Not yet sure she was actually related to his former landlords, Daisy allowed a shrug. “One of our students is Miss Hannah Simpson,” she explained. “Their daughter, I am quite sure.”
Teddy frowned. “Granddaughter, more likely,” he countered. “The Simpsons are rather long in the tooth.”
Suppressing the urge to grin at his comment, Daisy gave a shake of her head. “They had their twins rather late in life,” she explained. “Miss Simpson’s mother, if I’m to believe the on-dit, is actually the daughter of a duke.” She didn’t add that the woman was also her great-aunt. A conversation with her father would clarify the situation. She just wasn’t sure when she would next see the Duke of Ariley.
“We have a duke’s granddaughter among our students?” Teddy asked in disbelief, his awe apparent.
Daisy wondered what he would think when he discovered she was a duke’s daughter—from the same dukedom. “Mrs. Simpson married a commoner,” she countered. “After she was left widowed by her first husband.” She paused, but realized Mr. Streater was waiting for her to say more. “Her firstborn was Gregory Grandby, and his firstborn, Ariel, is a student here at Warwick’s,” she added, only because she wanted to see his reaction.
Teddy blinked. And blinked again. He swallowed. “I wasn’t aware we had such young ladies of the first water,” he murmured. “But doesn’t that mean that... Miss Simpson is aunt to Miss Grandby?”
Daisy allowed a grin. “Indeed she is.” At that point, she was nearly tempted to mention her relationship to the girls, but Mr. Streater straightened and glanced around.
“Forgive me, but I believe I should be taking my leave,” he said, as if he were suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of being alone with the headmistress in her apartment. He could only imagine what Mrs. Fitzgerald might be saying since she had left Miss Albright and him without a chaperone.
“Oh, must you go?” Daisy asked in alarm. When she noticed how he hesitated in getting up from his chair, she added, “There is the matter of some repairs that Mrs. Streater arranged some time ago. They are due to begin next week.”
“Repairs?” Teddy repeated, a brow furrowing. “Oh, just maintenance issues, I suppose?”
“Yes,” she hedged. “The roofer was here to confirm his schedule—”
“Very well. I shouldn’t want any of our young ladies of the first water to be doused by it whilst they are in class,” Teddy joked, a brilliant grin appearing to once again youthen his appearance.
Daisy grinned. “Of course not,” she agreed. “Well, then, as long as you’re in agreement, I shan’t cancel any of her arrangements.” Deciding he wouldn’t object to the work on the windows, she didn’t bother mentioning the schedule for those repairs.
“You can simply give me the invoice,” he said, his face still displaying a pleasing expression.
“I admit to feeling a bit of relief knowing you’re amenable. It will be such an improvement to remove all the buckets from the classroom buildings.”
Teddy blinked. “Buckets?” he repeated, his expression changing to one of concern.
“To catch the rainwater when it comes through the roofs,” Daisy clarified. “Mr. Jenkins sees to emptying them before the instructors start their classes.”
Frowning at the thought of the school’s only male employee hauling buckets of rainwater, Teddy felt a bit of relief knowing the roofs would soon be repaired. “That’s very kind of him,” Teddy remarked, wondering at the bit of alarm he experienced just then. “Does he... does he have to do that often?”
Allowing a one shouldered-shrug, Daisy replied, “Only when it rains, I suppose.”
Feeling a bit off-kilter at the thought that the roofs leaked enough to fill buckets with rainwater, Teddy was about to ask about other problems but decided he had spent too much time alone with her. If Mrs. Fitzgerald talked, there might be a scandal. “Well, I should be taking my leave. If I don’t see you before Saturday, I shall see you at the Bostwick’s for the tea.”
Daisy stood up at the same time as he did, amazed at how easily he was able to get up from the chair without having to use even his one arm. “I look forward to it,” she said as she escorted him to first the apartment’s door and then to the front door of Omega House. She curtsied to his bow and watched as he made his way along the pavement until he could hail a hackney.
Closing the door, Daisy leaned against it and wondered at the sense of disappointment she felt just then. Despite barely knowing the man, she found him easy to converse with, and he seemed equally at ease in the company of women. Had he stayed, they might have discussed topics other than the school, such as his position at the bank or his time in the British Army. She might have learned how he lost his arm, and she might have explained why it was she limped.
She could just imagine the look on his face when she told him she’d been shot in the leg. One didn’t speak of limbs in polite company, of course, but for some reason, she wanted him to know.
And she wanted to know more about him.
The thought had her inhaling a sharp breath. That “wanting to know more”—curiosity coupled with determination—had been the reason she had pursued a position with the Home Office in the first place. Unless she read the news sheets, a gently bred woman would never be privy to what was happening outside her home and her circle of friends. Of what was happening in other parts of England. Of what had happened on the Continent during the wars.
At least, not until someone informed them of the death of a son or brother or cousin or... an uncle.
Daisy squeezed her eyes shut at the thought of her mother’s only brother, dead at the hands of armed forces when they attempted to press him into service. Possessed of a gentle character and the mind of a simpleton, he never would have been able to wield a weapon, much less understand the difference between friend and foe.
A year later, and her mother joined him in death.
Half a lifetime ago, she thought, wondering at the odd timing of her melancholy.
Blinking back the tears as she whispered a curse, Daisy used the back of one hand to wipe her cheek. She swallowed the lump in her throat and cursed again. Only a moment before, she had been so content in the company of Mr. Streater. Comfortable, even, despite the hint of crackle in the air, as if lightning from an impending thunderstorm was about to strike.
As if on cue, the boom of thunder rumbled in the distance, and Daisy gave a start. Her first thought was of the buckets strategically placed in the classroom buildings. Her second thought was of Mr. Streater. She hoped he would be inside a hackney, protected from the impending downpour.
When she remembered his invitation to attend the play, her mood lifted. They would have tea with the other instructors, then change clothes and leave for the theatre. Sit in a private box with the Bostwicks and enjoy the production. Afterwards...
Well, she decided it was better she not imagine what might happen afterwards. These days, her imagination was capable of conjuring images she best not study too closely.
Daisy returned to her apartment and set about hanging the rest of the peach silk on the remaining walls in the parlor.
Despite the rain outside, no water dripped from the ceiling.
Chapter 21
Tea with a Rebel
Thursday
When Daisy completed teaching her third day of dancing, arithmetic, and grammar, she sought out Miss Crofter in the hopes of inviting the sewing instructor for tea. She found the woman straightening spools of silk thread in the room in which the older woman taught her sewing classes. Lining the walls were examples of exquisite stitcheries, simple embroidery samplers, and needleworked chair cushions.
Daisy stared at one such cushion, recognizing the pattern from the dining chairs in the home in which she had grown up. A sampler was nearly the same as one that her mother had done long before Daisy had been born. She was admiring an elaborate embroidery when Charity Crofter finally took note of her presence.
“Miss Albright?” Miss Crofter
said, one hand poised over a spool of thread.
“Yes. I wished to formally introduce myself,” Daisy said as she turned her attention to the woman she thought might be a few years older. She gave a curtsy. Although, now that she saw the sewing instructor up-close, she realized Miss Crofter couldn’t be that much older. Five-and-thirty, perhaps? “And I wish to apologize for not having done so earlier this week. We always seemed to be passing one another on our way to somewhere else.”
Miss Crofter blinked, as if she’d had a response all prepared and then had to rethink what she wanted to say. She curtsied. “It’s very good to meet you,” she managed. Glancing about the room as if to be sure everything was in order, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, Charity finally clasped her hands together and allowed a nod. “I rather imagine you were a bit... overwhelmed these first few days.”
Overwhelmed wasn’t exactly how Daisy would describe her first few days in the position of headmistress, but she figured it was a close approximation. “Only by the need to teach three classes,” she replied. “I have developed a good deal of respect for my sister and what she had to do to prepare for her classes,” she added.
“So the rumors are true? You are Miss Albright’s older sister?” Charity asked, an eyebrow arching up in query.
Rumors? Daisy was quite sure she had been up-front about her relationship to the former instructor of the arithmetic and dancing classes. “I am,” she admitted. “I was about to return to my office to work on some ledgers, but wondered if you might join me for tea instead?”
Charity regarded her with a good deal of suspicion. “To what end?”
Daisy blinked. “To enjoy a cup of tea. Eat a biscuit or two. Become better acquainted,” she replied, deciding the rumors she had heard about Charity Crofter must be true. The woman was a bit prickly.
“It’s true I don’t hold a high opinion of most men,” Charity stated.
The comment seemed to come out without forethought, and Daisy had to resist the urge to blink again. She gave her head a shake instead. “Oh? Did something... happen?” she asked in alarm, moving closer so she stood before the instructor.
The question caught Charity off-guard. “Nothing I’m willing to share,” she replied, her chin rising in defiance. “Water under the bridge, after all,” she added, not immediately aware that by answering as she did, she was admitting that something awful had indeed happened.
“Well, then we shall speak of other topics,” Daisy stated as she made her way to the door. When Charity didn’t follow, Daisy turned and regarded her with an expectant look. “You can join me?” she half-asked.
Charity’s eyes widened before she dared another glance around the classroom. “I suppose,” she hedged.
Daisy angled her head to one side. “If you weren’t coming for tea, pray tell, what would you be doing instead?”
Her head dipping a bit, Charity took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Having tea by myself in my rooms at Alpha House,” she said in a quiet voice.
Daisy frowned. Apparently the instructor didn’t socialize with the other teachers. “Do you prefer to drink tea by yourself?”
Charity lifted her head and regarded Daisy for a long time before saying, “No. Not on this fine day. I shall join you.”
Allowing a nod, Daisy led the way out of the classroom and watched as Charity closed and locked the door using an iron key. Watched as the woman gripped the handle and jiggled it, as if she expected the lock to give way and the door to open.
“Once in a while it doesn’t lock quite right,” Charity said with a shrug. “One cannot be too careful these days,” she added before she dropped the key into her needleworked reticule. The drawstring bag was covered in embroidery to the point it was impossible to distinguish what color fabric was hidden beneath the silk threads.
“You have the right of it,” Daisy replied, moving in the direction of Omega House once Charity had stepped up alongside her. “Your reticule is beautiful. Did you make it?”
Charity dipped her head again. “I didn’t make it, but I did the finishing on it. One of last year’s classes was all about embellishing accessories,” she explained. “Shawls, reticules, slippers and the like. This year we’re spending more time on needlework for decoration. It is my belief that every gentlewoman must be responsible for decorating the walls of their homes, especially if paintings aren’t in abundance,” she went on. “Not everyone can afford paintings.”
Daisy nearly flinched, hoping the instructor wouldn’t find fault with her lack of stitcheries. She did have a few paintings to dress the silk-covered walls in the parlor. Having spent the night before seeing to covering the last wall with the peach watered silk she had brought with her from Ariley Place—she was sure it was leftover from when the walls of her bedchamber had been covered—Daisy had resisted the urge to go straight to bed in favor of rehanging the paintings she had taken down.
“I fear I haven’t completed an embroidery in a very long time,” Daisy said then, deciding it better she be honest with Charity. “I learned how to sew from my mother, of course, but I haven’t practiced recently.” She moved to unlock her apartment door.
“What then do you do with your idle time?” Charity asked, censure apparent in her voice.
Daisy allowed a chuckle. “Last evening, I hung silk on two walls in my parlor,” she said as she pushed open the door and waved a hand to indicate Charity should go in.
She wasn’t disappointed to hear the woman’s inhalation of breath.
Charity turned and did a quick glance around the parlor, her face giving away her confusion. She stepped backward and dared a glance down the hallway before she regarded her hostess with newfound respect. “It’s lovely,” she whispered. “Why, I cannot even...” She turned a bit and looked at the adjacent walls. “I cannot imagine this is the same apartment where Mrs. Streater lived,” she said, before turning to say, “It’s quite lovely.”
“Why, thank you,” Daisy said as she dipped her head. “I suppose I could have waited for the colorman who is to do the other painting here at the school, but it will be two months or more before he will get this far. I decided I didn’t wish to wait that long.”
“Colorman?” Charity repeated, just as she took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs. Given the small size of the parlor, Daisy had only brought the settee and two chairs along with a side table and the low table from her bedchamber at Ariley Place. A small secretary was the only other piece of furniture in the room, a leftover from Mrs. Streater’s furnishings.
Daisy nodded. “It seems Warwick’s is about to undergo a series of necessary renovations,” she acknowledged as she made her way into the small kitchen. Having determined the third figure on Mrs. Streater’s ledger was for the cost of painting the interiors of the buildings—and then only because she had spied two men measuring the buildings earlier that day—Daisy had confirmed a colorman had the school on his list of projects to complete during the summer months. “Roofs are first, of course. Then some windows. Then paint.” She put together the tea set and pulled her last tin of biscuits from the room’s only shelf, wondering which cook she might have to bribe to see to a refill.
Charity’s eyes widened as she removed her spectacles. “You’ve made all these arrangements in three days?” she questioned.
Daisy allowed a chuckle. “As much as I need to, I am not able to perform miracles,” she replied as she set the tray on the low table. “Mrs. Streater acquired the quotes and set the schedule. I merely need to ensure her vision is carried out.” She leaned over and poured the tea. “How do you take your tea?” She couldn’t help but notice how Charity’s eyes focused on the sugar-pot, as if the woman had never seen sugar before.
Charity glanced up. “Will you think me terribly selfish if I say milk and sugar?” she asked, her manner rather timid.
After a moment of forcing herself to display an impassive expression, Daisy shook her head. “Not at all. I take it Mrs. Streater didn’t h
ave sugar?” she queried, hoping to learn about the ancient woman who had run the school for over three decades.
Charity leaned forward. “No sugar, no milk. And rarely did she invite any of us for tea,” she said in a whisper.
Daisy wondered how to respond. On the one hand, the sewing instructor might have been baiting her, to determine if she would be free with her gossip. On the other, she may have just shared an important tidbit about Mrs. Streater.
The former headmistress might have valued her privacy—she was in charge of a number of teachers as well as servants for the school, not to mention the two dozen young ladies who attended classes—and simply preferred to spend her time after classes alone in the tiny apartment.
Before Daisy could ask if Mrs. Streater usually spent her evenings alone, Charity said, “She didn’t believe she should fraternize with the employees.” She took the cup and saucer from Daisy, giving her a nod as she did so.
“But she did occasionally... meet with you? Discuss how your classes were progressing?” Daisy prompted as she offered a plate of biscuits.
Charity shook her head as she took a shortbread. “Never. Oh, she occasionally visited the classrooms, but I think it was more to count how many were in attendance than to actually check up on us. Why, I think I could have been teaching my charges how to... how to gamble and she wouldn’t have been the wiser.”
Until a young lady told her mother she was learning how to gamble at school, and then that would have been the end of that—and probably the school, too, Daisy thought. “But you’re not,” Daisy said, a huge grin forming to indicate she was teasing.
“I’m not, nor have I ever,” Charity agreed, finally allowing a smile. “I did have to teach a mild curse word one might use when one sticks a needle in one’s thumb by accident, though,” she admitted then. “Darnal.”
The Conundrum of a Clerk Page 16
