A School for Brides

by Patrice Kindl

  Such inconsequential conversations may be the pebble in the path of the stream that alters its course, the pivot that shunts the lives of young people in one direction or another. Shared laughter and confidences, a sense of recognition between two people who were so recently strangers, and their fate is changed. Miss Cecily Mainwaring was in love, and she believed her love to be reciprocated.

  Her eyes were bright and her spirits high as she carried the happy news to Gudgeon Park that Mr. Hadley (and Mr. Crabbe, of course) could remain in Yorkshire indefinitely. The empty place in her heart was close to being filled.

  The household was, not surprisingly, in considerable disarray. Lord Boring and the young gentlemen visitors had been driven to a defensive position in the library whence they dared not stir, only venturing forth to attract the attention of a footman to obtain supplies of food and drink. The female portion of the staff had deserted them and was clustered about the nursery and the Baroness’s bedroom. Miss Mainwaring was first escorted to have a quick peek at her aunt by marriage and her child, propped up on a multitude of pillows in bed. Miss Mainwaring almost burst out laughing; mother and daughter looked nearly identical, only varying as to size, with indignant, protuberant eyes and thin, wispy curls pasted to their foreheads. After listening to the new mother’s complaints about the heartlessness of men, and husbands in particular, for some minutes, she admired the pop-eyed infant and made her escape.

  Downstairs in the library, the gentlemen were pathetically grateful to have their tête-à-tête interrupted. They attempted to lure her to a seat by the fire, proffering a cup of lukewarm tea and a half-eaten plate of biscuits. Miss Mainwaring, however, protested that she must not stay. She had delivered her message, and such exclusively masculine company without her hostess or indeed any female present made her uncomfortable; she considered it best to withdraw.

  Nevertheless, she could not resist revealing the contents of the note before taking her leave. “Lady Throstletwist begs you please to come and stay with her for as long as you wish!” she said. She risked a swift glance at Mr. Hadley to gauge his reaction.

  Mr. Hadley’s color rose. He stared, not at her, but at the floor.

  “How kind,” he said, his voice so low it was almost drowned out by Mr. Crabbe’s jubilant cries and Lord Boring’s reproaches at being abandoned in his hour of need. “Unfortunately,” he said, his voice growing a little louder, yet still looking anywhere but at her, “I shall not be able to take advantage of Lady Throstletwist’s delightful invitation. I fear . . . I find that I may be required at home.”

  The other men fell silent, looking at him in surprise. Then they looked at Miss Mainwaring. Miss Mainwaring turned scarlet and fled.

  Miss Pffolliott had to give herself a stern talking-to in order to gather up enough courage to walk to the post office again the next day. She told herself that she was prepared for anything and would not be startled again. She left the house with her head high and her stride resolute. However, she had not even reached the drive leading to the main road before the clipped yew bushes parted and a man stepped out in front of her.

  Miss Pffolliott shrieked.

  “Excuse me, Miss! Oh, beg pardon, Miss Pffolliott, I did not mean to frighten you.” It was Robert the footman, looking most uncomfortable and clutching a silver salver, on which lay one folded sheet of paper.

  “Oh, Robert!” Miss Pffolliott clasped her hands to her breast and took a deep breath.

  “’Tis that a gentleman wanted me to give this to you, private-like.” He cast a troubled glance down at the contents of his tray. “Only . . . Only, Miss? I think perhaps you oughtn’t to read it. I think what you ought to do is to tell me to give it to Miss Quince.” He looked at her with anxious eyes. “Don’t you think so, Miss? She’d know the proper way to respond to—to whatever it is.”

  The rapid beating of her heart had slowed during his speech, and she began to collect her wits. Really, it was quite presumptuous of Robert to give her advice on how to conduct her private affairs. It was all very well for Miss Asquith to make a pet of him and chatter away as though to an equal, but he was a footman! While she, Miss Pffolliott, was a lady, daughter of an old and respected family.

  And if she were to allow Robert to show the note to Miss Quince, that would necessitate all sorts of awkward explanations. Why, Miss Quince would ask, had she not shown the previous letters she had obviously received? No, she would deal with this herself.

  “That will do, Robert,” she said coldly, and held out her hand for the note. “And I will thank you not to mention this message to anyone else, especially including Miss Asquith.”

  “Oh, Miss!”

  “That will do, Robert!”

  Defeated, Robert held out his silver salver, and then disappeared once more into the shrubbery.

  The note read:

  My poor, poor darling! How I must have frightened you! I cannot cease from reproaching myself. I beg you to believe that it was the last thing I wanted! My devotion overcame my good sense—it has been so long that I have dreamt of seeing you. Only tarry for a moment by the bridge over the stream on your walk today, long enough to tell me that you forgive me, won’t you, my dear?

  Your desolate lover

  Miss Pffolliott read this missive and walked on, thinking. So that man was the person who had been sending her the letters. Disappointing, really. Somehow she had pictured him as having much better hair. And yet . . . it was so romantic to have a secret lover, one who called her a poor darling and was overcome by his feelings upon the sight of her. It made her feel like the heroine of a novel. Surely it could do no harm to speak to him? She could tell him that he must approach her like a gentleman and ask for a proper introduction.

  Yes! That would be best. She began to walk faster.

  The bridge, built of local stone, crossed a small stream in open moorland, so Miss Pffolliott flattered herself that she would have plenty of advance notice and would be able to keep her emotions well in check without screaming in that humiliating fashion. She looked around, but could see no masculine figure nearby, or any figure of any kind. Even the ever-present sheep were apparently occupied elsewhere, and the birds had fallen silent and hidden themselves. How long would the “moment” he’d requested last, given that it would require many tedious minutes for him to approach within shouting distance?

  She halted on the bridge, looking around discontentedly. The only sound was the faint murmuring of the water below. Surely there never was a place more solitary, more deserted, more absolutely uninhabited by—

  “Hullo!”

  Miss Pffolliott screamed.

  The voice came from below her. She peered over the stone parapet to see a head poking out from under the bridge, like the troll in the fairy tale emerging to devour one of the Billy Goats Gruff.

  “Egad, I’ve done it again!” The troll clambered out into the watery sunshine, revealing itself to be the selfsame gentleman who had accosted her on the preceding day.

  “Many, many apologies, my dearest! I seem doomed to terrify you. I was—er, I was inspecting this stream, to see what manner of fish it might contain. Might like to put in a bit of time with the old rod and reel, you know! And it was awfully nice and shady.” He fanned himself with his hat, demonstrating the need for shade. “However, all that is beside the point.” Here he sank onto one knee and clasped his hat in his hands beseechingly. “Can you ever forgive me, my love?”

  Miss Pffolliott took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to calm herself.

  “Sir,” she said at last to the kneeling man before her. “I pray you, do get up. You must not address me in this manner, you know you must not! I do not even know your name—”

  “Gideon Rasmussen, at your service.”

  “—or your family or anything else about you. It is most improper of you to seek to meet me without any chaperone present or to write to me
without permission. I must beg you to desist. If you wish to know me, please do so by more conventional means. I am sure you can obtain an introduction; the mistresses of the school I attend are most amiable and would be pleased to receive a respectable gentleman who wished to call on one of their pupils.”

  Here she paused, well pleased with this assessment of the case.

  “Hang it all, Miss Pffolliott, I had hoped—”

  “No, sir,” said Miss Pffolliott firmly, her resolve solidified by the difficulty with which Mr. Rasmussen was struggling to his feet. “Pray do not address me again until you have obtained an introduction. Please allow me to continue on my way unmolested.”

  As she turned to leave him, she caught one last glimpse of his face. He was scowling; he had evidently expected an easier conquest.

  9

  MRS. HUGH FREDERICKS gently stroked the fat cheek of her newborn son and sighed with contentment. In possession of an excellent constitution, she was rapidly regaining strength. Defying the concerted efforts of her physician, the midwife, the nursemaid, and her personal maid, she had risen unaided from her bed, fetched her baby from his cradle, and was sitting with him in a chair, looking out over the castle garden.

  “What the deuce do you think you are doing out of bed?” demanded her husband, who had put his head into the room to see if mother and child were awake. “And where is that useless nursemaid when she is required?” He came and sat down beside them, ruffling the infant’s scant hair.

  “I am planning the ball I mean to give as soon as your son allows me a little leisure time,” she replied. “Our niece is in love, and a young lady in love needs a ball, just as a flower needs the sun and the rain.” She continued in a sentimental tone. “We met at a ball, if you recollect. A ball is a most tremendously exciting event in the life of a young woman, and I have never been in a position to give one before. I have sent the maids downstairs to consult with Cook about the dinner we shall serve.”

  “Oh, you have, have you? That will be far too much excitement for you, young woman.” Her husband frowned. “You know quite well you are meant to remain in your bed for at least a fortnight and think about nothing but your health and the health of our son. I refuse to consider any entertainments whatsoever until you have recovered entirely. Say, around about the time young Rodney here reaches his majority, at age twenty-one. That will be plenty of time for balls, and we shall no longer be in a state of uncertainty about your well-being.”

  “You are in the right there,” she retorted. “There will be no uncertainty, because I shall have expired of old age and ennui. Don’t be foolish! It will only be a small dance—I ought not to have called it a ball—just the young ladies from Prudence’s school and the Throstletwists and the gentlemen staying with them. Oh, and I suppose we ought to ask the Borings as well, if Her Ladyship is able to leave her couch by then, which I very much doubt. And Mr. Godalming, of course, will come in his character of Only Eligible Local Bachelor. We can hire a few musicians from Scarborough, and there ought to be some flowers left in the garden, and—”

  “Hush, now, you’ll fret yourself into a fever. Cease your scheming at once. I shall organize this dance, if dance there must be.”

  “You! Pardon me, my dear, but you couldn’t organize a game of hunt-the-slipper for a Sunday school class.” Waving away any offers of assistance from Mr. Hugh Fredericks, who, when not fully occupied with being her husband, controlled a vast empire of textile factories, financial institutions, and ship-building yards, she continued, “No, no, I am quite well. Within the week I shall be downstairs and presiding over your dinner table quite as usual, I assure you. But do not tell Cecily about the dance yet. I wish to surprise her.”

  Miss le Strange, governess to Miss Crump, did not think well of the inn at Lesser Hoo. When shown to a room at the Blue Swan by the barefoot child who served as the inn’s maid-of-all-work, she began immediately pointing out its deficiencies with the aid of her furled umbrella.

  “Dirty,” she said, prodding a pitcher on a bedside table so that the water sloshed over the rim. “Dirty,” she said, stabbing at the bedcoverings and lifting them half off the mattress. “Dirty, dirty, dirty!” She thumped the point of the umbrella’s ferrule against damp spots on the wall. With the toe of one exquisitely shod small foot she curled back a corner of the rug, exposing the accumulated dirt, fingernail parings, and bread crumbs that had been swept underneath. A shiny black beetle scurried away to safety under the wardrobe. Miss le Strange raised eyes like ice picks to meet those of the cowering maidservant.

  “Do you really expect me to sleep in these conditions?” she demanded. “Really?”

  “Eee, Mistress,” quavered the small servant, who was unaccustomed to dealing with the Quality, “’tis summat t’matter?” Thinking that it was the beetle alone that was causing dismay, she added reassuringly, “’Tis nobbut a black-clock.”

  Miss le Strange continued to stare at her. At last she said, “I do not have one single idea what you just said. Can you not speak the King’s English?”

  “Dunno, Mistress,” said the girl, who for her part was also struggling to understand Miss le Strange’s beautifully articulated vowels. In any case, her attention was on the point of the umbrella, which seemed to be positively trembling in its anxiety to find another object to poke and prod.

  “Yorkshire!” muttered Miss le Strange. “It had might as well be Outer Mongolia.”

  In a fury she dismissed the child and ordered her own maid, who had accompanied her, to strip the bed and replace the soiled sheets with the bedclothes she had brought from the Baggeshotte linen presses.

  She had been informed that every bed was taken at the Winthrop Hopkins Academy, so that she could not be received there. In her opinion, the girls should have been forced to sleep two or three a bed in order to free up a chamber, but this expedient did not appear to have occurred to anyone else. However, she did not intend to remain in this disreputable hostelry any longer than necessary; surely someone in the neighborhood, of gentle birth and comfortable habitation, could be made to offer hospitality until her business with the school was satisfactorily settled.

  The tone of the letter she had received from the headmistresses in response to her announcement that she was coming to take her pupil away was disquieting. Instead of the immediate compliance she had expected, objections had been enumerated and barriers erected. Evidently the schoolmistresses would not give up their most socially prominent pupil without a struggle. They actually dared to demand the direct instructions of Miss Crump’s papa, the Viscount, now in Bath, and had refused to accept her word, the word of a le Strange. When Miss le Strange protested that the Viscount was ill and unable to make such a decision, they replied that they would wait until his health improved.

  The most charitable construction Miss le Strange could put upon this attitude was that, in this barbaric, out-of-the-way part of the world, the ladies of the Winthrop Hopkins Academy had never heard of the le Strange family.

  “When you have finished, Maggie, I want you to go downstairs and find out who the principal people are in this place,” she instructed the maid. “And be sure to mention to the other servants who my great-grandfather was. It is essential that it become known that I am no ordinary governess, but a person of consequence. Apparently, we shall have to remain in this dismal place for some time; at least until we can receive word from Lord Baggeshotte. Very tiresome, but those ridiculous schoolmistresses won’t give up Miss Crump without it.”

  “Yes, Miss,” said the maid, who knew that her mistress would be difficult to manage so long as she was forced to remain in this rather run-down country inn. She made her way down to the kitchen to order some hot negus for Miss le Strange and a sip of gin and lemon for herself. While awaiting these items, she rattled off details of her lady’s fabled ancestry, and the high esteem, amounting almost to awe, in which Viscount Baggeshotte held her.

&n
bsp; “He’s that grateful to her for condescending to teach his only daughter, why, you wouldn’t believe it,” she said, drinking down her gin in the kitchen so that the negus did not go cold. “Practically went down on his knees. Thinks the world of her, he does.”

  Maggie often found it convenient to forget that she was employed by the Viscount, rather than by Miss le Strange. Although the other Baggeshotte servants disliked the governess and feared for the well-being of little Miss Crump under her care, Maggie found that the lady’s cold and imperious temperament matched her own. She flattered herself that she, at least, could tell quality when she met it.

  Suitably impressed, the staff at the Blue Swan was ready enough to accept Miss le Strange at her own valuation, and in return confided to Maggie a list of those gentry in the area who might be worthy of her acquaintance.

  Miss le Strange received this information with satisfaction. She would, of course, have to await an introduction, and the bitter truth was that, instead of being the person of property she was so obviously meant to be, she was, in fact, a governess, only one step up from a servant. However, Miss le Strange had never allowed this dispiriting reality to impinge upon her comforts, or upon her sense of her own importance. She faced her future with the steady eye and firm grip of a military commander; she believed that, if called upon, she could produce the courage and audacity so conspicuously exhibited by her ancestors at the battles of Crécy and Agincourt.

  “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead,” she said aloud in thrilling tones, striking the bedpost with a small fist.