by Andrea Kane
“Miss Redmund, their teacher, is expecting us. I suspect she’ll be more than delighted to abandon her lessons.” Scowling, the vicar knocked, leaving Daphne no opportunity to question his apparent disapproval of the school mistress.
“Yes? What is it?”
Seeing the tight-lipped woman who filled the doorway with her ample presence, Daphne’s questions vanished.
“Oh, pardon me. ’Tis you, Vicar. Come in.” Miss Redmund’s frigid tone was as unappealing as her demeanor. Stiffly, she stepped aside, gesturing for the vicar to enter.
Her reproachful gaze fell on Daphne.
“Miss Redmund,” the vicar interjected, guiding Daphne ahead of him. “May I present Lady Daphne Wyndham.”
Miss Redmund’s frosty stare became positively glacial.
“Wyndham? Are you, perchance, related to the Marquis of Tragmore?”
Daphne raised her chin. “The marquis is my father.”
“Look around if you wish, but I’ll save you the trouble. If one of your tenants’s children is missing, he isn’t here.”
“Pardon me?”
“I assume your father sent you. Tell him there’s no need. I haven’t allowed anyone from Tragmore into this school since the marquis ordered me not to. Much as I dislike teaching these ruffians, I need my position. So assure your father I’m adhering to his wishes.”
“Miss Redmund,” the vicar began.
With a gentle shake of her head, Daphne silenced her friend. She understood the significance of the school mistress’s assumption—as well as her father’s tactics—only too well.
“I’m not here as my father’s messenger, Miss Redmund,” she refuted, trying to keep the quaver from her voice. “Were I to have my way, all the children living at Tragmore would be among your students. Unfortunately, I have no say in my father’s decisions.” Tentatively, she held out her basket. “However, I am trying to make a difference, in whatever small ways I can. If you’ll allow me, I’ve brought the children some food and clothing.”
“Oh.” Miss Redmund’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “I see. Well, naturally I assumed…Forgive my impertinence, my lady.” The flabby cheeks lifted in a more cordial, if not actually warm, welcome. “Come in.” She turned, her voluptuous bosom nearly knocking Daphne to the floor. “Children, we have guests.”
Two dozen pairs of curious eyes stared at Daphne.
“If we’re interrupting your lesson—” Daphne began.
“Nonsense,” the teacher broke in hastily, as relieved by the interruption as Chambers had predicted. “Put your slates away, children. The vicar has arrived. And he’s brought a very special visitor, Lady Daphne Wyndham. Say how do you do to Lady Daphne and the vicar.”
Two dozen mumbled “ ’ow do ye do’s” followed.
Swiftly, Daphne assessed the boys and girls who filled the benches surrounding the classroom’s long wooden desk. Ranging in age from approximately five to thirteen years old, they were all terribly thin, all dressed in worn clothing, and all staring at Daphne as if the portrait of Queen Victoria that graced the schoolhouse wall had just come to life before their very eyes.
The familiar ache tugged at Daphne’s heart.
“Would you like me to introduce you, Snowdrop?” Chambers asked, acutely aware of Daphne’s distress.
“No. Thank you, Vicar.” Daphne shot him a quick, grateful look, telling him without words that she was determined to obliterate this particular wall on her own. “I’ve awaited this day for a long, long time.”
“Very well.” The vicar nodded sagely, praying she would accomplish all she sought, praying that his presence could give her the strength she needed to bridge these long-established class lines.
Daphne turned and walked toward the children. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to meet all of you,” she admitted with a shy smile. “The vicar has spoken of you so often I feel we’re already friends.” Deliberately ignoring the ponderous silence, Daphne searched the sea of faces.
Her eyes fell on a lad of about ten. “You must be Timmy,” she guessed, taking in his freckles and unruly black curls, swiftly matching them with the description Chambers had provided. “I hear you have a lizard.”
Meeting the boy’s astonished stare, Daphne held her breath, counting each endless second until he replied.
At last, the freckled face thawed, “ ’is name’s ’enry,” Timmy supplied. “I used to bring ’im to school, but Miss Redmund made me stop.”
“That’s probably because she was afraid Henry would distract you.”
“No, it’s ’cause she was afraid ’e would bite ’er.”
“I see.” Daphne stifled a smile, feeling Miss Redmund’s glare bore through her back. “Tell me, Timmy, do lizards like mince pie?”
He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “No. They like bugs.”
“Oh.” Daphne’s brows drew together as she pondered that dilemma. “Well, Timmy, I didn’t bring any bugs with me, so it’s just as well Henry’s at home. You’ll have to take care of his feeding yourself. However, I did bring some pie. And, since Henry’s not here and wouldn’t enjoy my dessert if he were, would you like some?”
That got the reaction she sought.
A brilliant smile illuminated Timmy’s face. “I sure would!”
“Ye ’ave mince pie in there?” another boy piped up.
“I sure do.” Daphne grinned. “What’s your name?”
“William.”
“William…William.” Daphne tapped her chin thoughtfully. “As I recall, the vicar told me you carried the most firewood of anyone in the class last winter.”
The frail boy of eight sat up proudly. “I can carry a pile taller ’en me from th’ woods to th’ school without restin’ once.”
“That’s extraordinary! And all the more reason you need to keep up your strength.” Daphne went to the basket and lifted its cover. “I have enough pie for everyone. There are also healthy portions of mutton, which I want each of you to take home to your families.”
As she began to unpack the food Daphne felt a small hand tug at her skirts. Looking down, she saw a tiny, blue-eyed girl gazing up at her.
“I’m Prudence,” the tot offered. “What else did ye bring?”
Scrutinizing the child’s frayed dress, Daphne reached into the basket and extracted a gingham frock. “I’ve brought this lovely new dress. Would you like it, Prudence? I think it would fit you perfectly.”
The blue eyes grew huge. “Ye’re givin’ it t’ me?” she whispered.
“It’s yours.”
Reverently, Prudence touched the edge of the hem. “It’s so pretty.”
“So are you.” On impulse, Daphne knelt, hugging the child to her. “And pretty girls need pretty dresses. But you’ve got to promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll wear the dress for my next visit so I can see how lovely it looks on you.”
An awed nod against Daphne’s shoulder.
“Very well. Then take it home.”
“That’s all I ’ave to give ye? Just a promise?” Prudence drew back, eyeing Daphne with the blind hope of a child and the ingrained doubt of deprivation.
“That’s all you have to give me,” Daphne assured her tenderly. She watched Prudence snatch the dress, clutching it as if it were a priceless treasure.
Daphne had seen that poignant possessiveness before.
A never-forgotten memory sprang to her mind of the dark-eyed girl in the House of Perpetual Hope gripping her tattered doll with the same hollow desperation as Prudence now gripped the dress.
Tears clogged Daphne’s throat.
“Prudence,” she blurted out. “Do you have a doll?”
The child winced, but she raised her chin bravely. “I ’ad Martha, but she’s not mine anymore. Mama gave ’er to Jane, so she’d stop cryin’.”
“Jane?”
“My little sister. She’s only two. And Mama can’t get the baby to sleep if Jane cries all the time. So she gave Martha to ’er. Now Jane don’t
cry so much.”
“That was very kind of you, giving so precious a friend away.”
Prudence shrugged. “I didn’t want to. Mama made me.”
“Prudence, I know Martha means a lot to you, but would you be willing to love a new doll?”
“Mama says we can’t pay for a new doll.”
“Let me tell you a secret.” Daphne leaned conspiratorially forward. “I saw the most beautiful doll in the window of the village shop. She has hair the color of spun gold and a pink satin gown with a velvet bow. She also has a terrible problem.”
“What?” Prudence stared, transfixed.
“No one wants her. She’s been in that window for months now, and no one has taken her home. I suspect she’s very frightened. After all, Christmas is a mere two months off, and I can’t think of anything more dreadful for a doll than spending Christmas alone in a store window. Can you?”
“But why don’t anyone want ’er?”
“Most little girls are not as unselfish as you. Most of them refuse to give up their old dolls to love a new one. Thankfully, your heart is bigger than theirs. So, if I brought that new doll with me next time, would you be willing to take her home and love her as you did Martha? You’d be making her incredibly happy.”
“I sure would! I’ll take real good care of ’er and love, ’er a whole lot, I promise.”
Daphne smiled, stroking the smooth soiled cheek that was tilted earnestly toward her. “That’s two promises, then—to wear your new dress and to love your new doll. You’ve more than repaid the cost of the garment. I have but one more favor to ask, and that is for your help. You see, Prudence, I think I’ve brought enough dresses for all your classmates. But I need someone to help me sort out the various sizes and match the right dress with the right girl. Do you think you could manage that?”
Prudence glowed. “I know I can. I’ll match ’em all, Miss—Lady…”
“Daphne. My name is Daphne. Sort of like daffodil, only shorter.”
“But th’ vicar didn’t call ye daffodil, ’e called ye some other flower.”
Daphne grinned. “Snowdrop. The vicar has called me by that name since I was even younger than you.”
“Why?”
“Have you ever seen a snowdrop, Prudence?” Chambers asked, coming to stand beside them.
“They’re white. And pretty.”
“Yes they are,” he agreed. “They’re also delicate—so fragile you fear they’ll never survive, particularly in the dark part of winter when they first emerge. And yet, not only do they survive, but they flourish, fighting their way from the bleakness of the cold earth, opening their buds to the heavens, standing steadfast and proud, and offering the world an extraordinary beauty that none can equal and few can appreciate.”
“Are ye really like that?” Prudence asked Daphne in wonder. Only in some ways,” Daphne answered with an impish grin. “I’m stubborn and I’m proud.”
“Yer also pretty. So’s yer name.”
“Which one? Snowdrop or Daphne?”
“Daphne. I like it. And I like ye,” Prudence concluded decisively.
“I’m glad. I like you, too.” Daphne swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Now, shall we distribute the clothing and the pie?”
A chorus of enthusiastic yeses greeted her request.
Two hours later the basket was empty, the pie was gone, and the atmosphere in the classroom bore no resemblance to the somber aura preceding Daphne’s arrival.
Sitting among the children, Daphne elicited peals of laughter with her recounting of the summer the Tragmore pond creature had terrorized her, its deep, eerie summons permeating her bedroom in the darkest hours of night.
“ ’ow old were ye?” Timmy demanded.
“Five. I was convinced that a horrid monster was dwelling in the pond, just waiting for the right opportunity to carry me off.”
“Did ye tell yer parents?”
A shadow crossed Daphne’s face. “No.”
“So what’d ye do?”
“I finally got up enough nerve to investigate on my own. I crept to the pond after dark, armed with the largest piece of firewood I could carry. My teeth were chattering so loud, I could scarcely hear a thing. But at last I heard my monster begin his terrifying chant. I was torn between confronting him and fleeing when, all at once, he jumped out at me. Or rather, they jumped out at me.” Daphne grinned. “My dreaded monster was nothing more than a family of frogs.”
Timmy let out a whoop. “Did ye feel dumb?”
“Very. It was the last time I allowed an animal to get the best of me. Although recently another came close.”
“When?”
“This past summer.”
“What ’appened?”
“Tragmore acquired a mysterious thief who, night after night, would emerge from the woods unseen, make off with all our berries, and disappear without a trace.”
“I guess, whoever ’e was, yer thief’s belly was full,” William chortled.
“Maybe ’e wasn’t eatin’ the berries. Maybe ’e was bringin’ ’em to someone who’s poor and hungry, just like th’ Tin Cup Bandit does,” Timmy suggested.
Daphne rumpled his hair. “A lovely thought, Timmy. But, in this case, untrue. The Tragmore bandit was very much a four-legged creature whose motives were not nearly as selfless as those of the Tin Cup Bandit.”
“Ye found out who it was?”
“I did. Actually, the berry thief found me. He was fleeing from a pack of hounds who were most anxious to hunt him down. I gave him sanctuary, named him Russet, and we’ve been fast friends ever since.”
“Is Russet a fox?” Prudence asked.
“Yes. He was a tiny cub when I found him, but now he’s nearly six months old and very independent. His home, as it turns out, is a well-concealed hole at the edge of Tragmore’s woods—a spot that happens to be near both my bedroom and the bushes with the plumpest berries.”
“Will ye bring Russet with ye the next time ye come?”
“I’ll try.” Daphne smiled. “Russet has very much a mind of his own. But, despite his arrogance and cunning, he is a most loving pet. For a bandit.”
“ ’ave ye ever met him?” Timmy asked, his eyes wide as saucers.
“Who?”
“The real bandit. The Tin Cup Bandit. Do ye know who ’e is?”
“No, Timmy. No one knows the identity of the Tin Cup Bandit. But, whoever he is, I think he’s wonderful.”
“My father says ’e’s smarter ’n all the blue bloods ’e robs.”
Daphne’s lips twitched. “Thus far, the bandit seems to be proving your father right.”
“ ’as ’e ever robbed ye, Daphne?”
“I? Well, no, I can’t say that he has.”
“Why not? Ye’re rich, ’ow come the bandit ’asn’t been to yer Ouse?”
It was a question Daphne had asked herself time and again, with a mixture of relief and disappointment, each time she read an account of the bandit’s most recent crime. Tragmore was indeed a likely place to strike, given her father’s wealth and blatant enmity for the poor and the bandit’s propensity for targeting both. Inevitably, the philanthropic thief would strike her home, and the prospect left her both terrified and exhilarated.
“Daphne?”
“Hmm?”
“Do ye think the bandit will rob yer Ouse?” Timmy repeated patiently.
“I honestly don’t know, Timmy.”
“Would yer father be real mad if ’e did?”
“That’s a dumb question,” William retorted. “Of course ’e’d be mad. It’s ’is money, ain’t it?”
Eagerly, Timmy climbed over William to sit closer to Daphne. “If the bandit does rob ye, will ye tell us about it the next time ye come?” A worried pucker formed between his brows. “Ye are comin’ back, aren’t ye, Daphne?”
“Of course.” Daphne gave Timmy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Very soon. And, to answer your question, in the unlikely event that the bandit should vis
it Tragmore between now and then, I promise to relay all the details to you.”
“We’d best be going, Snowdrop.” As if the mere mention of Tragmore had cast an ominous cloud over the morning’s jubilation, Chambers stood, frowning as he checked his timepiece. “It is fast approaching midday. Miss Redmund has barely enough time to complete her lesson.”
Daphne knew it wasn’t the conclusion of Miss Redmund’s lesson that worried the vicar. It was Daphne’s prolonged absence from Tragmore—and her father’s reaction to it.
“I suppose you’re right.” Amid moans and protests, Daphne arose, rumpling Prudence’s hair. “Your slates await you, my young friends. As my chores do me. But we’ll visit again next week, if it’s all right with Miss Redmund?” Daphne inclined her head questioningly at the schoolmistress.
“Of course.” Reluctantly, Miss Redmund abandoned the relaxing hearth of the fire, facing her students with all the enthusiasm one would expect from a prisoner facing a firing squad. “We shall look forward to it, shan’t we class?”
A roomful of eager nods and a chorus of yeses.
“Good. Then we’ll see Lady Daphne and the vicar one week from today.”
“And Russet,” Timmy added eagerly.
“Yes—and Russet.” Miss Redmund echoed with a distasteful shudder. “Now, say good day, children.”
“Good day,” the class responded.
“Oh! And Daphne?” Timmy scooted around the teacher, rushing up to tug at Daphne’s skirt.
“Yes, Timmy?” Daphne paused, waiting.
“If ye should ’appen to see the Tin Cup Bandit, would ye tell ’im we think ’e’s an ’ero?”
A soft smile touched Daphne’s lips. “I most certainly shall, Timmy. If I should happen to see him.”
3
“RUSSET, YOU SHOULD HAVE seen their little faces—so sad, so lonely, so hopeless.”
Daphne stroked Russet’s silky head, staring off into the surrounding woods. “How many times have I seen that look of futility? And still I can do nothing. Dolls and dresses won’t fill their bellies and a side of mutton can’t sustain them indefinitely. So what will become of them, Russet? Will Timmy, William, Prudence, and all those other precious children grow up to be like the men and women I saw at Newmarket yesterday? Oh, not like the ones in the fashionable boxes, but like the Gypsies telling fortunes in exchange for food and the homeless picking pockets to survive. Is that how they’re destined to live?”
