Agents of the Convent
Book One
by
Rebecca Connolly
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Text copyright © 2021 by Rebecca Connolly
Cover art copyright © 2021 by Rebecca Connolly
Cover art by Tugboat Design
http://www.tugboatdesign.net
All rights reserved. Published by Phase Publishing, LLC. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Phase Publishing, LLC first paperback edition
January 2021
ISBN 978-1-952103-22-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021901028
Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
Acknowledgements
To Jane, the master of strong, vibrant female characters.
And to toast. For always being everything and anything.
Special thanks to Martha, Jennie, Lorie, Heather, and Jen for their insight and assistance in bringing this book about.
Want to hear about future releases and upcoming events for Rebecca Connolly?
Sign up for the monthly Wit and Whimsy at:
www.rebeccaconnolly.com
Index
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Chapter One
Kent, 1825
“Comment dire ‘say’, Mademoiselle Harlow?”
Clara Harlow turned with a smile to her student, a fond scolding in her expression. “Comment dire ‘ça,’ Caro. The word you are wanting to use is ça.”
The girl nodded obediently even as her brow creased with thought. “Comment dire ça, Mademoiselle Harlow?” she asked again, pointing to the passage in their assigned reading.
Clara came over to her, peering over her shoulder. “Ah. Fourrure,” she said clearly, emphasizing the difficult word as succinctly as possible. “La fourrure. Que pensez-vous que ce mot est?”
Caro returned her attention to the words and read the line again, her lips moving on each word, the barely audible breath of her voice still fumbling over pronunciation. “Fur?” she finally asked Clara aloud.
“Très bien, Caro,” Clara praised, nodding in encouragement. “Continue à lire.” Caro beamed at her, then turned fully to her book once more.
Relief cascaded down Clara’s spine as she turned away from the girl and continued to move about the classroom. Caro was one of the scholarship girls at the Miss Masters’ Finishing School, which meant she had no fortune, no status, and no education beyond what she had been given since being brought into their fold. She was one of their star pupils for the rudimentary Rothchild Scholarship Academy and had exceeded anyone’s expectations for what she might have accomplished.
At fourteen, she was still behind what other girls her age of a more elevated station were capable of, but in a year or two, that gap would close.
Educationally, at least.
It wasn’t always easy for the parents of their upper-class students to accept that there would be students of lower stations receiving the same education and sharing the same meals as their daughters. There had been some rather disgruntled moments surrounding the principle, in fact, though Miss Masters had always intended the school to serve the spectrum of classes when she founded it. She certainly had never been intimidated by the complaints of powerful families and had never been ashamed of what they did for the less fortunate.
Miss Bradford, the current headmistress, was just as committed to the cause, and even less likely to be intimidated.
Clara, for one, always felt the desire to give a little more attention to the girls who had to overcome so much to gain their education. Having once been of high station, and then being forced into diminished circumstances, she fully comprehended just how vast the separation between stations could be.
Why couldn’t a girl like Caro become one of the most educated women England had ever seen? She’d likely never be hailed for such things, but it would be a triumph, nevertheless. She could one day teach here or become a governess to the wealthy and powerful families who had objected to her education in the first place. There was a certain distinction that came with completing one’s education at Miss Masters’, and their placement of scholarship girls had, to this day, been perfect.
Not one girl had left without gainful employment.
Not even one.
Those of high standing, obviously, needed no such placement, but they were considered the most accomplished of ladies, there was no doubt.
It was an establishment Clara was proud to be part of, and she felt gratitude for her good fortune daily.
Her life could have been so much worse.
“Pardon me, Miss Harlow.”
A voice from the door brought Clara around to see one of the most senior students at the school standing there, fingers clasped before her, the very picture of composed dignity.
Considering the girl had been quite a ragamuffin only a few years before, the change was astonishing.
“Yes, Martha, what is it?” Clara inquired as she crossed to her.
Martha bobbed a quick curtsey. “Miss Bradford has asked to see you, Miss Harlow. In her office, if you please.”
Clara nodded at the request. “Class ends in a few minutes. Would you tell Miss Bradford I should like to wait to dismiss my class, and then I will come straightaway?”
“Of course, Miss Harlow.” Martha curtseyed again. “Je vais lui dire tout de suite.”
The perfection in her accent warmed Clara’s heart and she nodded in approval. “Très bien dit, Martha. Merci.”
Martha smiled and left.
There was no telling what Miss Bradford could want, but there was nothing to fear from her. It was customary for the headmistress to request to speak with any or all of the teachers a
t a moment’s notice. While she maintained her position of authority, Miss Bradford also took great care that her teachers felt themselves part of a family of sorts. She insisted that any concerns regarding students, staff, or each other be brought to her at once, and, as far as Clara knew, it was done.
Over the last few years, Clara had come to value and respect Miss Bradford’s insight and advice as she would that of a close friend, or even a sister at times. Miss Bradford was far younger than one might have expected any headmistress at such an establishment to be, but she had been personally tutored by Miss Masters for her position from the beginning, and there had been no question of succession when Miss Masters had decided it was time to retire. Miss Bradford was the only possible, equally qualified choice.
Nevertheless, Clara’s curiosity was piqued. She’d only just had tea with Miss Bradford last week as a sort of personal interview, and she’d thought they had discussed everything pressing and pertinent then.
Unless the meeting was to discuss Miss Bradford’s niece, Tess. She was the girl’s guardian, which was a trifle unconventional, but Tess did not seem to lack any support in her life. Indeed, being practically raised in a finishing school, Tess had more aunts than one might know what to do with, and the few men associated with the school had become uncles and brothers to her.
Now nearly fifteen years of age, Tess was a bright and engaging young woman, one of their more promising pupils. There was some question as to which station she properly belonged to once she left the school, but she floated easily between them all while here.
Such things mattered less in the safe confines of this place.
Clara glanced at the clock, then cleared her throat. “C’est tout pour aujourd’hui, les filles. Vous pouvez ranger vos affaires.”
“Merci, Mademoiselle Harlow,” the group recited in almost perfect unison. They rose from their seats and filed out of the room quietly, their soft words to each other a murmuring hum of sound that began to echo the moment they entered the corridor.
Clara sighed in the now empty room and patted her plain chignon to ensure its neatness before moving into the corridor herself. The vast array of students along her way to the headmistress’s office was not lost on her. Each of the girls were instructed to wear plain gowns in shades of blue, gray, green, or cream, and identical aprons of neat linen were worn by all. The restrictions of gowns were adhered to by each of the girls, but the quality of those gowns varied starkly based on the fortunes of each individual student.
Some of the girls did not comprehend how senseless fine muslin was in the schoolroom, but at least the fashion of it was limited by the apron each wore. Still, it did not stop the girls from lower classes from eying such finery.
“Good morning, Clara,” Miss Bartlett greeted as she passed, exiting her classroom with her usual quick pace, her unruly dark curls flying from their pins as usual.
“Emmeline! I didn’t know you were back, how long can you stay?” Clara beamed at her friend, reaching out a hand to her.
Emmeline took it and squeezed. “Not long, I’m afraid. I’m due back in London on Saturday. My aunt…”
Clara shook her head sadly. “The poor dear. You are so good to look after her.”
“I am not the only relation who does so,” Emmeline reminded Clara with an almost uneasy air. “My cousins tend her nearly as often, but she does seem rather fond of me.”
“Who could help that?” Clara returned the squeeze of her hand. “Might we take tea this afternoon? I’m due to see the headmistress now, but I so want to have a chat.”
Emmeline nodded. “I look forward to it.” She released Clara’s hand and continued down the corridor as Clara moved in the opposite direction. “Girls, not so hasty, please. Miss Edley will not appreciate a twisted ankle before your dancing class. Better tardy than injured, yes?”
“Yes, Miss Bartlett,” the girls answered with the usual reluctance girls of their age tended towards.
Clara had taught the dance classes before Miss Edley had come along, with several instances of the same reluctance of spirit, and it had been a relief to give those responsibilities up.
Whatever Clara’s gifts might have been, she was not an accomplished dancer.
She grinned now at Emmeline’s natural attention to detail, and her quick instruction on her observation. It was so like her to do so, but she was still one of the favorite teachers here. Her demands in London kept her from being present continuously, but somehow, her classes never fell behind in their studies even when she was not present to instruct them.
Writing and rhetoric were her subjects, and Clara was convinced there was no woman more capable of instructing the girls in those matters.
Turning back to her course, Clara moved with a bit more quickness to her step, though, she noted with amusement, not with haste.
While she did not take Annette Edley’s dancing classes, a twisted ankle would not help a teacher, either.
As girls made their way to their next classes, and the crowding of the corridors diminished, Clara felt herself breathing easier and looking more carefully around her. It had been some time since she had truly taken in the splendor of these walls she was so fortunate to inhabit. The sleeping quarters were simply furnished, but the remainder of the place was rather like a grand house in the countryside. It lacked the display of accoutrements and antiquities that one might see there, but in all other respects, it might still have been the home of the Beddingsfords, as it had been for centuries before.
The last Lord Beddingsford had sold the estate to Miss Masters for a laughably low sum, but he had been desperate to leave England and never return. Refurbishments had been made where safety or convenience required, but in all other respects, the place had simply been maintained.
The ceilings were adorned with vaulting and marbled moldings, gilded artwork, and carved beams, ages and ages of residential styles on display like a walk through history. Artwork hung on the walls without any familiar significance, the paintings being the work of former students, images of royalty, depictions of historical events, or landscapes of various counties of England. Strains of music could be heard from the classes now in session, some of it skilled while others were less so. Grand windows illuminated the corridors naturally, the views of the Kent countryside from them all too enviable. The day was fine, which was a blessing after what seemed to be weeks of dreariness.
Students would be clamoring to walk out of doors later, she had no doubt. Someone would have to notify Mr. Quinn that the gardens might be invaded. He tended to get quite finicky about such things.
Another corridor, and then Clara was there, the headmistress’s office and quarters sitting in this part of the house rather than with the rest of the rooms. It must have been a lonely distance for Miss Bradford, though she had never made any mention of feeling so. Clara would not wish for such a position and thought herself very fortunate to not have the duties and responsibilities Miss Bradford must face on a daily basis.
She knocked softly on the closed door, brushing her hands down the front of her to rid herself of any wrinkles that may have appeared.
“Come.”
Pushing open the door, Clara entered the large space, the once masculine study of Lord Beddingsford now bright and airy without becoming starkly feminine. The bookshelves were equally full as they might have been with previous tenants, though there were more than only books placed upon them now. Clara even caught sight of a small, framed watercolor on one, surely something Tess had done in her early art courses here.
A faint breeze crossed the room, and Clara felt one of her golden strands of hair dance across her brow. She pushed it behind her ear at once and forced her attention on the woman standing behind the desk, fair hair pulled almost severely back, dark gown neatly arrayed on her delicate frame.
“My apologies, Miss Bradford,” Clara said with some embarrassment. “I forget how captivating your office is.”
Miss Bradford smiled with her usual warmth an
d glanced about the room herself. “Is it? I sometimes feel as though it is rather cavernous for someone as small as me. And I hope you do not mind the breeze; I prefer having the window open a little when I am at work here. It is almost as though I am working out of doors.”
“No, ma’am.” Clara folded her hands before her, smiling. “You wished to see me, Miss Bradford?”
The woman tilted her head, her smile deepening. “My dear Clara, I do wish you would call me Pippa. And please, take a seat. This is a rather different sort of meeting than we have had before, and I do wish you would make yourself comfortable.”
Clara nodded and sat, adjusting her skirts carefully. “If you like, Miss Bradford. Pippa, I mean.” She smiled, her embarrassment returning. “Apologies. It is going to take some adjustment for me to call you that.”
Pippa surprised her by coming around the desk and taking the chair nearest her rather than remaining behind it. “That is because you have excellent manners and a quality of breeding far above your present circumstances.”
“You are too kind, Pippa.” Clara looked down at her hands, the tips of each finger suddenly of great interest.
Fortune Favors the Sparrow Page 1
