The Education of Miss Paterson

by M C Beaton

  And then the door opened and Lord Charles’s Swiss valet, Edouard, walked in. He was a thin sallow man with clever black eyes. Miss Sinclair did not like him and distrusted him simply because he was a foreigner.

  He stopped at the sight of Miss Sinclair. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. His voice had only a very faint accent.

  “I came to see that everything was in order,” said Miss Sinclair.

  He picked up the evening waistcoat Lord Charles had worn to Vauxhall and started to brush it. “You are too busy about the affairs of everyone else,” said Edouard, looking at the governess with contempt. “Well, now that you’ve poked into everything, why don’t you leave?”

  “You forget yourself,” gasped Miss Sinclair.

  “Not I. We are both upper servants, although some of us like to fancy ourselves as better than we are.” He poked his fingers into Lord Charles’s waistcoat pockets and then drew out a crumpled white silk rose. He looked at it with a smile and teased out the petals.

  “I’ll take that,” said Miss Sinclair. “That is one of the roses Miss Patterson was wearing in her hair last night.”

  The valet gave her a long steady look and then carefully laid the rose on the table beside the bed.

  Miss Sinclair blushed to the roots of her hair. “It does not mean anything,” she said. “It is not a keepsake. Miss Patterson no doubt dropped it.”

  “Then it is up to his lordship to return it to her,” said Edouard. “That way neither of us will make any clumsy mistakes.”

  He looked at Miss Sinclair with his clever black eyes, noticing her anger and distress, and turned away and began to arrange articles on the toilet table.

  “Very suitable,” he murmured. “Miss Patterson is an heiress and is young and beautiful.”

  “You forget, Lord Charles is engaged.”

  “For the moment—yes.”

  Miss Sinclair hurriedly left the room. She could hardly wait for Patricia to return.

  Patricia, still irritated with Miss Simpkin, viewed Miss Sinclair’s flushed and angry face and wished herself rid of both governesses. She held up a hand as Miss Sinclair would have burst into speech.

  “Give me time to remove my bonnet and draw breath before you start lecturing me. I know you are about to lecture me, for the tip of your nose is red.”

  Miss Sinclair waited impatiently while Patricia removed her wet bonnet and spencer. “Now,” said Patricia.

  “I happened to be in Lord Charles’s bedroom,” said Miss Sinclair, “and his valet was brushing the waistcoat he wore last night. Before my eyes, he removed from the pocket one of the silk roses you were wearing in your hair.”

  She waited hopefully for Patricia to say she must have dropped it, that she did not know how he came to have it. But Patricia stood very still, a tender smile on her lips. She was remembering the arbor in Vauxhall, and how he had taken the rose from her hair.

  “Well?” demanded the governess furiously.

  “He took it from my hair last night,” said Patricia dreamily.

  “No, no,” gasped Miss Sinclair. “He is engaged to Miss Chalmers. A gentleman like Lord Charles would not do such a thing.”

  “You are quite right,” said Patricia, giving herself a little shake. “I must have dropped it.”

  “You are sure?”

  Patricia’s face hardened. “Miss Sinclair, I am no longer a schoolroom miss. You are not to question me and cross-examine me, and, furthermore, your adoration of Lord Charles has become embarrassing.”

  “My adoration? Do not be stupid,” said Miss Sinclair, suddenly hating Patricia.

  “Just be careful you do not overstep the mark,” said Patricia. “And do not preach propriety to me, Miss Sinclair, until you have fully learned it yourself.”

  Miss Sinclair rushed from the room, slamming the door behind her. Patricia sat down. She found her legs were trembling.

  She wondered what to do about Lord Charles, she wondered what to do about herself, and then she found she could not bear to think and worry anymore.

  She looked out the opera gown and carried it with her new ribbons and workbasket down to the drawing room.

  Lord Charles found her there when he returned some ten minutes later. He stood in the doorway watching her. She was stitching busily, sage green silk spilling over her lap. Ribbons and lace hung from her workbasket. There was a cheerful fire burning and a large vase of lilacs on a table perfumed the air. Fashion magazines lay piled on the table along with some of Patricia’s well-worn Greek and Latin primers.

  She looked up and saw him. Their eyes met. Patricia felt held and trapped in that steady green gaze. Her heart hammered and the palms of her hands grew damp.

  And then he gave a queer little jerky nod of his head and walked away.

  “I will not be attracted by her,” Lord Charles told himself furiously. “I must rediscover what it was that attracted me to Mary in the first place.”

  But it was Mary’s very absence of femininity which had attracted him so strongly. The neat order of her dress, her calm remarks, and her repose had all drawn a man who had had enough of frivolous girls.

  But that evening he found his eyes had been opened to her faults and it seemed as if he would never be able to close them again. The opera was equal to Almack’s Assembly Rooms in that the audience was hand-picked by a stern committee. People came to be seen and admired.

  But Mary, thought Lord Charles wearily as they walked along Fop’s Alley to their box, was neither interested in dress nor in the music. Through the whole performance of Don Giovanni she sat like a stone while Patricia leaned over the box, drinking in the music, her gown of heavy sage green silk ornamented with gold ribbons spread about her.

  A supper and ball were to be held in the opera house after the performance. Persuading himself it was his duty to dance with his ward, Lord Charles forgot to ask Mary first. Mary sought out Miss Sinclair, who was sitting in the row of chaperones, and drew her aside.

  “I am afraid my fiancé is making a spectacle of himself with Miss Patterson,” said Mary. “It is very bad manners not to lead me into the opening set.”

  “I quite agree,” said Miss Sinclair earnestly. “One would think Lord Charles would be wary of her after the scandal that sent us both to America.”

  “What scandal?” asked Mary eagerly.

  Miss Sinclair bit her lip. The temptation to tell Miss Chalmers about the soldier was very great. But Lord Charles had sworn her to secrecy.

  “I cannot tell you,” she said. “But Patricia’s real character is coming to the surface. Lord Charles’s valet showed me a white silk rose he had just taken from his lordship’s waistcoat pocket. I recognized it as being one of the flowers Patricia wore in her hair at Vauxhall. I taxed Patricia with it and she finally admitted she had merely dropped it and he had picked it up, but in such a pert and rude way that I fear she was lying.”

  Mary found herself becoming very angry indeed. Lord Charles could not break off the engagement—no gentleman would dream of doing such a thing—but he had been cross and out of sorts of late, and it was all Patricia’s fault.

  “Is Miss Patterson enamored of Lord Charles?” asked Mary abruptly.

  “I do not know. She has never confided her thoughts to me. The only person she has ever really confided in as far as I know is Miss Margaret Munroe of Boston. Patricia writes her very long letters.”

  “I would dearly love to read one of those letters,” said Mary thoughtfully. “After all, there would be no harm in glancing through the contents, Miss Sinclair. If Miss Patterson is pure of heart, then there will be nothing in her letters to shock anyone. Not that I could… er… ask you to do such a thing. A lady such as yourself must surely shrink from such a distasteful task.”

  “Lord Charles said he hoped he could depend on my loyalty to you,” said Miss Sinclair. “As her governess, I feel I am entitled to read her post.”

  “Thank you. You will not find me ungrateful.” Mary pressed Miss Sinc
lair’s hand warmly. “In fact, after our marriage, I might engage a companion. Gentlemen are away at their clubs and politics so often. Mama will reside with us, but it would be pleasant to have a female companion of my own age.”

  She pressed Miss Sinclair’s hand more warmly and smiled into her eyes.

  “I will do anything you wish,” said Miss Sinclair tremulously.

  On the road home from the opera house, Miss Sinclair and Mary joined forces to try to make Patricia appear as silly as possible. With an edge to her voice, Miss Sinclair teased Patricia about her absorption with clothes. Mary Chalmers said Nobility of Spirit was above Fashion and discoursed at length on the subject, until Patricia said sweetly, “I am sure a gown of this sage green color would suit you, Miss Chalmers. It would match the color of your eyes.”

  “My eyes are gray,” snapped Mary.

  “Not tonight they aren’t,” murmured Patricia.

  “Behave yourself,” snapped Miss Sinclair.

  “All of you, behave yourselves,” said Lord Charles. “I am too tired to listen to your whining and bickering.”

  Silence fell on the occupants of the carriage. Lord Charles refused Mrs. Chalmers’ invitation to enter her home and take tea, and left Mary and her mother on their doorstep with only the briefest of farewells.

  When they arrived at Lord Charles’s home in Cavendish Square, Patricia turned to Miss Sinclair and said, “Please leave me alone with my guardian. There is something I wish to say to him in private.”

  Miss Sinclair bridled. “I do not think that wise, Patricia. It is not at all the thing that a girl of your age should be alone with a gentleman, unchaperoned.”

  “Leave us,” said Lord Charles curtly, “before you manage to offend me as well as Miss Patterson by your behavior.”

  “I am sure, my lord, that I—”

  “For pity’s sake… go.”

  Miss Sinclair gave a choked sob and fled.

  “Now, Patricia,” said Lord Charles, leading the way into the drawing room, “what do you want to speak to me about?”

  “We are to go to a Lady Blessington’s tomorrow, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “And just how many hundreds of people are going with us?”

  “Let me see—I have arranged for you to be escorted by Colonel Brian Sommers—”

  “You might have asked me…”

  “And I shall take Miss Chalmers—”

  “And Mrs. Chalmers. Do you wish me to marry Colonel Sommers?”

  Lord Charles frowned. “He is highly suitable, but it is up to you to decide.”

  “He might forget to turn up for his own wedding.”

  “Did you want to see me alone to criticize the poor colonel?”

  “No. I do not want Miss Sinclair to go with me.”

  Lord Charles looked at Patricia thoughtfully. “As you will,” he said at last. “Colonel Sommers will be driving an open carriage, so you will not need a chaperone. Lady Blessington’s is in Kensington. If, however, it should chance to rain, then you will need to have some lady with you in the carriage.”

  “Will you please tell Miss Sinclair she is not to go?”

  “I shall leave that task to the excellent Mr. Johnson.”

  The next day, as yet unaware she was to be left behind, Miss Sinclair pulled on her gloves and bonnet, preparatory to making her way downstairs. The affair at Lady Blessington’s was to be a breakfast, and breakfasts were always held at three in the afternoon, despite their name, and often went on until the small hours of the morning.

  It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny. Miss Sinclair thought about reading Patricia’s correspondence. But what had seemed a just thing to do the night before, now seemed mean and shabby.

  There was a scratching at the door. She called, “Come in.”

  Mr. Johnson entered, straightening his cravat.

  “Am I late, Mr. Johnson?” asked Miss Sinclair. “Is everyone waiting for me?”

  “I am afraid not,” said Mr. Johnson awkwardly. “My lord sends his compliments and begs to inform you that your presence will not be needed today.”

  “What is this? Is that Simpkin woman to go in my stead?”

  “No, Miss Sinclair. Colonel Brian Sommers is to escort Miss Patterson, and seeing that they will be traveling to Kensington in an open carriage, it was felt Miss Patterson could dispense with the services of a chaperone.”

  “Nonsense!” said Miss Sinclair briskly. “I shall speak to Miss Patterson. You will find she does not wish me to stay behind.”

  Mr. Johnson sighed. “I fear it was Miss Patterson’s particular request that you did not attend the breakfast.”

  “Oh!” Miss Sinclair sat down abruptly, her face flaming.

  Mr. Johnson smoothed his hair with a nervous hand. “I have some free time this afternoon, Miss Sinclair, and would be very honored if you would care to walk with me in the Park.”

  But Miss Sinclair did not appear to hear him. She sat with her fists clenched. “The ingratitude,” she muttered. “The sheer ingratitude.”

  Mr. Johnson looked at her sadly and then quietly left the room.

  Patricia was very annoyed with her guardian. He had already left half an hour before, telling her blithely that no doubt the colonel would be along any minute. But so far there had been no sign of him.

  She was just debating whether to hire a hack and pursue Lord Charles to Kensington when Colonel Sommers rolled up in front of the house driving a swan-neck phaeton. Patricia ran out to meet him.

  “You are late,” she said.

  “Am I?” exclaimed the colonel from his high perch. “Dear me.” He took out his watch and squinted at it and then shook it. “Never did work,” he said cheerfully.

  “Well, now that you are here,” said Patricia, “may we go?”

  “Yes certainly. Do you mind if my tiger assists you up? I dare not leave the reins. Cattle very fresh, y’know.”

  “Anything,” said Patricia, glaring up at him, “so long as we leave.”

  “Assist the lady,” called the colonel over his shoulder. A wizened and diminutive cockney jumped down from the backstrap and went around to where Patricia stood.

  “Bleedin’ ’diculous,” he muttered under his breath. “This rig’ll get us no further’n ’Yde Park toll.”

  “What did you say?” demanded Patricia icily, not being at all used to the free and easy speech of certain London Tigers.

  “Nuffink,” he said, helping her up.

  Patricia hung on tightly to the side of the carriage as they set off. She hoped she would not be travel sick. The carriage was so very high and so very well sprung that it swung from side to side like a ship on a stormy sea.

  “Designed it myself,” yelled the colonel above the noise of the wheels.

  “An’ a raht mess you made o’ it, too,” Patricia thought she heard the tiger mutter from behind.

  But the vehicle seemed designed for speed, and, once they were through Hyde Park toll, the colonel said he was going to “spring ’em.”

  There was a moan from the tiger as they shot off along the road.

  The carriage lurched and swayed dangerously. “Slow your pace, sir,” cried Patricia.

  “What?” asked the colonel, taking his gaze from the road ahead.

  “Don’t speak to ’im, missus,” screamed the tiger. “Don’t take ’is mind off wot ’e’s doin’.”

  “I said, slow your pace,” shouted Patricia.

  “Yes, it is a fine day,” beamed the colonel. “By George, Miss Patterson, that’s the most fetching bonnet I ever saw.”

  “My Gawd, look out!” shouted the tiger.

  Patricia screamed. They were heading straight for an oncoming cart, laden with hay.

  The colonel saw the expression of horror on Patricia’s face. Too late, he turned his attention back to the road. His horses reared and swerved. The side of the phaeton struck the side of the heavy farm cart. Patricia was thrown sideways from her high perch on top of the hay. As
the colonel’s carriage shattered like matchwood, he was dragged down onto the road, still holding onto the reins. The tiger had somersaulted backward and was sitting in the dusty road, cursing and shaking his fists.

  Patricia lay on top of the hay, digging her fingers into it so that she would not slide off. She felt as if all the breath had been knocked from her body.

  At last, she raised her head. Colonel Sommers was being helped to his feet. Blood was streaming from a cut on his forehead and his clothes were dusty and torn. The shattered carriage lay in pieces in the road. The horses, miraculously unhurt, had been led to the side.

  He looked about in a dazed way. “I am here!” shouted Patricia.

  The driver of the farm cart came around the side and glared up at her. “What are you doin’ up on my cart? I’ve enough on me plate without fancy morts fooling about. Some gentry cove near sent me to my Maker.”

  Patricia struggled up to her knees. “You are fortunately unhurt,” she said, “and so is your cart.”

  She turned her attention back to the colonel. “Pore young man,” a motherly woman was saying. “Best walk him back along to St. George’s Hospital.” This suggestion was cheerfully taken up by the sympathetic crowd.

  “What about me?” she shouted as the colonel was helped off down the road.

  “I dunno, miss,” said the tiger, grinning up at her. He had come to the side of the cart. “I told ’is nibs that there carriage was a death trap. But would ’e listen to me? Naw! Designed it ’isself and as proud o’ it as if ’e’d given birth to it. I needs to stay wiff the ’orses.”

  “Help me down,” said Patricia.

  “You’d best slide,” said the tiger, “an’ I’ll ketch you.”

  Patricia slid down the hay into the arms of the tiger.

  “Miss Patterson,” called a languid voice, “may I be of assistance?”

  Patricia turned around eagerly and then her face fell as she saw Mr. Geoffrey Truebury leaning out of a carriage.

  “There was an accident,” said Patricia.