by Dunn
Miss Hartwell put her arm round the thin shoulders. She was fond of all her pupils, but for some reason she was particularly drawn to this brave child with the swimming eyes.
“He will miss you, I daresay, but gentlemen always have a great deal of business to take care of, so he will not have time to grieve. You will be busy too and will soon make friends. Come, let us go to the window, and you shall wave to him."
As she expected, his lordship gazed towards the house before climbing into his carriage. He saw his daughter and waved back. Then the coachman urged on the horses, and soon they were out of sight.
Miss Hartwell took Isabel up to her bedchamber and introduced her to two of the girls she was to share with. They were sisters, one her own age, the other sixteen and in her last year at school. Isabel was polite, solemn, and uncommunicative, and the others soon stopped trying to draw her out. After making sure the eldest was helping her to unpack and put her clothes away, Miss Hartwell left them.
As she closed the door, she heard the younger sister whisper, giggling, “She has red hair!"
“Hush,” said the older repressively. “Miss Hartwell has red hair, too. I have seen her without her cap and it is monstrous becoming, I assure you."
So much for eavesdroppers hearing no good of themselves, thought Amaryllis. As she passed the door of another chamber, she heard the voice of the fifteen-year-old new girl.
“Tell me again about the teachers. Now I have met them I shall know who you are talking about."
Guiltily but irresistibly, Amaryllis halted and stayed to listen.
“Miss Tisdale, that's Tizzy, is shockingly strict. Mrs. Vaux is a dear. We call her Gardens because of Vauxhall Gardens, but she is the one who should be called Tizzy because she gets in a terrible tizzy if something goes wrong. Miss Tisdale stays calm through anything. Then Miss Hartwell, she is sort of aloof, if you know what I mean. But she's kind, they are all kind. If I was in trouble like, oh if I had broke my leg or something, I would go to Tizzy."
“If you had a broken leg, you would not go anywhere."
“Well then, if you broke your leg. Tizzy would know what to do. But if I was really in the briars—if I was really unhappy—I should go to Miss Hartwell because I think she has been unhappy herself and she would understand."
Miss Hartwell continued down the stair with a thoughtful expression. Aloof, but kind and understanding—not a verdict she could quarrel with. A perceptive young woman, though her mode of expression had been far from elegant. Mrs. Vaux—Gardens—must set her some extra exercises in polite conversation.
For the next couple of days, Amaryllis was busy working out a schedule of classes as they gradually sorted the girls into groups with comparable abilities in various subjects. By Thursday all was running smoothly.
That morning she was in the music room, teaching Isabel Winterborne her first notes on the piano. The room ran the length of the house on the ground floor, with tall windows and French doors opening onto the back garden. Besides the pianoforte, it contained a harp, a couple of cabinets to hold music, and a large number of straight chairs.
Isabel was picking out a five-note tune when Daisy knocked and came in.
“It's Miss Louise Carfax, miss. Her uncle just brung her, that's Lord...” she peered at the card in her hand.
A large figure appeared behind her and plucked the card from her hand.
“That's quite all right, m'dear,” said a deep, lazy voice. “I'll announce m'self."
“I axed your lordship to wait below,” said the parlourmaid indignantly.
“M'niece is waiting below, and you,” he pointed at Isabel, “may go and keep her company, miss, if you please. I want a word with Miss Hartwell, alone."
Isabel looked up at her teacher to find her gaping in stunned wonder, as if the large, fair gentleman were a ghost, while he held the door for her in a polite but definitely insistent manner. She slipped off the stool and left the room with all the dignity she could muster.
As the door closed firmly behind her, Miss Hartwell found her voice.
“Bertram!” she gasped.
Chapter 4
“My dear girl, you are as white as a sheet.” Lord Pomeroy's long stride took him to Amaryllis's side in a couple of paces. “Here, put your head down."
“Don't be ridiculous, Bertram, I have never fainted in my life,” she responded with indignation. “And what an odiously unromantic thing to say, after all this time."
“If I had a romantic bone in my body, we'd have been married all this time. I'd never have let you put off our wedding again and again, waiting patiently so that you could enjoy your freedom before being tied to a husband.” He gazed down from beside her with a quizzical expression.
“Do stop towering over me. Please, sit."
“I will sit if you will take off that old-maidish cap. There, that is better.” He threw the offending garment on top of the piano, then pulled up a chair and sat down, taking one of her hands in his. “Why did you do it?"
“Why did I keep postponing our wedding?” She made no move to pull her hand from his clasp.
“That, yes, and why did you write me that letter breaking it all off, and then disappear without leaving me word where to find you?"
“You must have received the letter at least a week before I left town. Why did you not come in time?"
“I did not receive it in time. I was angry, Amaryllis. You remember that afternoon, the second anniversary of our betrothal. I felt I had waited long enough. My parents were pressing me to name a day, to settle down. They were very fond of you, you know."
“I know. I don't know why I refused you again. It was not that I so greatly enjoyed my freedom. There was a sort of inertia, an unwillingness to change anything in my life. The last change had been so painful, like going into exile. There were Tizzy and Aunt Eugenia to consider, also. I was afraid of taking on the responsibilities of being your wife and more afraid of seeing you grow indifferent once we were wed. I had seen so many marriages where husband and wife scarce spoke to each other. I was in love with you, Bertram. I could not bear that that should happen to us."
He captured her other hand. “I was angry. I decided to go away, not to see you for a month. I went to stay with a friend in Hampshire for a fortnight and then on to Tatenhill to my parents. There I found your letter releasing me from our engagement."
“I had to do it. You must see that. The scandal attached to Papa's behaviour was such that it would have been the outside of enough to keep you tied to the betrothal. Besides, there was not a penny left of my dowry."
“And of course I was marrying you for your money. Little goose!” His voice was loving. “I was still in shock from your letter when my father summoned me. He gave me an ultimatum. My frivolous, here-and-thereian life was a disgrace to the family. He had obtained a position for me in Vienna at the Congress. I was to leave in two weeks with or without you, or he would make my life deuced uncomfortable. Not given to idle threats, m'father. I posted straight back to town, drove all night, but you were already gone.”
“The lease on the house was up. It was that very evening, the day I last saw you, that Papa dined with us, and the next day he was gone. He had paid all our bills. He was so proud of that. Still, we had very little money. We had to go. Besides, once we had decided what to do, as Tizzy said, ‘If it were done, when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly.’”
“Macbeth. Miss Tisdale is still with you?"
“Oh yes. I could not have managed, still could not manage, without her."
“This house, how did you find it?"
“It is Godmama's. She lets it to us for a peppercorn rent, and since Godmama is a very literal-minded lady, she comes to visit once a year to receive her peppercorn."
He laughed but spoke seriously. “I have a bone to pick with Lady Mountolivet Gurnleigh. She refused to tell me where you had gone, and no one else knew. I have been abroad so much of the time since that I have had no opportunity
to set enquiries in motion. It is entirely her fault that I did not find you sooner."
“I told her I must make a clean break, that I did not want to see anyone at all. Unless, of course, they wished to confide a daughter to my care. She referred any number of pupils to the school until we had built up a reputation for ourselves. I wish you will not quarrel with her, Bertram. She offered me a home, only I could not accept. Several people cut me dead in the street after Papa left. I could not subject her to such distress. But tell me, how is it you have found me at last?"
“I was staying a few days with my sister Caroline. When I heard the name of the schoolmistress to whom she was sending m'niece, I insisted on escorting the little baggage here myself. I must warn you, Amaryllis, Caroline says the chit is a sad romp but if you ask me I'd call her a veritable hoyden. I beg you will not ask what she was doing to sprain her ankle."
“I have every sympathy with the child,” said Amaryllis with a laugh. “Aunt Eugenia used to call me a sad romp, you know. Heavens, look at the time. My history class will be waiting."
She jumped to her feet, pulling her hands from Lord Pomeroy's clasp. “Will you ... Are you staying in the area?” she asked shyly.
“If you will recommend the best inn in the village, I shall put up there."
“Oh no, that would never do. You have no idea how news spreads through the village, and I am a respectable schoolmistress. I cannot afford tattle. You had best go into Halstead."
“I am at your orders, ma'am. When can I see you again?"
She thought for a moment. “I believe I shall take a walk by the Colne this evening at dusk,” she said, blushing. “With luck no one will see us, and if they do perhaps they will think it a chance meeting."
“Respectable schoolmistress, ha!” he grinned. “I'll take my leave of Louise and be off. Until this evening.” He kissed her hand and strode out.
Feeling somewhat flustered, Miss Hartwell hurriedly put on her cap and followed him downstairs. She was in time to see his back disappear through the front door. She noted that his coat of blue superfine was as superbly cut as ever, his fawn pantaloons still moulded to the strong limbs of a Corinthian though he was now, it seemed, a diplomat. His boots shone with the unmistakable gloss that announced champagne in the blacking.
Isabel Winterborne was absorbed in conversation with a sturdy, blonde girl of her own age but an inch or two taller who was tidying her hair in a mirror. They turned as they heard Miss Hartwell's footsteps.
“This is Louise Carfax, ma'am,” said Isabel, adding worriedly, “I'm sorry I left my lesson. I did not know what to do."
“That's quite all right, Isabel. How do you do, Miss Carfax. I am Miss Hartwell."
Miss Carfax performed a careful curtsy. “How do you do, ma'am,” she said with a grin that reminded Miss Hartwell strongly of Lord Pomeroy. She swung her bonnet in one hand. “My uncle mussed my hair. That is why I am in such a sorry state."
One blonde braid was half undone, its ribbon missing. The other had been pinned precariously in a loop that threatened to descend at any moment. It seemed unlikely that Lord Pomeroy could have visited such depredations on her appearance without dragging her backwards through a bush.
“Daisy shall take you upstairs to tidy yourself. Then ask her to bring you straight to me.” Miss Hartwell rang the bell. “Isabel, you are in my history class at this hour, are you not? Come."
Fifteen minutes later, Louise, now perfectly tidy, trotted into the classroom where seven young ladies were studying the Roman invasions of Britain with various degrees of attention. Isabel at once made room for her.
“You can share my book,” she whispered.
“Ugh, history!” Louise whispered back.
Miss Hartwell introduced her to the other girls. “I have just explained,” she went on, “that we shall spend a week on the Roman occupation. Next Wednesday, I shall hire a chaise and those of you who have studied diligently shall go to Colchester to see the Roman remains. There is an excellent confectioner's near the Roman walls, where we shall take a nuncheon."
“Famous!” exclaimed Louise. “My uncle said he is going to stay near here for a few days. I shall persuade him to go with us and treat us all to cream cakes."
“The purpose of the visit,” Miss Hartwell reminded her severely as possible, considering that she was unable to hide a smile, “is to inspect the Roman ruins, not to gorge on cream cakes."
“I expect Uncle Bertram knows all about the Romans,” said the irrepressible Louise. “He has been to Italy, after all. Besides, in case all of us are to go, he can take some up in his curricle so you will only need to hire a single chaise."
“True,” mused Miss Hartwell. “You may ask him then, but do not pester him. Now, back to our books, or no one will be going."
Between describing in thrilling detail Queen Boadicea's sack of Colchester and going upstairs to change for dinner some six hours later, Amaryllis had little leisure for thought. Wearily, she slipped off her shoes, unbuttoned her dress, and pulled it over her head with a shiver. There was more than a hint of autumn in the chill, September afternoon.
Wrapping a green Paisley shawl, a remnant of her former extensive wardrobe, about her shoulders, she lay back on the bed to put her feet up for a few minutes.
Each year it took a week or two to reaccustom herself to the demands of her profession. She was really too tired to walk by the river this evening, and the weather was not inviting. However, she had made the assignation and must keep it. She and Bertram still had a great deal to discuss.
Perhaps she had been unwise to allow Louise to approach him about the trip to Colchester. What an enterprising minx the child was. But he might wish to be gone long before then. It was natural that he should have wanted to see her, to explain what had happened six years ago; but that did not mean he was still interested in marrying her.
She remembered the feel of his hands holding hers, his kiss on her fingers and shivered again. Getting up, she dressed quickly and went downstairs. The candles were already lit. Outside the light was fading fast. She had forgotten how early it grew dark now.
Miss Tisdale was in the common drawing room, presiding over those girls who had already come down. Unlike the private drawing room, this was a large chamber furnished in the best taste, though somewhat shabby from constant use. Mrs. Vaux considered it her duty to train her pupils in the choice of elegant furnishings and had insisted on purchasing the best they could afford.
Miss Hartwell went to Miss Tisdale and drew her aside.
“Bertram was here,” she said.
“So I have heard, my dear. ‘Bring hither the fatted calf.’ Luke 15, verse 23. Hardly appropriate, perhaps, since ‘was lost and is found’ applies to you better than to his lordship, and no one could say you have wasted your substance with riotous living."
“Nor am I hungry enough for a fatted calf. In fact, I am not hungry at all. I believe I shall go for a walk instead of joining you for dinner."
Miss Tisdale nodded, her shrewd eyes concerned. “I shall make your excuses,” she said briefly.
Impulsively, Amaryllis kissed her cheek.
Booted, cloaked, and hooded, she walked briskly down Queen Street to the Colne, a pretty stream that flowed peaceably through green meadows. In summer the grass was scattered with yellow kingcups and pink lady's smock, a delightful place to stroll. Now, in the chilly dusk, the muddy path was uninviting, trampled by the hooves of cattle. Amaryllis contemplated it with dismay.
“You were all about in your head to suggest such a dismal rendezvous,” said an amused voice behind her. She turned to see Lord Pomeroy, larger than ever in his caped greatcoat. “Come, we shall drive back to Halstead and sit in comfort in my private parlour. It is nearly dark. No one will see you."
“They will see me at the inn,” she pointed out. “I dare not."
“Hen-hearted wench. Then we must drive about in the dark, for I'll not keep my team standing in this weather."
“Of cours
e not. You are right, I was crazy to suggest this meeting. Bertram, I cannot see you during the week. I simply do not have the time. Will you come and visit Louise on Sunday? I shall say I must discuss her education with you."
“Her misdeeds, rather. Very well, m'dear. Sunday let it be. But if you do not make time for me then, I shall lay siege to your wretched school. I give you due warning. Allow me to drive you back now."
“It is but a step, and they will hear the carriage wheels."
“I shall walk with you then,” he said firmly and tucked her gloved hand under his arm.
They walked in silence to the corner of King Street, neither wishing to broach a subject that they had not time to deal with thoroughly. Amaryllis stopped at the corner.
“Go back to your horses now,” she said. “They will take a chill."
“Till Sunday then.” He turned to go, then swung back. “Amaryllis, do you still have my ring?"
“I sold it,” she said bluntly.
After a pause, he said softly, “Do you know, I find that my disposition is more romantic than I had thought.” He strode off into the night.
Amaryllis stared after him, hands clenched, a cold weight settling over her heart. Anger came to her rescue.
If she had distressed him, why did he not say so and let her explain? She had not dared entrust the valuable ring to the post and had kept it to return to him at a later date. Then they had needed money desperately—more desperately than Bertram, with his wide estates and generous allowance, could ever understand. He might have let her try to explain.
As she trudged up King Street, she remembered other occasions when he had gone off looking hurt, so unwilling to quarrel with her that he would not demand an explanation of whatever troubled him. And he always accepted her every suggestion without a murmur, even when it was a matter of putting off their meeting for three days or their wedding for two years.
He had been a buck of the first stare, a leader of the Corinthian set. Yet in his dealings with her he was something more like a milksop. Was that why she had postponed the marriage time after time? Of course, she had no wish to be ridden over roughshod ... nor did she desire to rule the roost.
