A School for Brides

by Patrice Kindl

  Miss Mainwaring uttered a small sound, like a despondent bird. She turned and looked full at Miss Crump. “Thank you for explaining your actions to me, Jane. I will allow that I had wondered. I had thought you immovably opposed to his suit. I understand you now, and I cannot find fault with what you have done. Your father must look out for himself. In general, I believe that fathers are loath to take advice from their daughters on these matters, so I doubt in any case that he would listen to your protests. Mr. Hadley is—is a kindly gentleman who will treat you well.” Here she broke off and, stifling a sob, was forced to leave the room.

  Miss Crump drew what comfort she could from this conversation, as meager as it was.

  Miss Pffolliott would have been enjoying the ball, if only Mr. Rasmussen were not present. His manners, never polished, had deteriorated drastically when he discovered he had a rival. Miss Pffolliott had hoped that the matter could be handled without drama, but Mr. Godalming was by now deeply in love, and quite as outraged by the presence of Mr. Rasmussen as the latter gentleman was infuriated by his.

  Contrary to the usual expectation, Miss Pffolliott was not made happy by having two men quarreling over her. She stood as if between two enraged bulls, her own small person the sole impediment preventing them from locking horns in a battle to the death. Both men loomed over her, one on her left and one on her right, each demanding in a loud voice to be allowed to bring her refreshments, each adamant that she dance with him first.

  “But, Mr. Rasmussen, you know I have already told you that Mr. Godalming engaged me several days ago for the first two dances. You did not ask me until just now.”

  “Well, I didn’t know I needed to, did I?” he demanded belligerently. “How was I to guess this bracket-faced bumpkin was going to turn up? I don’t know how a pretty girl like you can even contemplate dancing with an ape like that. I should think the very idea would make a young woman of sensibility come over faint and have to lie down.”

  “Mr. Rasmussen, pray keep your voice down. He hears you.”

  “So I should hope. Old chawbacon! Who is he, anyway? Some yeoman or small freeholder, I expect—Fredericks doesn’t seem to care who he invites to his house.”

  This was too much for Mr. Godalming. He had been able to control his temper when his appearance was insulted; he was wholly unable to do so when his large and prosperous estate, all three thousand acres of it managed by the latest and most advanced methods, was referred to as a “small freehold.”

  “What I am, Mr. What-Have-You, is the magistrate for this district, and I shall have you up on charges if you continue to annoy this young lady. And, as I am the magistrate, and as the law and order of this neighborhood is in my care, I would like to ask a question. Nearly every soul in this ballroom knows my name and my reputation. So tell me, who are you?”

  Mr. Rasmussen flushed at this challenge, and retorted, “One who is well known to the girl’s father, that’s who. One who is being encouraged to court her, by her own father. Show him the letter, Miss Pffolliott! Show it to him, by gad!” He snorted and pawed the ground, further enhancing his resemblance to a bovine male.

  “I—I did not think to bring the letter to a ballroom, Mr. Rasmussen. In any case, it was not addressed to me, so—”

  “Never mind that,” cut in Mr. Rasmussen. “Miss Pffolliott can show you the letter on another occasion. The point is that there is a letter. You agree that there is a letter, do you not, Miss P?”

  Miss Pffolliott, who decidedly disliked being addressed so informally, agreed that there was a letter.

  “Ha! Told you so. Take that!”

  Both men were still flanking Miss Pffolliott. Behind her back Mr. Rasmussen’s leg shot out viciously.

  “Ow! I say, he kicked me! He kicked me in the shin! That’s assault, Rasmussen!” roared Mr. Godalming.

  Their host, who had been greeting a tardy guest, was alerted to this skirmish by his lady wife and began to move in their direction across the crowded room.

  “Please, Mr. Rasmussen! This is most unseemly! I must ask you to go away immediately. And yes, there was a letter, but I might add that it appeared to be in your handwriting,” said Miss Pffolliott, who was so distressed that she gave no thought to the possible repercussions of divulging this.

  Mr. Rasmussen reared back and stared down at her, his face blotched and empurpled. She could not imagine how anyone could think him to be even passably good-looking. “Oh, so that’s how it’s to be, is it? Trying to make out I wrote that letter, are you? Listen here, Godalming, ask yourself how she would know what my handwriting looks like. I’ll tell you how! She’s been receiving letters from me for the past two months on the sly, that’s how! Little Miss Butter-Won’t-Melt-in-Her-Mouth here has been turning up to secret rendezvous with me out on the moor. And now that she’s tired of me, she thinks she’ll have you instead, you great simpleton!”

  Miss Pffolliott gasped. She began to feel a black tide rising before her eyes. She staggered and felt someone take her arm and support her. She was guided to a chair and all but fell into it, her head sinking to her knees.

  “Why, the blackguard! You are a villain, sir! I’ll see you horsewhipped for this!”

  To Miss Pffolliott’s immeasurable relief, the voice berating Mr. Rasmussen and the hand under her elbow both proved to belong to Mr. Godalming. This discovery was so heartening that she sat up and viewed the scene.

  Astonishingly, few people had noticed her collapse or were casting inquiring glances in her direction. Mr. Godalming was keeping his voice low, perhaps to avoid attracting further attention, and Mr. Rasmussen’s response was in a low tone as well.

  “What do you say, Miss P? Will you have me, or will you not? It won’t be long before your knight errant here begins to wonder about what I said about you, and you’ll regret not marrying me.”

  Miss Pffolliott could not speak. She shook her head. At last, finding her voice, she whispered, “No! Not under any circumstances. Go away!”

  “Rasmussen, Godalming, are the two of you making a bear garden out of my great hall?” It was Mr. Fredericks, his voice mild.

  Both men looked up to face this new element in the conversation.

  Behind Mr. Fredericks, yet another voice spoke.

  “Hullo, Spotford. What are you doing here? I should have thought you’d have been hanged by now.” The newcomer was Mr. Crabbe. He was the late-arrived guest, Miss Pffolliott realized, whom Mr. Fredericks had just welcomed.

  If it were possible to do so, Mr. Rasmussen’s face would have darkened still further. His mouth twisted, and for a moment it looked as though he might expectorate onto the floor. “Oh, so it’s Crabbe, is it? I thought we’d got shot of you,” he said. “No, they haven’t hanged me yet. How about your father? Or will they let him off with a fine, since he’s a baron?”

  “The latter,” replied Mr. Crabbe coolly. “Miss Pffolliott, Mr. Godalming—I do not know who you think this man is, but I can assure you he is not who he says he is. I can also assure you that anything, anything he says is false.”

  “It is false, it is!” Miss Pffolliott turned to Mr. Godalming. “Yes, he sent me letters, that is true, and I know I ought to have told Miss Quince about them. But I told him he must not attempt to meet me until he was properly introduced, and we were chaperoned, indeed I did!”

  “Of course you did,” agreed Mr. Godalming, whose soul was on fire with newfound chivalry. “The man’s an absolute rotter.”

  “Oh, if you’re going to believe her . . .” Evidently at this point Mr. Rasmussen realized that they did believe her, and that, added to the recollection of what Mr. Crabbe could tell them about his past crimes and misdeeds, convinced him to give it up. “Very well, I’ll go. I wish you good luck of that bit of muslin, Godalming.”

  They watched as he pushed his way through the crowd, no longer bothering with the slightest affectation of good manners, not
hesitating to step on toes or prod with his elbows in order to speed his progress.

  “Well! What was that about? How do you do, Mr. Crabbe? How very delightful it is to see you again.” Miss Asquith had approached unnoticed, and stood with her head tilted quizzically to one side. “And ought not Mr. Rasmussen be apprehended and arrested, Mr. Godalming? He has rather the look of a criminal fleeing the scene of his crime.”

  24

  “MISS ASQUITH, YOU look enchanting,” said Mr. Crabbe. “And as usual, you are in the right. Mr. Rasmussen, known to me as Spotford, and probably also known under a great many other aliases, is a criminal. I hope we have unmasked him before he had the opportunity to commit any more crimes. I beg you will tell me that none of you has given him any money. He had a good deal from my father before I saw him off the estate and told him to return at the risk of a thrashing. He was the readier to leave in that he had discovered by that time that my father had nothing left to steal.”

  “He has been pestering Miss Pffolliott in the most dastardly manner to marry him,” said Mr. Godalming. “She has refused him.”

  Mr. Crabbe nodded in approval. “An excellent decision, Miss Pffolliott. I doubt you would be happy, yoked for life to a thief and a cheat. He often impersonates a lawyer, although he has had no training. I trust he has not got anything to do with the management of your affairs.”

  “I do not think so, and yet . . .” Miss Pffolliott’s voice trailed off. In a moment she said, “It is only that I have realized why his handwriting looked so familiar to me when I first saw it. It is the same as that of my father’s attorney, who wrote to me after my grandmother died.”

  “Oh, lord! That’s unfortunate. I fear you’ll find your father’s financial health will have suffered a great blow, with Spotford in charge of it. I strongly urge you to write to your father and bid him look into the disposition of his funds.”

  “I will do it, if you will allow me,” said Mr. Godalming.

  “Do you know, I wish you would,” said Miss Pffolliott after some thought. “I am so little acquainted with my father that I cannot guess how I could convince him of the seriousness of my concern. I suppose,” she said slowly, “Mr. Rasmussen, or whatever his name may be, was in a position to know that my father was unable to touch my fortune, that it could only be gained by marriage.”

  “That seems likely enough. When is the last time you heard from your father?” Mr. Crabbe asked.

  “Not for many, many years. I was but a small child when I received the only communication I have ever had from him.”

  Mr. Crabbe looked grave. “I should waste no time in inquiring about Mr. Pffolliott, Godalming.” Then, looking at Miss Pffolliott as she leaned on Mr. Godalming’s arm, he smiled. “In any case, I suspect you will have a need to talk to that gentleman soon on another subject.”

  “Quite right, quite right,” said Mr. Godalming, growing pink in the cheeks. “And now I think I will get this young lady something to eat, so we shan’t have her fainting in a public place, if you will excuse me.”

  Miss Asquith and Mr. Crabbe expressed a willingness to do so, and, when he had returned with some refreshments, they soon found a pretext to leave the couple alone to settle their future.

  “Never, never would I have thought that I could witness a nice young girl like Miss Pffolliott in imminent danger of becoming engaged to Mr. Godalming and simply walk away, leaving her to her fate!” marveled Miss Asquith as they found a pair of unoccupied chairs in a relatively quiet corner of the room.

  “I will admit that he’s hardly a Beau Brummell for looks, but he seems harmless enough. What’s wrong with him?” inquired Mr. Crabbe.

  “As you are not a romantically inclined young schoolgirl, I suppose I will not be able to explain it,” she replied. “However, I must admit that he seems much improved of late. No doubt true love has made a gallant of him. Hooray for Miss Pffolliott!”

  They were silent a moment, smiling at each other.

  “How good it is to see you again!” burst forth the irrepressible Miss Asquith at last. “I know I ought not to venture upon delicate ground, but I fear I cannot help my nature. Do I . . . do I understand you to say that your father has escaped imprisonment? That he is merely to pay a fine?”

  “You do. Is it fair? Is it justice? I doubt it. That a man should be able to kill another in a fit of temper and be obliged to give up nothing but a few hundred pounds, simply because he is a peer of the realm, is hardly an example of the finest in English jurisprudence. However, I will own that, for the sake of my brother and me, I am glad of it.”

  Miss Asquith’s democratic principles suffered a bit of a dent; she, too, could not help but be glad of it, if not for dreadful Mr. Rupert Crabbe, then for his older brother.

  “You will be surprised—”

  “It surprised me—”

  Both broke off and laughed uneasily. After a somewhat awkward pause, Mr. Crabbe pressed on. “You may have received the impression when last we met that I was determined to remove myself from your life and never trouble you with my presence again.”

  “I did,” murmured Miss Asquith. “And I was sorry for it.”

  “That impression was correct. The shame and infamy that was bound to descend upon my name was such that I did not feel I could offer it to any decent young woman, let alone one for whom I—I desired only the best and happiest of futures. I have since . . . I have since been persuaded to change my mind and to put my happiness to the test. Miss Asquith, will you, could you possibly consider becoming my wife, even though it will mean allying yourself to so disgraceful a family?”

  Miss Asquith closed her eyes in relief and sighed. “Why, of course I could, Mr. Crabbe, and of course I will! I did everything but tell you so the last we spoke. But since my pleadings did not move you, I will own that I would like to know what or who it was that persuaded you.”

  Mr. Crabbe drew in a sharp breath. “You would? Truly, you would marry me? Then she was right!”

  Miss Asquith stared at him. “She? Who was right?”

  “Why, your friend, Miss Franklin. She wrote to me, fairly demanding that I return and propose marriage to you. Her way of phrasing the matter was refreshingly open and logical. She explained that, under the current foolish social system prevalent in England today, you, being the daughter of a gin merchant—however wealthy he might be—would normally be unlikely to marry the heir to a barony. However, as I was both impoverished and disgraced, the marriage would be considered perfectly equitable and suitable on both sides. She added that, since your father is a successful businessman, no doubt he would see it in the same light, and she hardly thought I needed to ask permission of my father, under the circumstances.”

  Miss Asquith pressed her hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Oh, darling, darling Rosalind! How I love her! And what do I not owe her? My whole life’s happiness! If only she could be as happy as I am now.” And, becoming more serious, she told her fiancé the unpleasant truth about the relations between Miss Franklin and Mr. Rupert Crabbe.

  Mr. Crabbe was much grieved, and for a time despondent. “Yet another reason why you might not wish to be welcomed into my family. I do not deserve you, indeed I do not. I am sorry to say so, but I find that I readily believe it of my brother. I recall that he did speak of writing a monograph on the subject of a possible planet beyond Uranus, using calculations he says he made whilst here this fall. It is a sign of Miss Franklin’s breadth of mind and spirit that she would work to promote my cause with her friend. Do you suppose we can ever persuade her to visit us when we are married?”

  “We shall arrange never to have your brother and my friend visit at the same time, that is all. However, I think that, even if by some mischance their paths were to cross, she would carry it off with far more aplomb than he.” It seemed to her inadvisable to reveal the trick Miss Franklin had played on her erstwhile suitor; if he took the
trouble to verify her calculations, he would not suffer, and if he did not—why then, he deserved to.

  “No doubt,” Mr. Crabbe agreed.

  “And, do you know, I do not think that marriage would suit Miss Franklin. There are certain almost inevitable consequences of marriage—you know to what I refer—that would seriously hamper her scientific endeavors. Until the day comes when a woman can choose how large a family she will have, it is best, I think, for someone like Miss Franklin to keep her intelligence and energy free for her work, rather than squandering it on a new baby every year.”

  “Perhaps so,” he responded.

  “Now, I, being the amiable nitwit that I am, can squander my intellectual capital on an infinite number of infants, without depriving the world of one scintilla of brilliance.”

  Mr. Crabbe shook his head at her. “‘O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright,’” quoth he. “That is you. Your brilliance may not serve to expound the stars, but it lights up my heart and my life.”

  “Ah, I know a man is truly in love when he quotes Shakespeare,” she replied with a smile. “Pray do write to my papa when you get home, however late it may be, and beg for his approval—I will give you his direction. I believe that Rosalind is right, and the title will soothe any concerns he might have about the scandal. You must put it all in as good a light as you can, of course. I have little fear he will refuse. Shall you write to your papa for permission to wed, or, as Rosalind suggests, simply announce it as a given fact?”

  “Oh, I expect I shall follow the usual forms and ask his blessing. Then I’ll remind him that he has likely not got a few hundred pounds with which to pay his fine and thus avoid imprisonment. However, if he is very, very polite to his future daughter-in-law, she might be induced to pay it so that he can attend our wedding.”