by Kelly Bowen
“But surely someone in the family would have wanted to assist to keep him out of prison? If only to preserve the family name?”
“For whatever reason, that did not happen. His father was estranged.” Harland shook his head. “But that’s not the point. My point here is that August Faulkner, in five years, managed to make enough money to pay off his father’s debts and buy his release. Two years after that, he had made enough to purchase back the lifestyle that his family had once enjoyed. Not that his father lived long enough to appreciate it much. As I understand it, the man never did recover his health once released.”
“How do you know all this?” Clara asked.
“I attended his father as a medical student while he was in prison,” Harland said. “He suffered from dropsy.”
Rose sniffed. “Was it cards or horses?”
Harland frowned. “What?”
“Did the duke get lucky at a gaming hell or a racetrack? After all, that is how men like him—”
“The duke has made his money on industry. He buys broken things and breaks them apart further before building them back up into profitable ventures.” He looked faintly troubled, even though his words held respect. “His empire is bigger than most people realize. Much, much bigger. If we possessed even a fraction of his capital…”
“Still no word from London?” The familiar foreboding settled heavily in Clara’s gut.
Harland scrubbed his face with his hands before letting them drop. “Not yet. If I thought it would help, I would stand on the edge of the London Docks and wait for those damn ships. But that’s all I would be doing. I can do more to help here than there.”
“I have two sittings this week,” Rose said. “And two more next week. All have agreed to pay up front. I’m sorry I can’t paint faster—”
“Stop it.” Harland cut her off. “We’ve all discussed this a hundred times. We’re all doing everything and anything we can.”
“‘The end crowneth the work,’” Clara murmured.
Rose shot her a long-suffering glance. “Do we really need another Elizabethan quote?”
“The woman managed to keep her head and her throne while living amidst a pack of jackals.”
“I’d settle for my head and the surety that there will be a roof over it in a year’s time.” Rose sighed.
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Harland suggested. “Before we all drown in self-pity.” He glanced at Clara. “Where, exactly, is our dinner invitation with the illustrious duke?”
“The Silver Swan.”
Harland seemed to perk up at this. “Well, then. As much as I rather resent His Grace’s presence, at least he has good taste in food.”
Clara turned to Rose. “Will you come with us?”
Rose looked down. “I think I’ll need the time to finish setting up my studio,” she said.
“I can help you. The students have a free morning, and I’m not meeting with them until—”
“No, thank you. I’ll take care of it.”
Clara recognized the stubborn shade to Rose’s tone. She glanced at her brother for help, but Harland was already pulling his coat off the table where he had left it.
“You may wish to change your mind once you remember how good French wine tastes, Rose,” Harland said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself. I assume we’ll leave from here,” Harland tossed over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. “What time?”
“Six,” Clara told him. “Where are you going now?”
“An appointment,” he replied vaguely, not breaking stride.
“For what?” Clara called after him, but he was already gone. “Why does he keep doing that?” she asked into the silence.
“Disappearing?” Rose moved past her and shrugged. “I don’t think I want to know.”
Chapter 8
Clara loved this part.
Because, like their very first day here, this would be unlike anything her students had expected. And no matter what happened, even if this was her very last chance to do this—especially if it was her last chance—Clara was determined to enjoy every minute.
She led the nine students from the house through the gardens and out onto the expanse of grassland that topped the cliffs overlooking the sea. In the late-morning sunlight, the ocean was silvered with a sheen that danced and glittered as if a thousand suns had been strewn across its surface. Long wisps of clouds drifted over their heads, almost like elongated angel wings pushed westward by the wind. To the south the distant shape of Dover Castle partially blocked the view of the town that sprawled away in its shadow.
Involuntarily her eyes swept the empty fields around them and back toward Avondale, though the house was no longer visible beyond the rise. She knew what she was looking for—the tall, dark-haired figure who might be out wandering around the property, examining barley or ewes or whatever else might catch his fancy. She hated that she felt she had to search, and she resented the feeling of hope that she just might see him. She didn’t want to see him anywhere. She forced him out of her mind.
Clara closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting the scent of salt and vegetation fill her lungs as the wind tugged at her hair. She turned back to her charges, who were standing behind her, looking at her with the expected expressions of anticipation. They ranged in age from sixteen to eighteen. Half were from rich, titled English families, and four more were from extraordinarily wealthy families of the landed gentry or the nouveau riche. The remaining student was an American heiress, despised and sought after by the ton all at the same time. And all had been painstakingly selected by Clara from the long list of girls who had applied.
“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the wild grasses swaying in the wind. She picked up her skirts and lowered herself to the ground, tucking the fabric around her knees. She hid an inward smile as some of the girls hesitated. There were no blankets, no servants scurrying forward with chairs, only a mat of grass and wildflowers.
“On the grass?” It came from a fair-haired student. She was the youngest daughter of a marquess, and given what she knew about the family, Clara rather suspected that this was probably the first time the girl had ever been asked to put her backside on something that wasn’t padded.
“On the grass,” Clara confirmed pleasantly.
“But—”
“Don’t worry, people have been doing it for thousands of years. And we’ll all have creased skirts and grass stains when we’re done and no one to judge us for it.”
There were a couple of titters. Patiently she waited as, one by one, they finally sat, some more gingerly than others.
“Welcome to our first class,” Clara said. She saw a few exchange uncertain looks and hid another smile. “A rather beautiful classroom, do you not agree?”
There were nods, these less uncertain.
“I trust you all found the excursion that each of you participated in yesterday…appealing?”
This was met by shy smiles and outright grins and curious gazes at their fellow students—especially from the three who had been on their own.
“Good. We’ll get back to that,” Clara said. “In the meantime I’m assuming that some of you may know each other already, either from prior familiarity, from being stuck in a carriage, or from the time you might have spent together yesterday. But I’ll ask you to humor me and introduce yourselves again. Tell us your name and something important about you that you’d like us to know.”
More curious glances around the group.
“Why don’t we start with you?” Clara gestured at the blond girl, who was, even now, trying to smooth out her skirts.
“Oh,” she said, blinking at Clara. “Very well. My name is Lady—”
“Just your Christian name will do,” Clara interrupted gently.
“I beg your pardon?” The blonde’s mouth hung slightly agape.
“Your name. The prefix of Lady gives an indication of who your family is. I’m not inter
ested in your family, and I’m not interested if your families are attached to titles. I’m not interested in how much money or how many houses they have or where they have theater boxes. I’m interested in you.”
She ignored the new round of wide-eyed, uncertain looks being exchanged. She could well understand why this would be shocking for many.
“But—”
“But nothing.” Clara smiled at her. “Tell me your name and something you want me to know about you.”
She stared at Clara and then gave a slight shrug. “Very well. My name is Lydia. And I enjoy riding. Fast. Not that I’ve ever been allowed on one of our racing thoroughbreds.”
“Yet,” Clara said, and Lydia looked up with interest.
“Yet,” she repeated with a slight curl to her lips.
“Thank you.” Clara looked at the platinum-haired, green-eyed girl next to her, daughter of a man whose family had made a fortune in prospecting and mining.
“Amelia,” the girl blurted and then looked around her almost shyly. “My name is Amelia.”
“Good,” Clara said and gave her an encouraging smile. “Go on.”
Amelia looked around. “My favorite color is red?”
“Is that a question?” Clara asked.
The girl flushed slightly. “No.”
“What kind of red?” Clara asked.
“Crimson. Like the crimson China roses that are twined over the trellises near the fountain at the back of Avondale. It’s the soil, I think, and the application of—” She suddenly clamped her mouth shut as if she’d said too much. “Never mind. They’re just…pretty.”
“I agree,” Clara nodded, thinking how very different this conversation would go a week from now. Her eyes slid to the familiar dark-haired girl next to her.
“My name is Anne.” Holloway’s sister was looking around her with interest. “And I have a brother who drives me crazy.”
This was met by giggles, and Clara could feel some of the uncertainty break.
“Your brother is a duke,” Lydia whispered, looking just a little scandalized.
“And he still puts his trousers on one leg at a time.” Anne twirled a piece of grass between her fingers, looking unimpressed.
Clara gestured to the student sitting next to Anne, not wishing to get into a conversation that had her imagining Holloway putting on or taking off any item of clothing. “Go ahead,” she encouraged.
“My name is Phoebe,” said a pretty girl with hair the color of chestnuts and eyes to match. Her eyes slid to Anne. “I grew up in Boston, and my parents think I should marry one. A duke, that is.”
“Excellent,” said Anne crisply. “I have one you can have, so long as you promise to take him back to Boston with you.”
Phoebe snorted. “I never said I wanted one.”
“That’s too bad. Is there room for negotiation? Everything in life is a negotiation, really. Perhaps I can throw in a good horse or two to sway you?”
“Ladies,” Clara warned, though she was smiling. She wondered if Anne had any idea how much she sounded like her brother just then. “Let’s continue.”
One by one they went around the circle until everyone had introduced herself. By the time the last student had finished, the tension had dissipated. Missing from any of the questions and reactions had been the snobbery that she saw in so many of her students who attended her programs throughout the year. Missing were the class divide, the preconceptions, and the prejudices. This was not a surprise. She had chosen these girls for exactly this reason.
“Thank you, ladies,” she said. “Next activity. Lie back in the grass.”
Lydia sent her a skeptical look, though the shy Amelia was grinning. With a couple of scattered giggles, the girls reclined so that they were gazing up at the sky.
This part, Clara knew from experience, was easier when each girl did not have the eyes of all the others on her. When each student felt as though she might be alone in the world, alone with her dreams on a cliff high above the sea with only the gulls and the breeze for company.
Clara gazed around her, the girls almost invisible among the waving grass. “Think back to when each of you came to my office and I interviewed you. Now think about the application I gave you to fill out while you were there.” She paused. “You all filled out the same application. Do you all remember what the last question was?”
Heads nodded in the grass.
“Good.” Clara snapped a pretty horseshoe vetch bloom from beside her and looked out over the ocean. “I want you to tell everyone what your answer was. Whenever you’re ready.”
There was a long pause. She could almost hear the thoughts swirling around her. Was this a trick? Was this a trap? Was there going to be some sort of consequence for disclosing publicly what had been written in private? No one wished to say what she had probably never shared with anyone out loud before. Clara snapped another bright-yellow flower and added it to the one already in her hand. A third joined her small bouquet.
“Hotelier.” It was Anne who finally spoke up, the word clear and steady as she gazed up at the drifting clouds.
“Barrister,” Lydia said almost immediately after, and there was a note of wonder in her declaration.
“Physician.” Phoebe added her voice.
“Landscape gardener,” Amelia whispered.
And so it went. This year she had an ambitious hotelier, two students who were fascinated with the intricacies of law, three aspiring physicians, a landscape gardener, an artist, and an architect. The last student spoke, and Clara let a new silence fall.
“You can sit up now.”
The girls pushed themselves upright, each looking around with comprehension dawning in her eyes.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Clara said. “For your courage and willingness to share.” She added a final flower to her collection. “The places and people you spent yesterday with outside Avondale—you will continue as you did yesterday two or three days of each week. You will be expected to contribute as well as learn, and I suggest you take notes and ask a lot of questions of each of your mentors.”
Progressive, generous, and discreet mentors who had been part of her program for years, starting with her brother, who was as good at teaching medicine as he was at administering it. Mentors who valued clever, intelligent minds over everything else.
A buzz of excitement rippled through the group as each realized that her ambitions and desires were suddenly no longer things to be hidden, but things to be embraced. That an opportunity that she might never get again was right in front of her to seize.
“I would think it’s only fair that I answer the same question I asked you all.” Clara’s voice carried over the whispers and murmurs, and she waited for them to fade. She smiled at each of her students. “Professor. Cambridge, or Oxford, though I’m rather partial to the classics, so it might have to be Oxford.” She passed her newly assembled bouquet to Anne, who was watching her with wide eyes. “That’s what I would be if I were a man.”
* * *
August still hadn’t managed to find Harland Hayward.
He’d cleaned his gelding’s wound again that morning, pleased with how it looked, and seen the animal turned out comfortably, once again horrifying the stable boys by his refusal to hand the animal over to their care. He didn’t bother explaining that his horse was like everything else he owned—his responsibility and therefore deserving of his complete attention when required. August had, however, offered a cursory explanation of how the wound had come about, leaving out the part that involved a small child and letting his displeasure at rash and reckless soldiers be known. There had been a few knowing nods and a few glances exchanged, leaving August with the distinct impression that this sort of behavior was not surprising.
Which firmed his resolve to seek out the officer in charge at his earliest opportunity.
In the meantime, August went looking for Harland Hayward, hoping to have a conversation with the baron before this evening. But Strathmore r
emained stubbornly elusive, and after a few hours, August gave up and set out in the direction of the calving sheds. He still wasn’t entirely sure if Miss Hayward had believed him when he’d trotted out his reason for remaining at Avondale, but he’d been telling the truth.
When August had visited the elderly Rivers, he’d told the earl that he would be in the Dover area evaluating a prospective property, and had offered to look in on Avondale. He’d experienced a brief, Machiavellian satisfaction when Rivers had agreed and then insisted that he simply stay at the estate, giving him a watertight excuse should any of the Haywards actually wish to verify his story.
From what August had seen thus far, the estate was a model of good stewardship and management, but he had no intention of reneging on an agreement, no matter how contrived. He would hold up his end and report back to Rivers as promised. And in the continued absence of one Harland Hayward, August had no good excuse not to get to it.
He was in the calving sheds when he saw Anne and the rest of the students following Miss Hayward out across the windswept fields and toward the sea like the pied piper and his collection of children. They did not have any books; they had no papers or easels; they had nothing to suggest that they were doing anything scholastic. Instead they looked as if they were heading out for a picnic. Less any baskets, food, or blankets.
Without considering what he was doing, he followed at a judicious distance, skirting the edge of the long stone fence that ran parallel to the ridge and the edge of the cliff far ahead. He saw Miss Hayward glance back surreptitiously, which only piqued his curiosity and suspicion further. What was she up to? Where were they going? And what could they possibly be doing?
August hunkered lower behind the ancient wall, the moss soft against his fingertips where it grew on the stone. He felt as if he were ten years old again, spying on one of his father’s card games at the public house that had been just down the road from the tumbledown building he’d grown up in.
What the hell kind of ladies’ finishing school had its pupils sprawled out in the middle of a field on what was supposed to be the first day of classes? August shuffled forward a little farther on his knees, tying to get a better view.
