A School for Brides

by Patrice Kindl

  “Wolfie! Bad, bad dog! Oh Wolfie, how could you behave so?” wailed Miss Pffolliott. “Just when I wanted you to make a good impression!” She dragged the dog back into the house by the simple expedient of grasping at the loose skin around his neck and tugging. “I am so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry, Miss Hopkins, Miss Winthrop! Oh, Miss Quince, I do apologize! It is only that he is so friendly, you see!” And she burst into tears.

  Here Mr. Godalming interceded, explaining the situation to the astounded inhabitants of the school. “And I thought Wolfie here might be quite useful in the event that a house-breaker came prowling around,” he concluded.

  “Or a fox after the chi-ickens,” sobbed Miss Pffolliott.

  Miss Quince was the first to recover. She gazed at the open front door whence Miss le Strange had made her hurried departure.

  At last she spoke. “I should say that Wolfie has already proved his value.”

  21

  THE HEADMISTRESSES OF the Winthrop Hopkins Academy dispatched Robert to the dower house at Gudgeon Park the next day with a note of apology. The dog, they explained, was new to their establishment and not yet trained. As he was intended to be a guard dog, they must ask their neighbors’ indulgence while they struggled to curb the animal’s rather savage propensities. No doubt, in time it would be safe to accept visits from people the dog did not know, but for the moment they must ask for a period of forbearance until the animal settled in.

  Miss le Strange, who received this apology in the morning room, regarded Robert with hatred. Of course it was a coincidence that this new guard dog—to frighten off house-breakers, they claimed—had first arrived as she was attempting to detach her pupil from the school. Oh, certainly.

  “You ought to be in prison,” was her reply, and she left the room. Robert, who had managed to forget about the necklace and the unpleasant emotions associated with it, regarded her retreating back with concern. Was the poor lady perhaps going a bit daft?

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  Miss Franklin was now engaged in a contest of wills with Cuthbert the gardener, who managed the hothouse at the school. It was Cuthbert’s unenlightened opinion that this building, so costly to build and to heat, was only to be used for the purpose of providing out-of-season fruits and vegetables, and not for experiments, no matter how scientific. As the growing season was drawing to a close, Miss Franklin’s eye had fallen upon the hothouse as the proper place to begin her inherited variability studies.

  It took quite an hour’s argument, during which she trailed him relentlessly as he went about his autumn tasks, to convince him that her experiments could be combined with his goal of supplying bunches of grapes, tender lettuces, and French beans for the table during the winter months. Perched on a limb harvesting late apples, he found himself quite literally treed, with Miss Franklin haranguing him about pea plants on the ladder below. Unable to descend the tree without pacifying her, in the end he capitulated.

  Perhaps, perhaps, if Miss Hopkins agreed, then a small section of the space might be allotted to Miss Franklin’s foolishness. However, the plants chosen must be something that Cuthbert himself approved, must be something he would have grown in any event.

  Oh, certainly, certainly! Miss Franklin had little doubt of carrying her point after this concession, and graciously moved aside to allow her victim to climb back down to earth.

  On her way out of the orchard, she paused and pulled a small notebook and pencil from the pocket of her apron skirt. How could she utilize the space given to her to the utmost and still allow her plants the necessary air and light? She bent over her notebook, sketching out plans. At last, satisfied for the moment at any rate, she straightened.

  Her eye fell upon an old, gnarled apple tree that, like an elderly woman needing the support of a cane, had gradually transferred much of its weight onto the wall that enclosed the orchard and separated it from the main road. Something about the tree stirred a memory in Miss Franklin’s mind. Something . . . something odd . . .

  Ah! She had it now. She left the orchard and turned down the drive to walk out onto the road. Soon she came abreast of the tree, which was leaning out over the thoroughfare, its scanty but sweet apples a temptation for a hungry passerby. Looking toward the school from this vantage point, she could see sunlight winking off the ranks of bedroom windows on the third floor. Her own room, third from the left, commanded an excellent view of the place where she stood right now, particularly when seen through a telescope.

  And, yes, as she had suspected, there was a hole in the trunk of the tree. A person in her present position could have easily reached up and placed a parcel inside without ever entering the school property. Putting this thought into action, she climbed atop a boulder next to the wall and thrust her hand into the hole, indifferent to the possibility that some small creature might have made it a home. Immediately her fingertips met the surface of an object wrapped in cloth, invisible to anyone passing by, even those on horseback.

  She pulled it out and, remembering how she herself had observed the person who had placed it there, thrust the bundle casually into her apron pocket for later inspection. A brief consideration of the propriety of her behavior did not worry her much. If one party secretes an object inside a tree belonging to another party and then abandons it, surely it must now belong to the second party, must it not? If the item appeared to be of any interest she would present it to Miss Hopkins, on whose property the tree stood.

  She was about to retire to her chamber to examine it when she noticed Miss Quince sitting in the parlor correcting some Italian conjugations. Deeming it wise to get Miss Quince on her side before the matter of the hothouse was broached to the other two headmistresses, she postponed the unwrapping of the parcel until a later time. And once she had done with explaining to Miss Quince and gone back to her chamber, a great improvement in plant racks occurred to her and, fetching paper and charcoal, she began to sketch it out. At last, on being called to dinner, she cast off her apron, with its lumpy pocket, and hung it on a hook in the back of her wardrobe.

  By the time she laid herself down on her bed that night, her mind filled with visions of hundreds and hundreds of tiny seedlings, each meticulously labeled and documented, she had forgotten the existence of the parcel found in the old apple tree.

  Miss Asquith was unhappy. Even the approach of the upcoming ball could not rescue her from periods of despondency and gloom. She laughed less, smiled less, made fewer extravagant remarks, and ceased playing pranks altogether. She disliked the person she was becoming, and attempted, by dint of much silent scolding, to shame herself into happiness again, but to no avail. She would find herself staring into space, hands and thoughts idle, sunk in melancholy.

  Some fifty miles from here, he was also presumably sitting and thinking wretched thoughts about his father, whose case was even now being decided by the House of Lords. Notwithstanding the fact that Lord Hardcastle was a peer of the realm, his crime had been committed in view of several respected members of the community, and there was no help for it: he must be punished. If the death had occurred as a result of a duel, or if, like the great-uncle of the poet Lord Byron, he had merely shot his coachman or some other person of lowly position, the matter might have been hushed up, but Sir Grimm was a man of some consequence, and his family was clamoring for justice.

  So wretched was Miss Asquith that Miss Franklin discovered her in tears only a short time before the ball. Even Miss Franklin was unable to ignore this obvious sign of suffering, and sought an explanation for it in her own feelings.

  “Oh, pray do not distress yourself so, my dear Emily,” she urged her friend. “The ball will be over soon enough, and then we can return to a more rational way of life. You must claim to be indisposed, and I daresay no one will insist that you dance.”

  This was enough to make Miss Asquith laugh through her tears. She embraced Miss Franklin, causing that young lady to
blush and grow confused. “You silly!” Miss Asquith cried. “Do you still not understand what a frivolous creature I am? I love to dance above all things! Given the opportunity, I should dance from morning until night without ceasing to take breath.”

  Miss Franklin attempted to sort out this contradictory information. “But why, then, do you weep? Have you got a pain somewhere?”

  Miss Asquith met this simplicity with some of her own. “Yes, my dear, I do have a pain, in my heart and my head. I weep because I am missing Mr. Crabbe, and because I fear that he is undergoing a dreadful ordeal, listening to his father be roundly abused by the Lord High Steward and the entire House of Peers. Oh! If only I could know what the verdict is! For he must know by now.”

  “Oh, I do beg your pardon, Emily! I had quite forgot about the two Mr. Crabbes and their troubles. Why do you not write to him and ask? I’ve no doubt we could learn his address from his friends Mr. Arbuthnot and Mr. Hadley.”

  Miss Asquith looked at her in wonderment. “I believe you tell the truth! I believe you have forgotten about Mr. Rupert Crabbe and his abominable behavior toward you, Rosalind. Happy woman, to be able to dismiss such an unpleasant memory, and replace it with plans for a study of the characteristics of French beans!

  “But no,” she continued with a rueful smile, “I could not write to Mr. Crabbe. Even I have not the courage to fly so determinedly in the face of convention. I shall learn soon enough, I suppose—it will be the latest scandal, and sure to be much talked of. Still, I fear I am not a patient woman.”

  Miss Franklin considered this. “I am sorry you should be so unhappy, Emily. In a matter where your peace of mind is so much at stake, I cannot understand why we should not ignore society’s strictures. However, I will believe that you would not find such a letter easy or comfortable to write. If there is anything I can do to help you, believe me, I will do it.”

  Miss Asquith embraced her friend again and, to show her appreciation, began to make the minutest inquiries as to Miss Franklin’s plans for the corner of the glasshouse that was to be dedicated to her pursuits.

  Mrs. Fredericks was little more than a blur of movement and sound in the great hall of Crooked Castle as she directed her minions hither and yon. “Raise that bunting a bit higher, Gladys! On the right side. No, no, not my right, your right! Don’t you know your right from your left, child? Oh, don’t cry about it, but ask Greengages to teach you, there’s a good girl. Or Cook. Cook is an educated woman. Agnes look at how creased that tablecloth is! Take it away and press it again. And Tom”—here she looked down upon the kitchen boy, who was carrying a platter of comestibles through to the kitchen—“if you so much as think about nibbling on those cheeses I shall know it, I promise you, and my wrath will be awe-inspiring, all-encompassing, and quite possibly fatal.”

  Tom the kitchen boy let out a high-pitched giggle and escaped to the nether regions of the Castle with his cargo of cheddar and blue cheeses.

  “Cecily! My dear girl, where have you been? I have been waiting for you this past hour at least.” Mrs. Fredericks swooped down on her niece as she slipped through the front door and began threading her way through the bustling crowd, all engaged in polishing, dusting, sweeping, or decorating. “Come with me at once. I wish to have a word with you. Quickly, quickly! Here comes Lady Boring, and I do so want to dodge her if I can.”

  Obediently, Miss Mainwaring followed her aunt into the small drawing room that, in comparison with the public rooms, was an oasis of calm and silence.

  “I must say this as speedily as I may, Cecily, before Charity hunts us down in our lair. I want you to arrange matters so that Mr. Hadley is left alone with Miss Crump for oh! at least half an hour’s time. Do you understand? I don’t want anyone to interrupt them.”

  Miss Mainwaring’s mouth fell open. “You—you want me to arrange a tête-à-tête between Mr. Hadley and Miss Crump?”

  “Yes. Can you do it?”

  “You want me to make it easier for . . . for Mr. Hadley to propose to Miss Crump?”

  “Precisely!” Mrs. Fredericks beamed approval at this ready comprehension on her niece’s part.

  “But—but I don’t want him to propose to her! Oh, Aunt, how can you be so unkind?” And Miss Mainwaring began to look a bit tempestuous.

  “I want to get it over with, silly girl! We need to move past the proposal before we can do anything of value. Once he has proposed—”

  “So here you are, Althea!” Lady Boring pushed her way into the little room, seeming to take up far more than her fair share of space. “Hiding away and allowing the servants to mismanage everything! I might have known. If I were giving this ball—”

  “But as you are not, Charity,” responded her stepsister, “perhaps you could lend me your valuable assistance. There are several stacks of linen napkins that require mending—your sewing skills were always far better than mine.”

  “You want me to mend your old linens? I think not! Althea, our relationship requires that I allow you a great deal of latitude, but no one could possibly blame me for taking offense. Your behavior is such that—”

  And berating Mrs. Fredericks, Lady Boring followed her back to the great hall, leaving behind a sorely puzzled Miss Mainwaring.

  22

  “MR. HADLEY, DO sit by us,” called Miss Mainwaring, making room on the small bench by the rose garden and beckoning the gentleman closer. It seemed to her that she was beginning to understand why her aunt wanted Mr. Hadley and Miss Crump left alone together, and she had decided to obey her instructions. “Oh, Miss Crump, pray do not go, I wanted to speak to you about the trim on my bonnet—you are so clever with bonnets.”

  Miss Crump, whose ever-present bonnet had kept the same trimmings since it was purchased, cast a desperate glance toward the entrance to the schoolhouse. Miss Mainwaring took her hand and gently tugged her back onto her seat. Mr. Hadley looked somewhat surprised at being summoned from afar, but approached and sat down on the bench without argument. There was little to see in the rose garden at this time of year, and so none of the other students or teachers was nearby; most were playing at paille maille, or lawn billiards, visible in the distance but barely audible. It was a pleasant autumn day with blue skies and a bright sun, which made it possible to sit outside in comfort.

  “I have heard you speak of your lovely home to Miss Crump, Mr. Hadley,” Miss Mainwaring continued, “and I know I should love to see that part of England. The Lake District is thought to be very beautiful, is it not? Although I believe it does receive a great deal of rain.”

  Mr. Hadley approached this conversational gambit with caution. “Er . . . that is so, Miss Mainwaring. I think perhaps you would enjoy the Lake District. But it is not for everyone. Someone like Miss Crump here might find it entirely too damp for her health.” This thought appeared to be a happy one, for he went on, inspired, “You, Miss Mainwaring, who have spent time in foreign climes rigorous enough to try the constitution of an ox, you who have told me about the rainy season in the country of your birth, you might find the Lake District congenial. But Miss Crump, I do not know how you would like to find a slick of moisture on every surface in every season, and your dresses falling apart from rot. Are you at all inclined to respiratory conditions, Miss Crump? I fear a move to my part of the country might even be fatal to one like yourself who is clearly in delicate health.”

  Miss Crump declined to have a positive malady of the lungs, but agreed with the proposition that she was not particularly robust.

  Miss Mainwaring looked full at Mr. Hadley and said in friendly tones, “I would enjoy visiting your home someday. I hope I will get the opportunity. And now,” she added untruthfully, “I believe I hear Miss Quince calling my name. However”—here she fixed Miss Crump with a stern look—“you must stay here with Mr. Hadley until I return.”

  In vain did Miss Crump struggle; it all was for naught. Miss Mainwaring stroked her trembling
hands and Mr. Hadley was quick to beg her to remain. He gave Miss Mainwaring a grave and questioning look; she replied with a reassuring smile and a nod. It was their first collaboration as a couple; they understood each other without words.

  “Be gentle,” she murmured to him as she stood, “she is a dear creature.” To Miss Crump she said, “I shall be but a few moments, I promise.”

  She walked away, feeling like a beast for putting her poor friend in this position. However, a proposal would at least bring about a resolution to a situation that she knew Miss Crump found upsetting. If she would remain, hear him out, and then give her response—the only response she could give—it would be over. Mr. Hadley could report to his father quite truthfully that he had proposed and been refused; even Mr. Hadley Senior could not argue with a lady’s direct rejection.

  She walked about the lawn for some moments, scarcely conscious of her whereabouts, getting in the way of the paille maille players and annoying the onlookers. Poor Miss Crump! Perhaps, when Miss Mainwaring and Mr. Hadley had at last found their way to wedded bliss, they could invite her to visit—assuming that Mr. Hadley’s contrary wooing had not put her off the district altogether.

  Soon, much sooner than she could have expected, a glance in their direction revealed Mr. Hadley standing and beckoning her to approach.

  Anxiously she studied her friend as she walked toward them. Even if she was not prone to respiratory weakness, she did seem to faint quite easily. However, she was sitting upright and, so far as it was possible to determine with a figure so heavily shawled and bonneted, she appeared to be in full possession of her faculties.

  She shifted her gaze to Mr. Hadley. Never of a ruddy or bronzed complexion, Mr. Hadley’s face appeared to be . . . not precisely white, but rather ashen. Misgivings stirred within her.

  “How . . . ? Are you well, Mr. Hadley? Miss Crump? Jane?”