by Liana Lefey
“Forgive him, Mr. Woodson,” whispered Sharpton with an apologetic smile. “He’s really not a bad sort once you get to know him. It was a fortnight before he spoke to me with any civility, and now we’re fast friends.”
Mrs. Hayton summoned them all to the dinner table, where she sat at the head and Mr. Watlow sat opposite at the foot. Will was seated on her right with Sharpton as his tablemate, and Miss Flanagan sat to her left, facing them.
Conversation revealed that Sharpton, who lived on the floor just below him, was the proprietor of a small bookshop a few streets away. “I prefer living here rather than above the shop,” said he. “Too noisy at night there. I let the rooms to the young man who helps me run the store.” He shook his head and smiled. “This is the perfect house for one who prefers quiet living. As I understand it, you’ve taken the teaching position at Madame Trouvère’s school.”
“I have. Are you acquainted with her?”
Sharpton’s eyes took on a telltale glow. “Indeed. A singularly intelligent woman, Madame Trouvère. I’ve enjoyed each of her visits, though they’ve been all too rare since the school has grown more popular. The lady is always so well-informed concerning whatever subject matter on which she speaks. A good sport, too. Enjoys all manner of parlor games, including chess. The last time we played she actually won, and that is saying something, for I consider myself a better than fair player. You don’t play, do you?”
“As it happens, I do.” Excellent. The man was clearly besotted, and men in love often spoke of the object of their affection ad nauseam. “I occasionally fancy a match—usually of an evening over a brandy.”
Sharpton’s smile broadened. “Happy indeed was the day Mrs. Hayton chose you for her new tenant. With the exception of Madame Trouvère, I’ve not had a decent opponent in years, though I’ve been trying to teach Freddie—my shop assistant. Poor lad is hopeless, but he tries.” He lowered his voice. “His mind, I think, dwells much upon the daughter of the milliner across the street. Her parents would oppose a match between them, I’m afraid—a shop assistant has little to offer the daughter of a well-to-do milliner, yet Freddie persists in his hope.”
Mr. Sharpton was definitely a romantic. Led by his heart and, therefore, conveniently soft in the head. “I’m a confirmed bachelor, myself,” Will told him.
As expected, his companion frowned. “You seem to me quite an amiable fellow. Why should you not someday marry?”
Throwing him a rueful smile, Will closed the jaws of the trap on his unwary prey. “For the same reason as any man in my position—I’ve little to offer a woman besides my charming self. You’ve got your shop, at least.”
“My shop,” the man scoffed with a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s hardly bigger than a snuffbox. I do well enough for a man alone, but a wife?” He shook his head. “I’d have to set up shop in Little Britain Street, and I cannot afford the rent there. No, no. ’Tis best I stay where I am.”
“Well, perhaps one day we’ll both be in a better position to marry, but for now I’m glad enough to have befriended a kindred spirit. We’ll be bachelors in solidarity.”
By the end of the dinner Will decided he liked his new neighbors, even disagreeable old Mr. Watlow, whose quiet sarcasm made him more amusing by far than anyone else. The man was a curmudgeon, but he had a keen eye and razor-sharp wit—and very little restraint when it came to giving his opinion.
For this reason, he was also someone Will determined to be extra careful around. Despite his having called her “another damned foreign invader” it was plain the man liked Madame Trouvère. He’d have no compunction about telling her of any suspicious behavior on the part of her new employee.
Upon returning to his room, Will opened his wardrobe and stared at the academic robe hanging there amongst his other clothes. A mathematics teacher. Of all the things he’d done since joining Gonson’s Boys, perpetuating this fraud was the most preposterous—and he’d played many roles including, most recently, that of a highborn wastrel.
Scooting his chair closer to the window, he sat and took out his journal to record tonight’s findings. According to Mrs. Hayton, Trouvère had arrived a little more than three years ago from France. A snort broke free as he wrote. He knew French expatriates who hadn’t adopted English manners so well after more than a decade of living here.
A singularly stubborn people, the French. Unlike most emigrants who cheerfully followed the “when in Rome” philosophy, they almost always persisted in clinging to their native ways. That Trouvère would be so…English in her manners was a curious incongruity. Either she was really an Englishwoman who’d adopted a French accent to sound more sophisticated—or she’d been here much longer than three years.
Another incongruity was her conspicuous disinclination to speak of herself. Most females couldn’t resist any opportunity to talk about themselves. Miss Witherspoon was a perfect example. She was always happy to expound upon her “accomplishments” in excruciating detail any time he was within earshot.
But Trouvère was frugal with her words and hadn’t once bragged of her achievements. Having grown up with a houseful of females, Will knew the only time a woman was silent about herself was when she was concealing something she didn’t want others to know.
Mr. Sharpton had described Trouvère as possessing a keen intellect. It was an assessment with which Will, having met her, could only agree. He must take care to never underestimate her.
Chapter Four
September 20
Jacqueline stared at her reflection in the small mirror above her vanity.
Vanity. That she should possess anything with such a name was irony at its finest. The glass was large enough for her to see only her face and hair, a deliberate choice. She had no wish to see the latticework of scars crisscrossing her body.
The man she’d hired was coming today. Having verified his references, she’d written an official offer letter and, in spite of serious misgivings, had sent it. His acceptance had come the following morning, at which point she’d been forced to at last face the reality of her situation and the decisions it had precipitated.
To lose both Mrs. Farrow and Dr. Whitehall had been a sore blow indeed. Despite the difficulties, however, fortune had smiled on her, first in the form of the doctor’s protégé, Basil Horton. Once Whitehall had informed him of her need, the young man had been eager to help.
A quiet prayer of thanks winged heavenward from Jacqueline’s lips. It was a tricky business, letting an outsider in on the secret of her school. Unlike the new teacher, a physician couldn’t be kept in the dark concerning the students’ origins. Dr. Whitehall had treated her own injuries several years ago, and she trusted his judgment, as did Lord Tavistoke.
As for Mr. Woodson, Tavistoke had given his approval for the hire. While not on familiar terms with Lord Mulgrave, her business partner was acquainted enough to feel the gentleman would never write a letter of reference for any man who was less than perfectly honorable.
Smoothing a stray lock into place, she pinned it down and then secured her high collar with a small gold brooch in the shape of a bird in flight, a gift from her friend Lady Montgomery. The tiny blue gem representing its eye winked at her in the mirror, as if to say all would be well.
Gowned from neck to toe in a blue so dark as to appear almost black, she looked every inch the stern school matron. Such severity was intentional. Firm boundaries must be immediately established and then maintained—and not just between employer and employee. The other teachers had been warned not to become too friendly with Mr. Woodson. Civility was expected and indeed encouraged; however, familiarity must be avoided. God forbid any of them should fall in love with the man. She was running a school, not a matchmaking enterprise.
A glance at her mantel clock told her it was time. Woodson would be arriving shortly, and she wanted to be downstairs to greet him. She hurried to reception, and heard his smooth baritone before rounding the corner.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sloane, but I’
ve already broken my fast,” he was saying.
Assuming a pleasant but cool expression, she made the turn. “Perhaps a cup of tea, then?” she offered. “Good morning, Monsieur Woodson.”
His smile was entirely too broad. “Good morning, Headmistress. Tea would be delightful. The walk was short, but chilly.”
“As I myself have yet to eat, I shall be happy to take you to the dining hall.” Not bothering to await his response, she gave him her back and began to walk. “How are you enjoying Hayton House?”
“It’s just as you promised—my hostess is a delight. Oh, before I forget, Mrs. Hayton and Miss Flanagan send their regards and bade me extend an invitation for you to visit soon.”
“I shall be happy to oblige. If you don’t mind carrying it for me, I will send a letter back with you this afternoon.”
“Not at all.” Again, he smiled brightly. “Mr. Watlow and Mr. Sharpton also send their regards.”
The mention of Mr. Watlow brought a smile to Jacqueline’s lips. “I shall be sure to include them in my correspondence.”
Entering the dining hall, she swept past the long rows of bent heads and guided her new employee to the table at the head of the room. “Monsieur Woodson, it’s my pleasure to introduce my teaching staff. Mrs. Orson teaches literacy and diction. Mrs. Coburn teaches needlecraft. Miss Blake is in charge of music and arts, and Mrs. Wicklen instructs the students in etiquette and comportment. In addition to serving as headmistress, I teach French. Ladies, this is Monsieur Woodson, our new mathematics instructor.”
He bowed to the group. “It’s my pleasure and honor to join you in educating the young ladies of this school.”
Cheeks pinked around the table, and Jacqueline stifled a flash of irritation. They couldn’t help it if their faces colored. Still, their reactions didn’t bode well. Neither did her own, she realized, as heat suffused her cheeks. “Come, Monsieur Woodson. You may join me over here. We have much to discuss before you begin lessons.” She led him to an empty space at the end of one of the long trestle tables, away from her flustered staff.
“Your school is a model of order,” he commented as he took a seat. “Never were Lord Mulgrave’s daughters this quiet, and there were only six of them.”
“The first twenty minutes of every meal are spent in silence, allowing not only for good digestion but self-reflection and mental preparation for any upcoming activities. After twenty minutes, students may converse quietly with a tablemate, provided both are finished with their meal.”
His brows rose. “All the schools I’ve visited require silence throughout the entire meal.”
“And doubtless they are forced to punish infractions on a frequent basis, whereas I’m not,” she replied, nodding thanks to Katie, who had brought her usual morning egg and toast as well as a pot of tea and two cups.
Jacqueline poured for Mr. Woodson. “To forbid a child from speaking to her friends is to invite subterfuge as well as necessitate consequences for violating the restriction. My students know they will be given a chance to speak freely with their peers, thus they don’t find it as difficult to withhold conversation until the appropriate time and are by the same token encouraged to finish their meal in a timely manner.”
“And if a student breaks this rule?” he asked, taking a sip of tea.
Swallowing a buttery bite of toast, she nodded toward a small table off by itself in the corner. “Then that is where she will take her meals for a week. Alone. Good behavior comes with privileges, Monsieur Woodson. Poor conduct comes with the loss of those privileges.”
A bell rang from the teachers’ table, and all around them girls began whispering.
Woodson’s brows rose. “Impressive.”
She patted the corner of her mouth with a napkin and allowed herself a proud smile. “The rules here are simple, but effective, monsieur. Students are to be respectful and courteous at all times. They must attend all classes and complete all assigned chores. No food or drink other than water is permitted outside the dining hall. No student is allowed outside her designated room after eight o’ clock at night or prior to seven o’ clock in the morning unless it’s an emergency warranting a teacher’s attention. Students are expected to keep their rooms and themselves neat and clean.” She took a bite of egg.
After a moment, his eyes widened. “Is that all?”
“Is more needed?” Another smile tugged at her lips. “The fewer the rules, the more easily they are remembered and the better they are adhered to. You’ll find punitive action is seldom required here.” Again, she nodded at the empty table in the corner. “It’s been three months since a student last sat there.”
The corners of his deep blue eyes crinkled attractively as he gave her a rueful smile. “How I wish my old schoolmasters had thought as you do. I cannot tell you how many times I was caned as a boy for breaking one of the dozens of rules we were expected to follow to the letter. I seem to recall it was at least once daily.”
She laid aside her spoon. “There are no canings here, monsieur. Striking a student is strictly forbidden and will result in immediate dismissal without a reference. Any behavioral problem is to be brought to my attention at once, to be dealt with by me. Is that understood?”
“Of course, Headmistress.”
The line in his brow told her she’d been too forceful. “Apologies, monsieur. Discipline in this school is quite different from what you experienced.” Picking up her spoon, she resumed eating.
“Indeed,” he conceded. “But little girls are not half as troublesome as little boys.”
Unbidden, a chuckle escaped her. “I never said they were not troublesome, monsieur. Believe me, they find ways to try the patience.” She lowered her voice. “The key is to stay ahead of them, remain calm, and never let them think they have gained the upper hand.” Her egg was growing cold. She took another hasty bite.
“That, Headmistress, is a lesson I learned well while in Lord Mulgrave’s employ. Despite their tendency to squabble amongst themselves, when united in mischief against a common foe his children could work together like a veteran regiment.”
Washing down the last of her egg with a swallow of tea, she nodded. “If I may offer a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“It might be prudent to let slip to the students your prior experience as a teacher to Lord Mulgrave’s brood, and allude to the fact that while clever, they never managed to best you.”
“You don’t think that would be perceived as more challenge than warning?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“I think much will depend upon the manner in which you deliver it.” Draining the last of her tea, she stood. “We have approximately half an hour before the students are dismissed to go to class. If you like, I will show you to your room now so that you may become acquainted with it and prepare. You are welcome to come early each weekday and breakfast with us, if you like, although I’m sure Mrs. Hayton’s kitchen is far more peaceful at this hour.”
His slow smile did something queer to her insides. It was a most unsettling sensation, as if gravity had somehow lost its effect. “Peaceful, perhaps, but never so welcoming. As I understand it from Mr. Sharpton, our cook is the sort who prefers to reign over her kitchen in solitude. Especially in the early morning hours.”
To her surprise, another laugh worked its way out of her mouth. “Yes, I do remember Mrs. Inman’s temperament quite vividly. Then we shall look to see you at our table during the week.” What is the matter with me? Why in heaven’s name am I laughing and reminiscing with him as if he’s an old friend? “Come. Follow me.”
Leading the way, she took him to the former classroom of Mrs. Farrow, who would in a matter of days become Mrs. Whitehall. Which reminds me… “You may be comforted to know you are not the only male allowed on the premises. Dr. Horton, Dr. Whitehall’s protégé, will be visiting on a regular basis. Like you, he’s new to our school.”
“You don’t mean Basil Horton?”
Her step faltere
d. “You know each other?”
“We do—or did, rather. Basil and I went to school together as boys—the same school where we were both caned on a daily basis for our misconduct,” he added with a grin. “I thought he’d moved to Edinburg.”
“He did live there for a while but returned to London to practice medicine under Dr. Whitehall a few years ago,” she told him, her stomach tight with worry. Damn. If they were close friends, the good doctor might feel inclined to discuss details she would rather he not divulge. She would speak with him at the first opportunity and extract his vow of silence.
“I never thought he’d leave Edinburg after the way he raved about it,” said Woodson. “Small world that we should both end up here.”
Small world, indeed. Alarm bells ringing in her head, Jacqueline sailed through the door and drew back the curtains to let in more light. “Here is your classroom,” she said, walking the perimeter. “Slates are stored beneath the tables along with writing utensils. Weight and measurement related materials are in that cabinet. These shelves contain ten primers within each respective level, enough for twenty students to share in pairs.” She ran a hand across the spines. “They are not to leave the classroom.”
His brows rose. “You’re fortunate to have so many copies.”
“We are blessed by very generous benefactors.” Taking down one of the books, she flipped it open and grimaced. “Even so, I had to fight for these. The bookseller did not wish to sell them to me when he learned they were to be used at a girls’ school.”
Closing it with a thump, she replaced it on the shelf. “Students are sorted into groups according to skill level. As such, you will see a range of ages within each. A seven-year-old may sit beside a twelve-year-old. It’s the same for all the academic classes. We advance students based on assessed proficiency, not age.”
“I knew I’d be teaching a broad range, but don’t such differences in age cause behavioral difficulties?”