Miss Hartwell's Dilemma

by Dunn

  “Never mind that. There was a fellow in there—a dark, swarthy young man with an accent I would wager to be Spanish. He was asking all sorts of questions about the school."

  Amaryllis frowned. “A gentleman?"

  “Of sorts. Dressed like a popinjay, jewels everywhere, and a shocking waistcoat.” His lordship looked down with complacency at his own neat blue and grey striped waistcoat with its single fob. “Wearing a sword, too. But there, I expect fashions are different in Spain as they are in most of Europe. Foppish bunch, foreigners."

  “Bertram, you do not suppose he could be connected with ... with the Spanish Ambassador's daughter? I mean a brother or something come for revenge?"

  “Dash it, Amaryllis, after six years? Not but what those hidalgos have long memories and they do go in for family feuds, I believe."

  “Hidalgos?"

  “The petty nobility. Complicated code of honour, great pride of family, and not much common sense. I met a few in Vienna."

  “You are most reassuring! Still, I expect he is merely interested in providing his daughter with an English education. I must go and change my dress now,” she added as the clock struck the quarter. “I shall see you on Wednesday."

  “Dash it, Amaryllis, you were used to be quite the most restful female of my acquaintance and now you will not stand still for more than five minutes before you mush dash off hither and thither."

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I am a working woman, my dear. Now I really must run."

  He watched her until she reached the top of the stairs, then turned to leave, muttering disgustedly, “If ever I received a brotherly kiss, that was one."

  He might have been cheered had he known that, as she changed, Amaryllis was comparing him with Lord Daniel Winterborne. The comparison could only be in his favour. His excellent style, easy manners, and superior address threw Lord Daniel's brusqueness into strong relief. Yet for quite thirty seconds Lord Daniel had been almost charming, and how that smile had changed his appearance. He could not be much older than thirty, especially as his brother George must be no more than five or six and thirty by now. Isabel was eleven, though. Had he married so young?

  Or was Isabel a love-child?

  That would certainly explain the lack of a respectable female in the household. On the other hand, Lord Daniel had said that his sister advised him to send Isabel to school, and surely his sister would not care a fig for the upbringing of a love-child. Isabel had told her that her father had quarrelled with his relations. Yet he was in communication with at least one and took her advice. Thoroughly intrigued by her speculations, Miss Hartwell hurried down to dinner.

  After dinner on Sundays, the older girls were left in charge of the younger. The three ladies retired to their private drawing room, taking it in turns to check the common-room occasionally. Sipping tea from the best Crown Derby porcelain cups, half a dozen of which Mrs. Vaux had saved when the Hartwell possessions were sold up, they discussed the past week and made plans for the coming week.

  Amaryllis found herself avoiding all mention of Bertram's visit, and her aunt and governess tactfully made no enquiries. She was no more willing to talk about Lord Daniel, though she did tell them that Isabel would be staying. Also, she felt obliged to pass on Mr. Raeburn's warning about his rakish reputation, which had Mrs. Vaux in a tizzy until Tizzy pointed out calmly that he was unlikely to make any attempt on the virtue of his daughter's companions.

  Mrs. Vaux waited until her niece had left the room before she confided that she was afraid his lordship might attempt to make Amaryllis the object of his affections.

  “She has no male relative to protect her,” she said. “I daresay by the time we could get a reply from Philadelphia it would be too late."

  “She has a great deal of common sense to protect her,” soothed Miss Tisdale. “Nor do I suppose that Lord Daniel is any more likely to seduce his daughter's teacher than her friends. Besides, I cannot but think that Lord Pomeroy would have something to say to that."

  Mrs. Vaux was reassured. Miss Tisdale was more dubious of her own reasoning. She had a low opinion of men, always excepting Mr. Raeburn, and she doubted that a gentleman already known as a libertine would be given pause by his daughter's situation if his fancy should happen to alight upon her preceptress.

  Amaryllis returned to report that all was quiet and decorous in the common-room. The conversation turned to the possible hiring of a chambermaid to assist the housemaids so that one of the housemaids might assist Daisy, who was run off her feet now that there were twenty-four young ladies in residence.

  “We are sufficiently beforehand with the world to afford it,” Amaryllis assured her aunt after some discussion. “One of the housemaids will be able to help Daisy serve at table. Do you have someone in mind already? If you could hire her tomorrow we might impress the vicar when he dines here tomorrow evening."

  “He mentioned that you had invited him when I spoke to him after church,” said Miss Tisdale, slightly flushed. “Of course he will not be able to come if Miss Raeburn is unwell. Ah, it is nine o'clock, and my turn to see the children to bed, is it not? ‘I will both lay me down in peace and sleep.’ Psalms 4, verse 8."

  There was silence until she had closed the door behind her, then Amaryllis said, “I believe I shall make it a standing invitation for every Monday. Then he can tell his sister that it is part of his clerical duties to ensure that his pupils say grace and behave with propriety at table."

  “An excellent notion. Augusta interferes only with his pleasures, not with his duties,” approved Mrs. Vaux.

  “Augusta?"

  “Yes, we are on Christian-name terms! I called in this afternoon after my walk and stayed quite half an hour."

  “Splendid! I see you are a first-rate fellow conspirator."

  “I have already discovered that she does indeed have a brother in London, and that he lives in Chapel Street, which is an excessively fashionable address,” said Mrs. Vaux with pardonable pride. “Perhaps it is not quite fair to pretend to seek her friendship, but for Miss Tisdale's sake I will do it."

  “Yet you always address Tizzy so formally. You are not on Christian-name terms with her after all these years."

  “I asked Miss Tisdale several years ago to call me Eugenia, but she maintained that she would not be comfortable addressing thus the sister of her ex-employer. I would not for the world so demean her as to call her Melpomene if she will not reciprocate."

  Amaryllis giggled. “If my name were Melpomene,” she admitted, “I should prefer that no one used it. It is bad enough to be called after a Greek shepherdess. I cannot think what her parents were about to name her for the muse of Tragedy."

  “I hope you have a plan in mind,” her aunt went on. “It is prodigious unpleasant to have to listen to Augusta complaining for thirty minutes at a time, I vow."

  “I need more information before I can contrive a successful scheme. Try to find out why she does not choose to live with the tonnish brother, and as many things that give her the vapours as you can."

  Preparing for bed later that evening, Amaryllis realised she had not told her aunt or Tizzy of the inquisitive Spaniard. Still, there was no need to alarm them. No doubt he would turn up in a day or two to enroll a daughter in the school, or perhaps he wanted to give Spanish lessons. As Bertram had said, it was not likely that some relative of the Spanish Ambassador should have tracked her down with revenge in mind after all these years. All the same, it was not only the chilly sheets that made her shiver as she climbed into bed.

  Chapter 6

  Monday morning brought rain, blowing in wintry drifts across the village and dashing against the windowpanes with a rattle like a snare drum. September or no, Mrs. Vaux ordered fires lit in every room that would be used during the day.

  Mr. Raeburn arrived at the school with his greatcoat soaked through, his umbrella having turned inside out within a few steps of the vicarage. One of the housemaids hurried the dripping garment to the
kitchen, while Daisy ushered the vicar into the small, cosy parlour where he would spend the day attempting to inculcate the tenets of Christianity into four or five young ladies at a time.

  Patient and genial, Mr. Raeburn had no opinion of preachers of hellfire. He had the greatest difficulty in checking his tendency to expatiate upon charity and compassion at the expense of more abstract virtues. His greatest joy was when, as happened not infrequently, one of the girls would bashfully hand him a portion of her pin money with a request to see to the comfort of some parishioner whose troubles he had mentioned. They all loved him, and not a few considered the inexplicable peppermint scent that imbued his presence to be synonymous with the “odour of sanctity."

  It was still pouring with rain at four o'clock when he had finished his lessons. Miss Hartwell asked him to rake Louise Carfax over the coals for her behaviour in church, and then to explain the service to Isabel Winterborne so that she would be less confused next Sunday.

  Louise emerged from her scolding utterly unabashed. “Don't be frightened,” she whispered to Isabel, who was nervously awaiting her turn. “He's nice."

  By the time Isabel came out to confirm that, excepting her Papa, the vicar was the nicest man she knew, it was too late for him to return to the vicarage before dinner. Miss Augusta might have hysterics if she wished, he would know nothing about it. Thus, Amaryllis sent Tizzy to entertain him with a glass of Madeira until dinnertime.

  “'Wine that maketh glad the heart of man,'” said Miss Tisdale. “Psalm 104, verse 15. I do not believe my father ever used it for a sermon, but he was wont to quote it after dinner."

  The meal was greatly enlivened when Daisy poured a glass of water for Mrs. Vaux and a frog leaped out of the pitcher in a shower of droplets. Several girls jumped up onto their chairs, squealing, though how that would save them was unclear as the frog was hopping about the table. The unfortunate creature sprang for shelter and landed in a dish of salad. Louise grabbed the offending beast as it scrambled out, trailing greenery and leaving oil-and-vinegar footprints on the white tablecloth.

  “Shall I put him outside, Miss Hartwell?” she enquired, trying hard to suppress a look of unholy glee.

  “If you please,” Amaryllis answered, the corners of her lips twitching. “And you will see me in my office immediately after dinner.” So much for her theory that Mr. Raeburn's presence would be conducive to superior decorum.

  “Yes, ma'am.” Eyes sparkling, Louise whispered, “It was worth it!” in Isabel's ear as she passed.

  “'A merry heart doeth good like a medicine,'” opined Miss Tisdale. “Proverbs 17, verse 22. But take away that salad, if you please, Daisy."

  “I hope you will not punish Miss Carfax too severely,” begged Mr. Raeburn, who had been surprised into a most unclerical guffaw. “Bless my soul, I have not so enjoyed a meal in many a long day.” When he plodded out into the rain some time later, he was still chuckling at the memory.

  Miss Hartwell had half a mind to ban Louise from the outing to Colchester. However, that hardly seemed fair since she had studied hard. Besides, there would be no excuse for Bertram to join them if his niece was not to be of the party. Instead she had her write an essay on cruelty to animals. The frog had certainly been much more alarmed than anyone else.

  On Tuesday afternoon it was still raining, and the trip to Colchester was in doubt. After school, Louise and Isabel were found doing a most extraordinary dance in the vestibule. It involved a lot of stamping, gyrating, and waving of arms. Louise explained.

  “My brother learned a rain dance from an American boy at Eton. It is what the Redskins do to make it rain when there is a drought. So we are doing it backwards to make it stop."

  Apparently the theory was valid, since by five-thirty it was clearing. Wednesday dawned sunny and by breakfast time promised to be warm.

  “It's called an Indian summer,” said Louise with satisfaction.

  At nine o'clock the chaise from the Bell Inn was waiting at the gate, and a few minutes later Lord Pomeroy's smart curricle drew up. He had his own chestnuts harnessed and his equipage altogether took the shine out of the hired carriage.

  There was some squabbling before Louise, Isabel, and one other girl squeezed into the curricle with his lordship and the disappointed four climbed into the aged chaise with Miss Hartwell. Lord Pomeroy looked as if he was inclined to join in the squabble when he saw her disappear inside with her charges.

  The curricle could have reached Colchester in half the time but, to Louise's vociferous disapproval, her uncle chose to remain close to the chaise all the way. With a noted whip behind him, the Bell's ostler pushed his horses all the way. They arrived before noon.

  The confectioner, warned in advance of their coming, provided a cold collation, which was barely touched, and a great many cream cakes, all of which disappeared. Lord Pomeroy paid the reckoning and was enthusiastically thanked by his niece and her friends. It was with a certain torpor that they repaired to the ruins of the Roman city.

  Miss Hartwell had made this excursion twice before and was well primed with facts for their edification. Before she could begin her lecture, she found herself drawn off along a secluded path by his lordship. As soon as they were out of sight, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, instantly dispelling the notion that indolence was responsible for his attachment.

  “Bertram, you must not!” she gasped as he released her, and she put up her hands to straighten her bonnet.

  “Did you dislike it?” he asked with a glint in his eye. “I did not notice that you tried to kick my shins."

  “How could you ask such a question?” she said severely. “Of course I disliked it excessively. I am not accustomed to being mauled by those I had considered gentlemen."

  He smiled. “It's my belief I should have tried it years ago. It does not pay to be too much the gentleman. However, I beg your pardon, and I promise not to do it again. This afternoon. Unless you tempt me beyond bearing."

  “I must go back to the girls at once."

  “All right, I promise. No conditions. Let me have you to myself just for an hour,” he coaxed. “They cannot get into a great deal of mischief in a single hour."

  “What makes you think that? With Louise among them, five minutes will suffice.” Nonetheless she allowed herself to be persuaded and they wandered on while she told him about the frog in the water pitcher.

  She enjoyed the afternoon, and to her relief the worst trouble she found when they rejoined the young ladies was a torn ruffle. To be sure they had not learned much history, but as Bertram said, the ancient Romans were not a common topic of conversation in the best society.

  That evening she lay in bed, thinking back over the day.

  Bertram was excellent company, and she was looking forward to his promised visit on Sunday. It was delightful to be with someone who saw her as a beautiful woman and a member of the Haut Ton, not as a dowdy schoolmistress. Yet his kiss had disarranged her bonnet more than her composure. Judging by the novels she had read, a lover's kiss ought to thrill and agitate a maiden even to swooning. She was not given to swooning and hesitated to put her trust in the emotional accuracy of a novel, yet surely she should have felt more than surprise.

  Perhaps she had known him too long to experience excitement at his touch. She knew that when they were married he would be a gentle and considerate partner. Yes, she would marry him, next summer when the school year came to an end. She would marry Bertram, she thought sleepily, and Tizzy would marry Mr. Raeburn, and Aunt Eugenia ... Bother! What about Aunt Eugenia? Before Amaryllis could tackle that problem she fell asleep.

  The next day the skies were blue again. As soon as the morning sun had dried the dew from the lawn, Miss Hartwell took several girls out into the back garden to sketch. There was a huge old oak, its leaves now beginning to yellow after the first frosts, which made an excellent subject. Later she would have them draw it leafless, with gnarled skeleton exposed, then in the spring, clad in fresh golden-green.
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  Ned trudged up the garden and came to her side.

  “Would ‘ee come look at the brollycolly, miss,” he urged with an extraordinary series of winks, gestures, and shrugs.

  “At the broccoli, Ned?” said Miss Hartwell in surprise. The old countryman considered the vegetable in the light of a sinister foreign plot and had baulked at being requested to grow it, but he had never before asked for advice on its cultivation.

  He jerked his head, winked again, and waved his arms at the young ladies. “Aye, miss, and the serrelly too."

  “Have the rabbits been at it again?"

  “Jis’ come see!” begged Ned.

  Mystified, Miss Hartwell followed him down to the kitchen garden and gazed at the celery bed. A mistle thrush was pecking at a snail, and an orange-breasted robin perched on the handle of the gardener's fork and sang a few liquid notes to her.

  “Arr, ‘e be awaitin’ for I to dig ‘is dinner fer en,” Ned explained.

  “He is charming. Is that what you wanted me to see?"

  “Nay, then. Din't want to fright the young leddies, did I?"

  “Fright the young ladies? Pray tell me what this is all about, Ned. What is wrong with the celery?"

  “Nowt, miss. Best serrelly I iver growed. ‘Tis the furriner I mun tell ‘ee of."

  “A foreigner! Not a Spaniard?"

  “Dunno ‘bout thet. Dark, ‘e wor, and dressed up fit to kill. Flash cove. ‘E wor axin’ ‘bout the school and the young leddies. Din't tell en nowt, did I?"

  “He spoke English?"

  Ned cackled. “Better nor I, miss, better nor I. ‘Ceptin’ when ‘e swore at I, ‘twere in some furrin lingo.” The memory amused him so much that he bent double with laughter and tears came to his eyes.

  “Thank you, Ned, for telling me, and for not telling him, and for not frighting the young ladies. You will be sure to let me know if you see him again?"

  “Aye, miss,” gasped the old man. He touched his ancient cloth cap and hobbled off, still snickering.