane’s eyes widened as she took in the headmistress’ parlor, wondering if Daisy was teasing or if she really had made off with a tin of biscuits. “I was thinking about finishing a painting for tomorrow’s class on impressionism, but I do believe I have time for a dish or two of tea,” she replied.
Daisy grinned. “Good. Because my next class isn’t until two, and I have some questions I’m hoping you can help answer,” she said as she made her way into the small kitchen, rather glad to see a servant had seen to putting the kettle on the stove. Her instructions to have hot water at the ready had been heeded, it seemed.
“Before I do that,” Jane replied as she glanced around the parlor, nearly doing a complete turn as she took in the furnishings and artwork on the walls. “You have to tell me what you did with Miss Streater’s apartment. I was sure this is where it used to be located.”
Loading a silver salver with a teapot, cups, and saucers, Daisy continued to grin. “I had it replaced with this one.”
Jane allowed an almost unladylike snort. “In one day’s time? I hardly think so,” she chided.
Moving to set the tea tray on the lower table in front of the velveteen settee, Daisy gave a nod. “My father said all the furnishings in my bedchamber were mine to do with as I pleased, so I had them moved here yesterday afternoon,” she said, secretly wondering how long it would be before the Duke of Ariley learned she had taken nearly everything from her bedchamber and the adjacent sitting room. She had left a thank you note addressed to him with word of where the furnishings were located should he change his mind. “It sometimes amazes me what can be accomplished when one tips the labor.” She paused and allowed a grimace at seeing the walls. “I still have to hang some silk, though. These walls are hideous.”
Her hands clasped behind her back, Jane admired a small music box on a side table before turning her attention to an empty forest glass vase on another. Then her gaze went to one of the paintings on the wall, a landscape depicting an area in Derbyshire. “This is beautifully done,” she remarked. “Do you know the artist?”
Daisy’s gaze went to the painting, remembering the day her mother had set up an easel on the lawn of Cherrywood, the Burroughs’ country estate in Derbyshire, and worked on the painting. Dotted with sheep and criss-crossed lines of rock walls, the green hills looked vibrant under a morning sun. “My mother. She didn’t paint often, but when she did...” She allowed the sentence to trail off, a lump having formed in her throat.
“She did well,” Jane remarked. “Her strokes are so tiny. So precise.”
Daisy motioned for Jane to take a seat, and she took the chair opposite the settee. “Your father must live in town, then,” Jane said, nodding to Daisy’s query as to whether or not she wanted sugar in her tea.
“He does. Has for years. Same house as my grandfather and his father were born in, I think,” Daisy said as she helped herself to a cup. “Now. I’ve gone over the roster of students and wish to know all I need to know about the girls.”
Jane lifted her head from almost sipping her tea. “I’m not sure there’s much to know,” she hedged before returning her attention to the tea. “Daughters of the wealthy, mostly. A few who can claim barons for fathers. All very well behaved. Except for those jealousies I mentioned earlier.”
Daisy blinked. A finishing school with this many girls in one place at the same time had the potential for disaster. Although she and Diana usually got along just fine when they were growing up, they had also had their share of fights. “Any... any other petty jealousies? Warring factions? Fighting?” she prompted.
Shaking her head in denial, Jane said, “None. Besides, Mrs. Streater wouldn’t have allowed it. If the mothers found out...” She allowed the sentence to trail off, her eyes rolling when she considered how a bad word from any one aristocrat or wealthy patron might end additional enrollments. “We’re a respected institution, and have been for a very long time. Some of the girls who attend here are daughters of women who attended when they were this age.” She paused a moment. “Although, I can admit there is always a bit of a... chill... when the girls return from their holiday break at Christmastime.”
Straightening on the settee, Daisy’s eyes widened. “You’re not referring to the houses being cold, I imagine. What happens when the young ladies are on holiday?”
Jane angled her head back and forth. “Some get engaged to marry. Some receive expensive gifts and brag a bit. Some don’t come back. Some don’t get to go anywhere at all.”
Daisy furrowed a brow. The entire time she had been growing up, their father had made sure they had magical Christmastides. His respect for his German ancestry meant they always had a huge yule log burning for the entire holiday. An evergreen tree dressed with bows and candles. Wreaths on the doors. A sprig of mistletoe hanging in the vestibule, put there just so her father would have an excuse to kiss her mother whenever they returned from their trips to town or a horseback ride. “How unfortunate,” she murmured. “Well, perhaps we can see to decorating one of the houses for the occasion,” she suggested. “Give us all a place to congregate whilst everyone else is gone from town.”
Jane merely nodded. “That sounds rather festive,” she agreed.
Pulling the list of students from a pocket—she had copied the roster and kept it with her to review in the hopes of learning more about the families—Daisy unfolded it. “I am sure I recognize some of these names,” she said. “Yet others have me curious.”
Helping herself to a biscuit, Jane asked, “Such as?”
“Miss Hannah Simpson. I haven’t yet met her, so I’m not sure which one she is.”
“She’s a twin, so her brother is off at Eton, of course,” Jane replied. “Dark hair, just like yours, and a perfect English miss. She has an excellent disposition, perfect posture, an eye for good art, and can speak French fluently.”
For a moment, Daisy thought Jane might be describing a Thoroughbred. In a way, she probably was. “Apparently she doesn’t board here, but is always punctual, according to the records. Seems she hasn’t missed a day, either.”
Jane nodded. “That would be because her father drives her here,” she said with a grin. “The Simpsons don’t live very far away. Just over in Kingly Street, near Mrs. Pendergast’s terrace. Mr. Simpson drove her here in a cabriolet this morning, and he will be waiting for her on his red phaeton when she finishes my class this afternoo
n,” she added with an expression of amusement. “In the winter, it will be a town coach, and in the spring, it’s sometimes a landau. The gentleman seems to own every kind of equipage ever made.”
“A man of some means, and yet... he drives his daughter? Both ways?” Daisy questioned. Her eyes widened when she realized she might have paid witness to him pulling away from the curb that morning. “Is he that... older gentleman? Tall, rather dapper, gray at the temples?”
Jane gave a start before she nodded. “He’s old enough to be her grandfather, to be sure, but he is her father. Her mother is older, too, but ever so elegant.” Her brows suddenly furrowed, and she stared at Daisy a moment. “Pardon me, but just for a moment there, I thought perhaps you two could be related.”
Daisy blinked. Perhaps they were. A memory of hearing about one of her great aunts—Sophia Burroughs Grandby—running away from Merriweather Manor to spend the rest of her life with the man she loved—a former butler for the estate—had her heart racing just then. And a grin coming to her face. “Perhaps we are,” she replied, making a mental note to ask her father if Sophia was Hannah Simpson’s mother. She looked at the list again. “What of Lady Lucida? Fletcher?” She leaned over and offered more tea, which Jane accepted.
“Father was a baron, but when he died, the barony went to his brother. Mother’s name is Margaret. A very tall woman, I might add. She managed to remarry a count or some such over in Europe, which is why Lucida is now ‘Lady Lucida’.” She arched a brow, as if she was hinting the title wasn’t the girl’s birthright. “The mother is good friends with Lady Pettigrew, I think only because she likes to keep up on the gossip.”
Daisy continued to grin, familiar with every name the art instructor mentioned. As for gossip, there was The Tattler for that. “And what about Lucida? Is she, too, a gossip?”
Jane allowed a shrug. “Truth be told, I believe she just wants to marry a nice gentleman and set up her own household.”
“To escape from her mother, perhaps?” Daisy guessed.
“Indeed,” Jane agreed with a nod.
“Hmm.” Daisy looked at the list again. “Now here’s a familiar name. Grandby. Ariel Grandby.” She looked up. “But not ‘Lady Ariel’.”
The art instructor helped herself to another biscuit. “She’s one of Gregory Grandby’s daughters. The oldest, I believe. Her mother attended here back in the day,” she offered, and then she gave a shrug. “Ariel is schooled in the natural sciences. All the Grandby children are, courtesy of their father. But Ariel also has talent. In fact, I haven’t seen such skills in a painter since we hosted Lady Plymouth here.”
Plymouth? Daisy nearly repeated, doing her best not to react to hearing the name of the marquess to whom she had been a mistress only a year ago. She had been undercover at the time, the position of mistress one she had accepted if only to prove her worth to the Home Office.
Marchioness of Plymouth. Lady Samantha had that name now. That title. Daisy had half a mind to ask if Jane knew anything about the marquess and his bride.
Not that I ever expected to marry the man.
“Spoiled rotten?” Daisy guessed about Ariel, managing to exhibit a pleasant disposition despite the reminder of the man she had fallen in love with. The man who had fathered what might have been her only child, if fate hadn’t intervened and taken that babe away well before its time.
“With nine brothers and sisters?” Jane countered with a grin, referring to Miss Ariel Grandby. “The opposite, in fact. Sweet disposition. Makes friends with everyone. You would never know her father was rich as Croesus. From what I know of her mother, she gets it from her. She was a Wellingham, you see.” Jane said this last as if Mrs. Grandby was no longer of the Wellingham line that included an earldom. “And if Lord Torrington’s countess hadn’t given birth to twins that included a boy, then it was likely Gregory Grandby would be the next Earl of Torrington.”
Although Daisy knew all of this and a bit more, given the Grandbys and Burroughs went back many generations, she didn’t offer the information. “Well, there are other names on the list, but I think I shall just learn what I must as I teach them arithmetic or dance,” she said lightly.
Jane gave a nod as she accepted another refill of her tea. “Now, may I ask that you return the favor and answer a question for me?” she queried.
Daisy tried hard not to stiffen at hearing the art instructor’s words. “Of course,” she replied, keeping a pleasant expression on her face.
“How is it you know Mr. Streater? Enough so that you could land this position so soon after it was vacated?”
Feeling a bit of relief—she feared Jane might have known more about her than she had let on when they first met—Daisy allowed a shrug. “I know I didn’t explain everything when I mention it earlier, but I was approached by Lady E, of ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’,” she admitted. “Apparently, Mr. Streater spoke with her after his mother died and requested she find a replacement for his mother as soon as possible. Lady E had my application—”
“You were wounded in the wars?” Jane asked, astonishment evident in her voice.
“I was... I was part of the... the effort to defeat Napoleon,” Daisy managed to get out.
“And you lost your husband.”
Daisy shook her head. “No. I’ve never been married,” she replied. “But remember, Mr. Streater is hosting the tea on Saturday so he has a chance to meet everyone. He originally thought to discover if any current teachers wanted the opportunity to interview for the position.”
Jane frowned. “None of us would want it,” she said with a shake of her head, repeating what she had inferred earlier that day. “Especially now that all these workmen will be about, seeing to the repairs. I rather imagine it will be six months before everything is complete and the school is back to new.”
An alarm bell went off in Daisy’s head. “Six months?” she repeated.
“Complete replacement of the roofs?” Jane countered. “Then all the work on the windows?” She allowed a sigh. “I rather doubt there is an instructor here who wants anything to do with managing all that... chaos,” she whispered, as if the word were some sort of curse.
Well, it might be, Daisy thought just then.
“I see what you mean, of course,” Daisy agreed. She allowed a sigh. “Well, I suppose I should be getting back to my desk,” she hinted when she saw that Jane’s cup was once again empty. “Perhaps we can do this every week? As an opportunity for you to share any concerns you might have,” she suggested.
Jane blinked. “I would like that very much. Mrs. Streater never socialized with any of us.”
Not a bit surprised to hear Jane’s comment, Daisy allowed a nod. “Until we can find another dance and arithmetic instructor, I am simply another teacher here at Warwick’s,” she replied. “I don’t wish to be seen in the same light as Mrs. Streater.”
Jane moved to stand up. “Then I look forward to our next tea together,” she replied. “For I never once had tea with the former headmistress.”
And with that, Miss Jane Betterman took her leave of Daisy’s apartment.
The headmistress helped herself to a biscuit and ate it in two bites, remembering how her collarbones showed in relief. When she ate another, she thought of what she would tell Mr. Streater when next she saw him. When she ate the last on the plate, she remembered the odd ledger she had found in the large mahogany desk and wondered if what Jane had just told her held the key to the entries in that ledger.
Repairs were about to begin at Warwick’s. Repairs that would take a good deal of time. She could only hope Mr. Streater was well aware of what was about to transpire.
Chapter 17
Life After a Baby
Later that Tuesday evening
George bent over his dozing wife’s body and planted a kiss on the top of her head. Elizabeth stirred, giving a start when she realized she still held her daughter in one arm. The infant, long asleep after having had her fill, was still at her breast.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, my love,” George whispered.
“Is something wrong?” Elizabeth asked as she straightened in the overstuffed chair. With dusk having settled beyond the windows, their bedchamber was cast in near-darkness.
“Of course not. But I wanted to let you know I must go to the club tonight. It seems we’re to vote on a new member,” George explained softly. “Or I wouldn’t bother going.”
Rubbing an eye with the back of her knuckle as she struggled to wake up completely, Elizabeth gave a nod of understanding. “Are you planning to blackball him?” she asked, a look of worry replacing her sleepy expression. With membership in White’s so limited these days—there simply wasn’t room for all those who were recommended for membership—votes only happened when a current member died or resigned his membership.
And no one ever resigned.
George furrowed a brow. “I don’t know. Truth be told, I’m not sure who we’re voting on this evening.” He hadn’t been to his men’s club since Christine’s birth, and although he didn’t miss the occasional evening outing, he decided it was time he return to his regular schedule lest his acquaintances forget he existed.
Elizabeth reached out and captured a few of his fingers in hers. “I could not have asked for a more attentive father for David and Christine,” she said in a whisper. “Nor husband for me,” she added, one elegant eyebrow arching in a suggestive tease.
George blinked. There was a time when a comment like that from Elizabeth Carlington might have earned her a trip to Bedlam, but in the three years since he had married her, Elizabeth had matured into a fine wife and a mother who was far more involved with raising their children than he would have expected when he first learned of her from his mistress.
They still engaged in a bit of frolic now and then. He would play the sword-wielding masked bandit to her negligée-clad maiden, chasing her about until he had her cornered. Then he would use the tip of his foil to snip away the cloth-covered buttons of her robe until the garment fell from her naked body. Dropping the foil, he would carry her off to his bed and pretend to have his way with her—rather difficult when she seemed to give as good as she got—although they did tend to fall asleep earlier these days.
The Conundrum of a Clerk Page 13
