School's in Session

by Various Authors

  He broke the standoff. "I hope you will excuse me. I have an appointment with another of our benefactors this afternoon."

  "Of course, my boy." Stokes rose and shook his hand. "Please allow me to escort you to the street."

  "Thank you for inviting me to dinner." He rounded the table to take Miss Stokes' hand and again bowed over it. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

  She nodded. "I hope we will have the opportunity to meet again."

  He shot a glance to her father who shook his head. "I am sure we will. And a pleasant afternoon to you."

  He was out on the street before he realized two things. One, for some parts of his visit, he had forgotten his vow of vengeance and begun to enjoy the delightful daughter of his sworn enemy and two, Marguerite Stokes did not have the slightest clue what her father had proposed. Hurrying away down the dusty street, William Melton, Oxford-educated son of the late Josiah Melton, waited to hear the explosion soon to follow, when the silver baron revealed his plans. It was sure to be an exciting afternoon at the mansion.

  Chapter Three

  And so the school doors closed behind her and Marguerite Amanda Victoria Stokes, recent graduate of Miss Pomeroy's School for Girls, found herself a student at what the silver barons considered a finishing academy for its wealthy citizens' children.

  From the upper floors, voices chimed, unison recitation, a chorus of some popular song, and ringing footsteps descending the stairs.

  She pressed her back against the door, wanting to flee, but to where? Her father had made it clear that if she did not follow his wishes in this, he would have none of her and she'd be out on her ear with not a cent to her name.

  Very similar to when he'd forced her to come to this benighted state to start with.

  The footsteps came nearer and she glanced up to see the polished boots of William Melton, schoolmaster and lying cur, followed by the rest of him. Her rage rose and she shuddered with it, fists clenched at her sides.

  "Ah, Miss Stokes, you have arrived." He strode from the bottom of the staircase to her side, every hair in place, his jacket as smooth as his hair. She wondered for a moment who kept his clothing so neat. Did a schoolmaster have a wife? The teachers at her former school had all been women, confirmed spinsters or widows.

  "Mr. Melton." She nodded shortly and stared past him down the hallway. "I must say I was surprised to learn I would be one of your pupils."

  "Please come this way, Miss Stokes, and I will give you the tour." He walked off down the hall toward the back of the building and she took a quick skip step to catch up. "I was also a little amazed that he would ask."

  She reached his side and matched his steps. "Then you understand how ridiculous it is to have me re-enroll when I have completed the entire curriculum at Miss Pomeroy's. You yourself agreed that you do not have the classes to offer that I have already studied. Languages, sciences, mathematics..."

  "Here is the cloakroom where you may leave your outer things on cold days and, opposite, a sitting room where the young ladies may congregate to embroider and such when they are between classes." He tugged aside a brown serge curtain so stiff with embroidery it had no folds—vines twining around a pattern of multicolored flowers in rich colors. Probably the work of the young ladies, in their leisure time. How entertaining. He started off again, before her shudder at the hated needlework being mentioned as if it were a pleasurable activity. No matter how beautiful—and hers never was—she'd go mad if she was expected to spend her days stitching away like a ninny. "While it is true we do not have an instructor in astronomy for young ladies, I think you will find that we do have classes which are helpful for you in adjusting to your new surroundings."

  "Indeed?"

  At the back of the building, they entered a kitchen. The wood stove gleamed with black polish and every surface shone with cleanliness. In a corner sat a young student, maybe ten or eleven, on a stool.

  "Caroline, did you have trouble again today?"

  The little girl with blonde braids over her shoulders raised woe-filled eyes to him. "Yes, Mr. Melton. I spoke out of turn."

  "And how long will you be in the corner today, Caroline?"

  "Until I have learned to mind my tongue." She crossed her hands in her lap.

  "So for quite some time?" The corner of his lip twitched.

  "I fear, so, Mr. Melton. I am quite a scamp, Miss Hilltop says."

  They continued on, and once they were out of sight of the child and, hopefully, out of earshot, Marguerite burst into laughter. "I don't know why I'm laughing at a child being punished. I am sorry."

  "Because Caroline has that effect on everyone. She will sit as long as required, but she is quite unrepentant. How long would you have to sit there before begging my pardon?"

  Her steps faltered. "For what would I possibly beg your pardon?"

  He moved in front of her and she stopped. "I am sure before long there will be some reason." Dark eyes bored into her. "Perhaps you will need to learn to mind your… tongue."

  Heat flared in her body and she stumbled back, needing space, air…. "I… should probably be offended." The man on the train, with his wife… I would indeed place you on your knees before me to school that naughty tongue, if we were alone!

  Mr. Melton would probably be able to explain what happened after they fled.

  If she were foolish enough to ask.

  "No offense intended. Just be aware we take discipline seriously in this school." He grinned at her and ushered her into another room, this one well lit by south facing windows, a group of chairs facing away from the stone fireplace. "Where the teachers gather for tea. In winter, they would face the fire."

  "I see." Why was he showing her the teacher's room? It wasn't as if she would be there, although she should by all rights be. She was likely better educated than most of the staff and could offer the pupils the civilization of the East. And the girls….

  "And where do you get your teachers, Mr. Melton? Are your young ladies being taught by slatterns or women of the streets?"

  He paused and stared at her until she looked at the floor. "Quite uncalled for, Miss Stokes."

  Her simmering anger would not allow her to let it go, however right he might be about her comment. She met his gaze. "I amend my question, in the interests of propriety. From where do you hire your teaching staff? Are they qualified to teach the future leaders of the great state of Nevada?"

  "Many of our finest citizens choose not to send their children away to be educated in the East. So, they formed a committee and hired me to ensure they received all the graces they would there—while still dwelling with their families. And, after spending some time with you, Miss Stokes, I understand their concern. It is easy to teach a child the name of the stars and how to look down upon others as though she dwells among the constellations. And it would seem that at Miss Pomeroy's you learned just that." He waved her ahead of him up a set of narrow stairs. "Odd, though, we have a graduate of that fine school here, and she seems to have no trouble treating others in a civil way."

  She clasped the banister and made her way up, pausing at the top to catch her breath. The mountainous place did seem to make walking more difficult. But the question hung in the air. "Another of Miss Pomeroy's students? Here?"

  She tried to think who it might be. Her fellow graduates were few enough that she knew by name and face each student who had studied during her time there. Most who had preceded her were married and settled in Boston. Unless….

  "Miss Amelia Collins. Do you know her?" Oh, no. Before she could conjure the image of her former classmate, he led her to a room and opened the door a crack. "In fact, here is her classroom."

  She peered in to see the former bane of her existence standing at the front of the room, behind the teacher's table. She held a yardstick and tapped it in rhythm with the student reciting arithmetic facts. In a dress buttoned tight to her throat, dirty-blonde hair in a smooth bun, she looked little like the bedraggled charity student many had mocked e
ven while the teachers petted the little tattle-tale. Marguerite had traveled all the way across the country to find her single acquaintance, besides her father, to be the one girl in all of Miss Pomeroy's she would not call friend.

  The door clicked shut and she spun to find Mr. Melton's stare piercing her. Why did he persist in looking at her as if she were a delectable dish? Surely he could hold no interest in her as a woman?

  And wouldn't it be awkward to be a student when her classmate was a teacher? Who hated her? Luckily the pupils in the room were ten and under, so it was unlikely she would be placed in her care.

  "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  She swallowed hard, inhaling his clean scent of castile soap. His neatly trimmed black beard served to outline a square jaw and sensual, mobile mouth. A somewhat prominent nose, more masculine than the smaller ones on the faces of the society boys she'd danced with in Boston. Everything about him seemed larger than life and her fingers lifted of their own accord toward his face, following her longing to touch him, to see if his beard was as soft as it looked… her eyes lifted to his again and she drowned in their depths.

  A trickle of perspiration rolled between her breasts and she shrugged at the irritation and dropped her hand to her side. "Yes."

  He loomed over her. "What?"

  Suddenly aware of how close he stood, mere inches separating them, she stumbled back a step, steadying herself against the closed door. "Yes, I know her."

  Amelia had earned Marguerite her sole whipping at Miss Pomeroy's. In fact, so rare were the times when corporal punishment was employed at the school, it had been all anyone had spoken of for weeks. What luck to find the ninny at a new school.

  They strolled down the hallway a little farther, and he paused. "This is your class. I am afraid you will be the oldest here."

  "Because I have quite finished school, Mr. Melton." She licked her dry lips, aware that he watched her like a bird of prey "Do you not see the absurdity of my being a student at this late stage of life? My classmate is a teacher here."

  "I understand that your father feels you still have some polish to acquire. So you are enrolled in a class where the emphasis is on the social graces." Hand on the doorknob, he smiled. "Once you have mastered these to his satisfaction, we shall see what his wishes are." Opening the door, he gave her a little push on her lower back and she stumbled inside.

  The six girls seated in a circle looked up at her from the books they were studying. At the front of the room sat a woman of at least sixty years old, her outmoded ensemble horrifying to behold. And she was in charge of teaching these young ladies to join society? She would have them dancing the polka in hoop skirts.

  How lucky for them she had entered. A student? Unlikely. She would take her place as the teacher in no time and see the old hen out on her ear.

  Chapter Four

  He'd insisted to her father that it was a bad idea for Miss Stokes to re-enter the schoolroom at her age, but the man had said, "She has spent her life learning to be civilized. I leave it to you to teach her to be civil. Whatever that may require."

  And judging by the fracas that had taken place from the first moment she'd entered the classroom, his old enemy's daughter would never fit in. She'd spent more time in his office than in the schoolroom and Miss Adams refused to readmit her until her attitude improved. Any of the other teachers would have disciplined such an outspoken student herself, but the dear old lady didn't have the strength to apply her own corporal punishment.

  Which meant he either had to keep her seated in the chair before his desk indefinitely, or apply some strokes to her backside himself. But, afraid his feelings toward her thieving father might translate into his arm, he tried one more time to convince her to show sense.

  "Miss Stokes, I am sure you understand why Miss Adams was so upset by your behavior."

  "No, I fail to comprehend why she could not take advantage of my superior knowledge of the subjects the old goat attempted to impart to her innocent charges."

  "She is well qualified and educated. She has been teaching here for three years with great success."

  Marguerite snorted.

  "For example, she would instruct you that making that… that sound in mixed company is unladylike."

  "She would expect me to defer to any man in the room, regardless of class. She would suggest I bow and line up for a reel. The woman is barely aware that the War Between the States is over. Did you know that?" Her haughtiness still couldn't overwhelm her beauty. Not a woman in Virginia City could match her for either.

  "You must attend and at least attempt to be gracious. It is your father's wish." The thieving bastard didn't even know what made his daughter too old for this, but William had to follow his requests or lose his school. One more reason to hate the man.

  "My father has paid no attention to me or my education in the past. My only desire at this stage is to convince him I belong in the East. I waste my days sitting with giggling girls, learning old poetry and manners suitable only for a spinster's parlor. Just this morning, she advised the girls on how to handle hoops in a carriage." Standing, Marguerite flounced to the door and back, while his eyes fixed on the bustle at her back. She seemed to have an endless supply of dresses, all more fashionable than any teacher on his staff, more suitable for morning calls or afternoon carriage rides than the schoolroom. He'd wondered how such a beautiful and intelligent woman could be the daughter of Stokes the thief, but her veneer of gentility was thin and easily burst when anyone said or did anything she did not like.

  "Miss Adams says she has not been able to get a word in without your correcting her."

  "Only when she's incorrect. And since she has not failed once to display that flaw…" She shrugged, turning to face him and his attention focused on the high, firm breasts displayed by her pleated white cotton shirtwaist and enhanced by her tightly laced corset. A dark skirt, gathered in back to a somewhat larger than usual bustle and a sky-blue sash, matching her eyes, completed her ensemble. As usual, she wore her hair piled on her head, casual but enticing. "I cannot help offering assistance to her."

  Marguerite was probably right, but Miss Adams was the unmarried sister of yet another silver baron who contributed heavily to the academy and had requested only that he hire her. He couldn't put the forgetful old dear in charge of small children who would take advantage of her absentmindedness. At least the young ladies—with the exception of this one—helped to keep her busy and out of trouble.

  She'd nearly set the building on fire making tea.

  But William couldn't share any of this with Miss Stokes. He needed only to keep her from raising a fuss for as long as her father wanted her there—and while he figured out how her presence fit into his plan to recover his lost inheritance. So far, it didn't.

  "Please return to the classroom and behave like the young lady you insist you are."

  "No." She moved to the window, to his left, and gazed out at the view of hillsides carved to accommodate silver mines. "I shan't go back there."

  "Do you refuse me, then?"

  "If you insist I subject myself to that half-demented ninny who does not even know the day of the week, or what fabric is suitable for autumn, then yes, I suppose I do."

  "Go back."

  "No."

  He stood and reached for her arm but she shrugged out of reach. "Don't touch me. I will tell my father if you lay a finger on me."

  Her father. That overfed, underworked example of a traitorous business partner and "friend". He had instructed William to employ every device to educate his Marguerite. To make her a daughter he could handle without difficulty. One who did not defy him at every turn. He'd hoped a period of time in the class with the gentile daughters of the local gentry would serve, but since she did not seem to be able to spend more than five minutes there without causing an uproar, what options did he have?

  "Last chance, Miss Stokes. Will you return to your class and study as you should?"

  She lifted
her head and stared up into his eyes, defiance evident from the top of her head, to her hands planted on her rounded hips, to her tapping toe. "I will not."

  "Then you leave me no choice." He reached behind him, took the paddle from the wall and set it on the desk. The wide board had never been used until this day on a girl. "Bend over."

  "Are you quite demented?" Her jaw dropped, and she snapped it shut. "I shall not."

  He grabbed for her again and she spun and ran for the door. In two steps, he had an arm about her waist and dragged her back to the desk. "Probably, to have taken you on. Bend over."

  "No! Take your hands off me." Her shrieks surely carried to other parts of the building, but no one would come. Miss Stokes with her snobbish attitude had garnered no friends in the school. "I will tell my father!"

  Forcing her forward over the high oak desk, he rested his forearm on her back to hold her in place. He lifted the paddle and held it high. "You may tell your father I offered the discipline he never did." She twisted and managed to whack him in the head with a flailing arm, then slid to her knees. He grasped her elbow and lifted her so she rested half across the desk, this time with her hands, luckily, pinned beneath her. She panted, but lay still for the moment.

  "I shall administer ten swats with the paddle to attempt to cure you of such unladylike demeanor. Then I shall send you to a different class, one more suited to your level of maturity." Eyeing her derrière, he considered the likely number of layers of cloth between the paddle and her skin. But there was no help for it. He wouldn't bare her… the very thought of her naked bottom sent his heart racing. He would have to hit lower, across her limbs, to make an impression.

  Raising the board, he brought it down fast and hard, with a satisfying thwack. She jerked and struggled and he caught her legs, tangled in their long skirts, between his ankles, and held her waist down with his arm. "The sooner you stop… struggling, the sooner this will be over." He quickly paddled four more times, five to go.