A School for Brides

by Patrice Kindl

  For a time he stayed away, hoping they would soon leave. When, after nearly a month they had not, he called at the school at a moment he thought it likely he would find them there as well. Once introduced, he made a number of disparaging remarks about the counties of their births, and the inferiority of southerners in general and Oxford men in particular, and was ignored for his pains. Attempts to turn the subject of the conversation toward his one area of real expertise were in vain; no one seemed to care twopence for sheep and their care.

  At length he went away, feeling abused. He had not the same leisure as the newcomers; it was mid-September and the grain fields were being harvested. Being a gentleman, he did not wield a sickle or handle the grain himself, but he was a concerned and knowledgeable landowner. He had strong opinions about the proper ways to bring in the crops, and could not be spared during this most critical period in the agricultural year. His wheat, oats, and barley stood second to his wool, mutton, and fleeces in the profits produced by his estate, and he was too good a farmer to allow social affairs to distract him when his attention was required in the fields.

  The stranger at the inn was soon discovered to be a man of middle age, though giving the impression that he wished to be thought younger than his years.

  “Dyes his hair and wears a girdle,” murmured Robert in Miss Asquith’s ear, having ascertained these details from the maid at the Blue Swan whose job it was to clean his room. The young ladies were in their backboards again, which made it rather awkward as she leaned in to listen. “And he’s a great one for the lasses, says Mary,” he added. “Can’t leave a female alone in a room with him, she says.”

  “What are you telling Miss Asquith, Robert?” demanded Miss Winthrop. “It is not suitable for you to hold private discourse with any of our young ladies. What were you saying?”

  “Oh, Miss Winthrop!” said Robert, whose natural friendliness and convivial spirit often led him into these sorts of errors. “I’m so sorry, Miss.”

  “It was my fault,” interposed Miss Asquith, straightening up and pivoting toward her instructor. “I had begged him to hide the last biscuit in the Grecian urn in the hallway for me so that I might eat it later in my room—these backboards cause one to be so clumsy that I could not contrive it myself—and I did not care at all that poor Miss Mainwaring would go hungry to bed with no biscuit. He was very properly declining to perform such a wrong act.”

  Miss Winthrop, who had little difficulty in thinking the worst of Miss Asquith, was ready to accept this version of events until Miss Asquith added, “And then he suggested, most respectfully, of course, that I should no longer walk in the ways of darkness but seek the light, and lift up my eyes from earthly pleasures. It was most edifying. Personally, I think the entire incident speaks very well of Robert, but of course if you believe that propriety is of more importance than the salvation of my eternal soul, Miss Winthrop, why then I have nothing further to argue in his defense.”

  “I believe nothing of the sort!” snapped Miss Winthrop.

  “Oh, Miss!” cried Robert. “I never! That is—Pardon me, I shall try to do better, Miss Winthrop. Forgive me.” And he withdrew to the corner of the room, standing at rigid attention, his face a blank and his inner turmoil only betrayed by the tiny eruptions of hilarity that escaped him from time to time.

  Both Miss Crump and Miss Pffolliott were relieved by the news of the stranger’s sex and age, though neither rested entirely easy. Miss Crump merely supposed that her terrifying governess would arrive in a few days’ time; her ordeal was prolonged, rather than ended. Miss Pffolliott, though at first thankful that she need not immediately fear an importunate suitor appearing at the school (for a mysterious admirer must be young, if not positively handsome) became, before long, somewhat annoyed.

  If the stranger at the inn was not her secret lover, then why was he not? Her admirer could not be a local man—none was in a position to address her, other than the unappealing Mr. Godalming, and surely he was not writing her secret letters! She could not imagine anyone less likely than Mr. Godalming to be involved in a possible tryst.

  Miss Pffolliott knew that the inn possessed very few rooms for the use of travelers. If Miss Crump’s governess and accompanying servant (for it had become general knowledge that Miss le Strange was likely to appear at any moment) were to arrive before her admirer, there would be no rooms left for him.

  It was most tiresome. She became so annoyed with the man’s dilatory behavior that she resolutely shut her mind against him. She found herself able to concentrate on her studies for the first time in weeks, sitting down to a lengthy list of dreaded long division problems with such grim determination that by morning’s end she could point with pride to a much-smudged slate with several completed examples, one of which even had the correct answer.

  One day near the end of September the gentlemen arrived earlier than usual, and in a state of some perturbation. They had been made to feel rather in the way at Gudgeon Park. The Baroness was indisposed—indeed, it appeared likely that she would be a mother before the day was out. The doctor had been duly sent for, but he proved to be unavailable, as he had been called out on a similar mission to Crooked Castle, the home of Mrs. Fredericks.

  Lady Boring was therefore obliged to make do with the services of a midwife rather than a fully credentialed physician. This threw her into such a fury, on top of the pangs of imminent motherhood, that the Park, as large as it was, seemed far too small to contain her guests in any degree of comfort.

  Since the gentlemen were unable to intrude at Crooked Castle, knowing that similar events were on the move there also, they had gone out to do a little hunting in the rain, and now, disconsolate and wet to the skin, appeared at the school hoping for shelter from both the meteorological and the maternal tempests that seemed to have overtaken the neighborhood. Here, happily, they were welcomed and given hot drinks and seats by the fire.

  “I suppose we ought to push off and go back home,” Mr. Hadley said uneasily. “We ought to have left before now, really. Boring’s got enough on his plate with the Baroness and a new member of the family without having guests in the house.”

  The assembled company greeted these words with alarm and dismay, while being unable to deny their truth. The young men were enjoying Lesser Hoo, and the young ladies had come to feel that the Winthrop Hopkins Academy without their enlivening influence would be a dreary place indeed. The older ladies, too, had had high hopes that matrimony would deprive them of a few of their pupils, if only the gentlemen could stay a few weeks longer. True, the income of the school would be smaller in the short term, but the disposal of perhaps as many as three of the older pupils in advantageous marriages would be an excellent advertisement.

  “Oh, but—but, Mr. Hadley,” Miss Mainwaring said shyly, “my aunt Fredericks has discussed this with Lady Throstletwist. And Lady Throstletwist has instructed me, in the event you found yourselves not entirely comfortable at Gudgeon Park, to tell you that you must on no account think of leaving the neighborhood, but come to stay with them.”

  Sir Quentin and Lady Throstletwist were an elderly couple who did not entertain often; it was obvious that the offer had been made because Mrs. Fredericks’s niece had expressed a liking for Mr. Hadley’s company, and Mrs. Fredericks was determined to keep him in Yorkshire. The obedience of the Throstletwists would not have been a matter for debate; Mrs. Fredericks was a lady with some force of will.

  The cheer that these words produced was universal. The young ladies in general were pleased to continue receiving visits that distracted them from their studies. Miss Evans, whose acquaintance with Mr. Arbuthnot was not in any danger of interruption until he regained his full strength, was nevertheless pleased for his sake that he should continue to have his friends nearby. And even Miss Franklin smiled upon Miss Asquith’s happiness; she was beginning to discover a real liking for the girl, frivolous creature though she was.

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nbsp; The kindness of the Throstletwists was favorably commented upon, and Miss Winthrop volunteered to visit Yellering Hall and inform them that they would soon be entertaining two young men—nay, three, if Mr. Crabbe’s younger brother were to be counted—of whom they had only the slightest acquaintance.

  “Oh, you mustn’t do that,” murmured the young men, while obviously hoping she would, and Miss Winthrop determined to call upon the Throstletwists and remind them of their duty the moment it stopped raining quite so hard.

  In celebration of this happy resolution, an impromptu country dance was got up in the school parlor, with Miss Briggs on the pianoforte and the dancers treading on one another’s toes and tripping over the furniture in the too-small room. Despite these difficulties, however, they took great delight in the exercise and one another’s company, and danced until a wind from the sea blew the rain and clouds away, revealing a bright moon that peered in at them from the windows and drenched the scene with its silvery light.

  The morrow dawned clear and dry, and good news came from both Gudgeon Park and Crooked Castle: Lady Boring was delivered of a little girl and Mrs. Fredericks of a little boy. While it was too soon to be certain that the dreaded childbed fever would be avoided, the children and mothers alike were pronounced healthy and whole.

  Miss Winthrop set out for Yellering Hall with Miss Pffolliott and Miss Mainwaring and a determined glint in her eyes. Miss Pffolliott was to accompany them as far as the post office, while Miss Mainwaring’s role was more of a silent witness. Should Lady Throstletwist seem likely to withdraw her promised invitation, Miss Mainwaring could, by her very presence, shame her into honoring it.

  However, this proved unnecessary. Lady Throstletwist was resigned to her fate—both Mrs. Fredericks and Lady Boring might be momentarily distracted by family affairs, but they were great ladies in the small society of Lesser Hoo. She could not afford to offend Lady Boring, whose revenge could be terrible, and did not wish to disappoint Mrs. Fredericks, of whom she was fond. She wrote out two gracious little notes, one to the young gentlemen and one to Lady Boring, congratulating the latter on her daughter’s safe delivery, and begging the former to look upon her home as theirs for so long as they might wish to remain in the county.

  Miss Winthrop, hoping to soothe any fears the lady might have for her housekeeping allowance, assured Lady Throstletwist that the young gentlemen were keen sportsmen and anxious to present their kind hosts with the results for their table.

  “Why, I believe that Lady Boring’s cook still has not exhausted the birds they brought with them from Scotland,” offered Miss Mainwaring. “They are fine shots.”

  “You’re in the right there,” Sir Quentin, husband to Lady Throstletwist, interposed. “We dined at the Park a week ago. Never ate so much grouse in my life. Crème de grouse soup, grouse pie, kippered grouse, grouse cutlets. Even that candied dish they gave us for a sweet—that tasted a good deal like fowl to me, m’dear, no matter what you say.”

  “Yes, yes, dear,” said Lady Throstletwist hastily. “You must equip them with your fishing tackle, and perhaps we can introduce a little variety in their offerings.”

  “Probably foul the lines and lose my flies that I’ve tied,” grumbled the old knight. “I know what young men are, nothing but a pack of buffleheads. Most likely get bored and throw my entire kit into the stream—”

  “We shall be charmed to entertain Mr. Crabbe and his friends,” cut in Lady Throstletwist, fixing her husband with a stern eye. “When one grows older, you know, one has a tendency to become rather set in one’s ways. It will be good for us to have some young blood around the house for a change.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Sir Quentin morosely, and offered no further objections—at least, not while the ladies’ visit lasted.

  While Miss Mainwaring was dispatched to Gudgeon Park with the notes and Miss Winthrop walked home, Miss Pffolliott was having adventures. She had collected the mail, partly grateful to find no love letter to embarrass her before Mrs. Hodges, and partly regretful at the same circumstance. She was returning to the school, walking briskly and enjoying the fine late summer day, when a man stepped out from behind a rough stone wall and barred her path.

  She shrieked in alarm, dropping her burden of letters and bills on the path before her.

  “My dear Miss Pffolliott! I must apologize for alarming you,” cried the man, doffing his hat and bowing. “I had no notion that I would startle you so.”

  “But—who are you, sir?” she demanded, gathering together her scattered wits and correspondence.

  “Can you not tell?” he asked in a reproachful tone. “Does your heart not inform you?”

  She looked at him in bewilderment. He was a gentleman with the look of a dandy gone a little to seed. His clothes were fashionable and costly, but rather too tight, and he moved stiffly, as if they constricted him. His hair was a dull, dead black that somehow made it look like a wig. His face would have been handsome, if it were a little less fleshy.

  “I know,” cried Miss Pffolliott, pleased to have solved the riddle. “You are the stranger at the inn!”

  His face darkened, and Miss Pffolliott clutched the mail to her bosom and backed away.

  “No, no, do not go! You are right, of course you are right! I am nothing but a stranger to you. I hoped that you would know—that your womanly heart would enable you to guess my identity the moment you looked at me. But I ask too much. Can you forgive me?” And the enigmatic gentleman dropped to one knee in front of her, spreading his arms in appeal.

  “Sir, you are alarming me,” Miss Pffolliott said, looking desperately up and down the path, hoping to see a farm laborer or even a villager’s child approaching. Alas, she appeared to be alone with the stranger.

  “Ah, my ardor is my undoing, I see. I shall leave you. A thousand, thousand pardons for causing the smallest tremor of fear in your mind. Wait!” he cried as she moved to pass him and continue on her path. She halted, regarding him as she might a rabid dog in her path. “Take this as a symbol of my esteem for you.” He produced a rather disheveled rose from his waistcoat and presented it to her. She accepted it, as there seemed no way to avoid it, and then began steadily edging away.

  “I shall see you again, soon! And then you will not be frightened,” he called after her as she hurried off. She increased her speed, and soon began to feel an uncomfortable cramp in her side. Having rounded a sharp bend in the path, she paused, gasping for breath. Cautiously, she peered around a small stone cottage and found that she could still see him.

  “Well that certainly went well!” she heard him say. He kicked the wall and began to curse.

  8

  AS SHE WALKED toward Gudgeon Park, Miss Mainwaring was in a state of mind that nearly approached happiness for the first time in nine months.

  Her uncle, Mr. Hugh Fredericks, had written kindly to her after the death of her parents in the cholera epidemic, offering her a home in England with him and his new wife, and she had gratefully accepted. She had left the indigo plantation that was the only home she had ever known, traveling from remote Nadia in Bengal Province to the noise and excitement of London, and then to remote Lesser Hoo in Yorkshire. It had all been rather disconcerting.

  But in truth, she had been glad to go. India had become a sad and lonely place, and her parents had always intended to send her to England when she was old enough; the colonial society was limited in Nadia and even in Bengal Province as a whole, and they had thought it best that she attain some of the polish of an English gentlewoman. She could shoot and ride; she could face a prowling tiger or a displaying cobra with a cool eye and a steady hand. Her parents, however, refused to believe that these skills, useful as they were, would be of any utility in attracting and securing a husband.

  At the age of eleven she had been utterly scornful of the necessity of making a respectable marriage, preferring to imagine herself climbing the Himal
ayas or trekking through the desolate Great Rann of Kutch with only a parasol-and-cool-drink-carrying servant for company. However, in the intervening years, she had gradually put away these dreams and had begun to wish for an English gentleman with exquisite manners and a faultless frock coat who would whisk her away from the narrow, stultifying society of back-country Nadia. Her mother and father had been happily married, and now, living with her uncle and aunt, she had the opportunity to observe yet another affectionate and successful marriage. She wondered if a husband and a home of her own would help to fill the empty place that the death of her parents had left in her heart. Since it was the highest ambition a young woman of her station could reasonably aspire to, her own desires began to form themselves to their preordained fate.

  But, as the other young ladies in the Winthrop Hopkins Academy had hastened to inform her, Lesser Hoo was every bit as lacking in eligible bachelors as Nadia, Bengal Province—at least, until recently. Now, of course, there was Mr. Hadley. Oh, and the other young gentlemen, too, but in Miss Mainwaring’s mind the other gentlemen were but a drab background, against which Mr. Hadley blazed like a comet. His manners were impeccable, as was his dress, and he had soon differentiated himself from the others by his intelligent questions about life on an indigo plantation. The English, or at least the English she had so far met, did not seem to know or care about the world beyond the shores of their island; no one else had probed much further into her prior life than to venture the suppositions that India was hot and had elephants.

  Mr. Hadley had never been to India, but his father had investments there, and Mr. Hadley was interested in everything she could relate to him. But she believed that he was interested for her sake as well, and his attention did not flag when she spoke of personal, private matters—of the endless indolence of the rainy season, for instance, or the play of moonlight filtering through the bamboo forest, or the pleasure she took in her pet pangolin. This could not possibly help him understand the fluctuations of share values in the East India Company, yet he listened and laughed and told stories of his own childhood.