She had not been at this long when Mademoiselle Dupre herself came in, saying she was to sit with the girls while Phoebe attended the Misses Crippenham in their office. A stab of panic pierced Phoebe’s usual calm but she managed to quell it. She would be reprimanded of course. She expected it. But it wouldn’t be more than that. The ladies probably wished to discuss Lucilla’s withdrawal from the Academy. It was even likely they would inform her she would have a new pupil arriving to begin classes on the morrow. Their Academy enjoyed an exalted reputation—probably because of their rigid discipline and high standards.
She made her way down the stairs and noted with a touch of regret that the marquis was nowhere in sight. Well she must count what blessings she possessed. At least there wasn’t any Miles Saunderton lingering about to make her morning any more unpleasant. She knocked on the office door then entered in response to the call from within.
Both the Misses Crippenham sat behind the great desk upon which only a very few papers lay in a neat stack. The surface was so tidy it always made Phoebe uncomfortable. Everything about the room screamed precision. Books lined up in perfect rows on the shelves, chairs stood at identical angles, the triple-branched candelabrum rested in the exact center of the occasional table which in turn stood exactly midway along the side wall.
The two ladies, when seen together, bore a striking resemblance to one another. Though Miss Crippenham, on the verge of her sixtieth birthday, possessed features less sharp than her younger sister’s, their eyes shared an uncompromising steady stare. Daughters of dukes had been known to quail beneath their regard. They might wear their graying hair in different styles, Miss Aurelia’s in a braided crown and Miss Crippenham’s in a chignon but the same precise neatness characterized both. In matters of dress though, Miss Crippenham proved herself the less austere. Her dove gray gown boasted a knot of ribands and—daringly—a narrow flounce.
At the moment neither of the two ladies radiated goodwill. Miss Aurelia, the younger by three years, regarded Phoebe without speaking, her expression stern. Her elder sister emitted a sigh eloquent of resigned disappointment. “We have had Sir Miles Saunderton with us this morning,” she said.
Phoebe’s heart sank. Yet even these high sticklers for the proprieties could hardly blame her for Lucilla’s escapade. But in that she found herself wrong.
Miss Crippenham cleared her throat. “You have been shockingly remiss in your duties, Miss Caldicot,” she said with a note of sincere regret. “That is something we do not tolerate at our Academy.”
“Not in anyone,” added Miss Aurelia. “Lucilla Saunderton has been sent away.”
“But I thought her brother had come to remove her—” Phoebe began.
“Sent away,” asserted Miss Aurelia. “Her brother has decided to launch her into society in an attempt to avert any gossip concerning her dismissal from our Academy.”
Phoebe kept her mouth shut. Sir Miles had arrived the previous evening with the intention already formed to take his sister to London immediately. Yet the last thing she wanted at the moment was to antagonize her employers. After Thomas graduated, she promised herself. After he had secured a living.
“We cannot allow a repetition of the shocking occurrences of last night,” contributed Miss Crippenham. “It would never do if parents felt they could not trust the safety of their daughters to the vigilance of our staff.”
“It would never do at all,” agreed her sister. “Therefore,” and she said this with considerable relish, “it is obvious there is only one course open to us. Your employment, Miss Caldicot, is terminated as of this moment.”
Chapter Two
Her employment terminated. The words echoed through Phoebe’s mind, heard over and over yet making absolutely no sense at all. They couldn’t make any sense. She simply could not have lost her job. She needed it too desperately.
Miss Aurelia, her expression that of one who had satisfied her outrage, held out several coins. “Your pay through today. Good day to you, Miss Caldicot. And goodbye.”
“We trust you will have vacated your room by this evening,” added Miss Crippenham. “Such a bother to be obliged to search for a new instructress but I make no doubt we shall find one quickly.”
Quickly. To be replaced so easily. Shock rendered Phoebe immobile, followed at once by outraged indignation.
Miss Aurelia lowered her hand, the coins still in it and frowned at her. “If you wish to say something, Miss Caldicot, kindly speak up and stop gaping at us as if you were a stuffed trout.”
“Most unpleasant,” agreed Miss Crippenham with a reproachful frown.
Nothing she said or did would make any difference, Phoebe realized. No difference whatsoever. She stared for a moment longer at the cold closed face of Miss Aurelia, at the regretful yet equally unyielding expression of Miss Crippenham, then turned on her heel and stalked from the room.
She mounted the stairs with dragging feet, still stunned. She’d never actually been happy here but she’d thought she had some measure of security. She’d had her pay—
Her pay. She hadn’t taken her pay and she needed every penny coming to her. Later, she decided. She would collect it when she left this place and shook its dust from her proverbial sandals. She wasn’t about to go back down to them at this moment.
She found she had reached her room and stepped inside, looking about the cozy apartment she’d created from the bare, functional room she’d been given. Home, she’d thought each time she’d come through that door. But not anymore.
She sank onto the bed, staring about her. She had to pack, to leave…
Anger at the unfairness of her treatment didn’t counterbalance the pain at leaving this sanctuary she had carved for herself. She reached out, touching the padded arm of her favorite chair. How could she take her furniture when she had no idea of where she could go? Perhaps Thomas—
Thomas. She closed her eyes. Dear God, Thomas. How would she tell her brother? How would she be able to help him pay his school fees for another term? And longer than that. Two more years stretched before them before he could be ordained and begin earning the pittance allotted to a minor curate. He must finish his schooling. Which meant that somehow she must find the means to help him pay for it.
But how did one do that when dismissed from one’s post and most likely without a character?
She shivered, chilled. More from reaction and distress, she realized, than from the actual temperature of the room, though that wasn’t as warm as she could wish. The urge hit her to light a fire in defiance of the rules that forbade such a luxury during the day but not so much as a single faggot lay beside her hearth.
Yet the idea of fire, of light, called to her. Numbly she leaned across to the blue and white porcelain chamber stick she had possessed since she was a child, groped for her tinderbox and struck a flame. It hovered then caught and a warm golden glow haloed about it, flickering then steadying as the wax burned cleanly up the wick. She gazed into the light as she had on so many other occasions and an all-enveloping tiredness seeped through her.
One positive side existed to all this, she assured herself with an attempt at her usual humor. At least she would not have to bear with another haughty spoiled young lady on the brink of making her curtsy to the haut ton. The girls failed to see why they should listen to a preceptress who had no practical experience of the social maze they were about to tread and some of them felt no compunction whatsoever about telling her so. She would not miss them in the least.
She would miss the security though. If she had a wish, just one wish that could be miraculously granted, it would be to escape this life of uncertainty, to know her brother’s future safe. And for herself? The longing for a real home of her own filled her, for a family and—dare she dream so much?—for love. But these were all denied to a young lady of no fortune and no opportunities.
The flame flickered then steadied. Her thoughts shifted from the impossible but wonderful to the probable but bleak. Dreams of marriage we
re naught but a waste of time. She would register with an employment agency that afternoon, begin the soul-scarring task of seeking a new position at once. Yet she already knew, all too well, that no employment available to an impoverished lady of quality would pay a sufficient wage for her to help Thomas.
Which brought her back to marriage as her only other option. Yet she knew no eligible gentlemen, only the fathers and brothers of her pupils, the former already married, the latter generally too young—or in one case she could think of, too disagreeable—to take an interest in one of their sisters’ instructresses.
Of course there was the Marquis of Rushmere. That thought almost made her smile. True he was a widower but despite what one learned in tales of fairy godmothers, handsome wealthy noblemen did not marry penniless unemployed schoolmistresses. If only there were such a thing as a fairy godmother. On that whimsical thought she extinguished her candle and headed for the lumber room where she had stowed her solitary trunk upon taking up her residence at the Misses Crippenham’s Academy.
The retrieval of this object ultimately required the assistance of Henry, the elderly footman employed by the parsimonious Misses Crippenham to lend a note of formality to their establishment. He asked no questions, for which Phoebe was grateful but she feared it was because he was already in full possession of the facts. Together they dragged her case along the hall to her room, setting it to rest at last on the small rug in the center of the floor.
Phoebe eyed it without enthusiasm. Then with a sigh she set to work placing her books in the bottom. Where she would take them out again, she had no idea. For that matter she did not even know where to spend this night.
This serious problem still occupied her mind, with little positive result, when a light tap sounded on her door. It opened at once to admit Annie, the maid of all work who waited upon the instructresses. Her wide eyes glittered with curiosity as she cast a rapid glance about the chaos of Phoebe’s room.
“If you please, miss,” said Annie, “there’s a lady, Lady Xanthe Simms, arrived to speak to you. I asked her to wait in the salon but I don’t like to think what will happen if either Miss Crippenham or Miss Aurelia should walk in on her. Ever so snippy as they are this morning.”
“Lady Xanthe Simms?” murmured Phoebe, dragged from her depressing reflections. “Are you quite certain it was me she wanted to see, Annie?”
“Yes, miss. And such a lady.”
Phoebe rose from where she knelt beside the chest and made a valiant attempt to brush the wrinkles from her dress and the smudges from her hands. “Thank you, Annie,” she said and hurried from the room, all the while racking her memory for a clue to her visitor’s identity.
But try as she might she could not remember ever hearing the lady’s name before. She had no idea…unless she might have something to do with Lucilla Saunderton’s officer from last night? Her spirits, which had already been riding at low ebb, sank even farther toward the soles of her shoes. She reached the entry hall, cast a quick glance in the gilt-trimmed mirror which hung above an occasional table to assure herself her long hair remained neatly in its chignon then turned to the salon and this mysterious visitor.
She opened the door only to pause on the threshold, frowning slightly as she studied the amused countenance of the woman waiting within. The face remained wholly unfamiliar. Phoebe’s gaze darted quickly over her, noting the profuse amounts of roped hair more golden than yellow, the elegant carriage of the head and a traveling gown of bottle green merino, so simply cut and perfectly fitted that it could only have come from the hands of a modiste of the first stare. She tried to fathom what such a personage could want with her and failed utterly.
As she took a step into the room, she realized that the penetrating regard of a pair of very fine violet eyes rested on her, taking in each detail in a manner every bit as comprehensive as her own had been. Warmth flushed her cheeks but she kept her head high. “Lady Xanthe?” she asked, the calmness of her voice belying the sudden inexplicable flutter of nerves in her stomach. “How may I be of service to you?”
An irresistible dimple peeped at the corner of the woman’s mouth. “On the contrary, my dear. I have come to be of service to you.” She rose from her chair with ineffable grace and seemed to float toward Phoebe, her hands extended. “I am your godmother, my dear child. Your fairy godmother to be exact. I have come in answer to your wish.”
“My—” Phoebe blinked, taken aback. “Indeed,” she managed after a moment. “My fairy godmother. To be sure. Of course you are.” She accepted the pressure of the hands that clasped hers and found it oddly reassuring.
The violet eyes twinkled with barely suppressed merriment. “You don’t believe me,” the little woman said. “Well I’m not surprised. The situation is a trifle unusual I suppose.”
Phoebe watched her, not sure whether to be fascinated by, or afraid of, her unconventional visitor. “A trifle,” she agreed. “What precisely is the difference between a fairy godmother and a regular one?”
Lady Xanthe laughed, an intriguing musical sound. “My dearest child, I can do so much more than a mere ordinary godmother. I know the dearest wish of your heart.”
Phoebe raised her eyebrows in polite disbelief. “Indeed? I suppose you believe I wish for love.”
“Love is its own magic.” Xanthe shook her head. “All I can offer is the opportunity. But your wish, as you must remember perfectly well, was for a chance to provide an education for your brother and security for yourself.”
Phoebe, who had started to sit on a chair, straightened in surprise. “How did you know?”
“You made your wish over a candle in your room.” Lady Xanthe resumed her seat but her amused gaze lingered on Phoebe. “I have come to grant you the opportunity to make your wish come true.”
“But—” Phoebe broke off, shaking her head and seated herself. The situation was preposterous. The wish of someone in her position must be obvious to anyone and gazing into a candle flame would be a very likely time to daydream about desires. She’d done it often. Any number of explanations existed for how her visitor had guessed so correctly. For a guess it had to be.
Lady Xanthe shook her head. “Belief is difficult, is it not, my dear? Never mind, it will come. The important thing for now is that you make a precise wish—how, exactly, you want to achieve your security. And you did, you know,” she added with a touch of mischief, “think wistfully of marriage and a family.”
Warm color suffused Phoebe’s cheeks. “And if I made this specific wish for a husband?”
“You may wish for a chance to find one,” came the smiling answer.
“A chance,” Phoebe breathed. That was more than she’d ever had before. “Then I would not have to name someone specific?” she ventured.
Xanthe laughed, a soft warming sound. “Of course not, my dear. You know so very few gentlemen, situated as you are.”
“And how am I ever to have a chance to meet someone?”
Lady Xanthe’s eyes twinkled in the light that filtered into the room. “Why, how does any young lady of quality meet a potential husband?”
“In London, I suppose. During the Season.”
“Then that is where you shall go.”
Phoebe blinked. “But it is quite beyond my means.”
“Not if your godmother invites you to spend the Season in town with her,” came Xanthe’s prompt response.
“But I do not have a—” She broke off, her eyes widening.
Xanthe beamed at her. “Precisely, my love. I have come to take you to town for the Season.”
Phoebe straightened in her chair. “I beg your pardon?”
“London,” Lady Xanthe repeated helpfully. “The Season. You shall be my guest.”
“But—” Phoebe stared at her, coherent thought alien to the chaos in her mind. “London,” she repeated, her voice hollow. “Why?”
“Because, as you said, that is where you shall have the greatest chance to make your wish come true. Because you woul
d dearly love such a visit for its own sake. And because I love granting opportunities. It is what I do.”
“To-to be sure,” Phoebe said weakly. She stared at her visitor, this remarkable little woman who had burst into her world which had so recently fallen apart, offering her an escape, a haven for at least the next two months, the opportunity for which she secretly had longed. It was too good to be true.
A fairy godmother?
“What is the price?” she asked abruptly.
“Price?” Lady Xanthe’s brow creased. “Oh, you mean the conditions. There aren’t any really. Only something you must understand. You see, magic alone is not enough.”
“I see.” Disappointment, unexpected but very real, seeped through her. It had been too good to be true.
Lady Xanthe fixed her with a very serious look. “As I told you, magic can only provide opportunities, my dear. The use you make of those opportunities is entirely up to you.”
“I see.” Phoebe considered. “So you don’t really grant wishes at all.”
Xanthe shook her head, smiling. “Dear child,” she said softly, “no one has the power to do that but yourself. And you do have that power. What you lack—or at least what you lacked until now—is the opportunity. That is what I am able to grant you.”
“But what if I am not able to find a husband? I have neither fortune nor lofty connections to recommend me.”
“There is nothing amiss with your family,” Lady Xanthe pointed out.
“But it is not important enough to overcome my want of fortune. Or rather my debt, for I must help my brother finish at Cambridge.”
Lady Xanthe regarded her solemnly. “If you cannot find a husband, my dear, then you will find yourself as you are now except you will always know that you wasted your opportunity.”
Not very secure, this chance of hers for security. Yet it was the best offer she was likely to receive. She met Xanthe’s serious gaze. “I will do my best.”
Candlelight Wish Page 3
