Once a Courtesan (Once Wicked Book 2)

by Liana Lefey

  Her smile, she knew, was as beatific as his frown was disapproving. “They do not. Here, the strong are taught to protect the weak, and those possessing greater knowledge are encouraged to mentor those lacking it.”

  Pacing the room’s length, she outlined the weekday schedule. “Students change classrooms every hour and a half with a quarter hour between. Times are tolled by the bell in the inner courtyard, which you will hear through the window. Luncheon is at twelve, after which students have one hour of free time to themselves. Classes resume promptly at two. Students are dismissed at five to prepare for dinner, which is served at six. Again, you are invited to partake of the evening meal with us, if you like.” Hands clasped, she whipped about to face him. “Have you any questions?”

  Chapter Five

  He had several dozen, most having little to do with the procedures here and more to do with her background, but Will restrained himself. He could ill afford to raise suspicion by interrogating her on the first day. Until she was more comfortable with him, he’d have to rely mainly on observation to gather information. “I’m sure I’ll have many as time passes, but I’m content for the moment.”

  “Excellent. I’ve written down your schedule for you, as well as the names of your students so you will know if any are missing. It’s in your desk drawer.”

  “Thank you.” His mind raced. She’d become so rigid all of a sudden—the moment he’d mentioned knowing Basil. Another tell. But what did it mean? “I’m sure it will take some getting used to, but I’ll manage.”

  Outside the window, a bell clanged in the courtyard.

  “Then I wish you bon chance, Monsieur Woodson. My classroom is three doors down if you require anything.”

  The hall outside the room grew noisy with girlish chatter. Two heads poked around the doorframe. He beckoned with a friendly smile and was greeted with wide eyes as the children sidled in and took seats as far as possible from the front.

  Every new arrival was the same—hesitant, fearful almost. Eventually, the seats filled up until the only one left was right at the front.

  As the bell rang out once more to signal the beginning of the lesson, another girl came clattering around the corner, only to come to an abrupt halt in the doorway. It was the older of the two girls he’d noticed the first time he’d visited. Her face was a study in dismay.

  “Come and take your seat, young lady,” he commanded gently, gesturing at the empty front row spot. Taking out the list the headmistress had written for him, he began. “When I call your name, you will please raise your hand. Miss Celia Crofton. Miss Annette Darner.”

  One by one, hands were raised as names were called. When he reached the name Emma Stone, however, there was no response. Looking out over the silent room, he called the name again and saw one of the students beside his late arrival gently nudge her with an elbow.

  With a start, Emma raised her hand.

  Excellent. Now I know her name. The rest of the students responded promptly. All were present. Now to figure out what to do with them. He glanced down at the list. This was a level two class. Review of sums and differences, basic multiplication, some division, monetary units, and measurement. The level two book in his desk drawer had a marker in it. He turned to the page, said a silent prayer, and forged ahead.

  Within half an hour, his entire perception of little girls had been turned upside down. These weren’t like the giggling, squabbling, gossiping sisters he’d known in his youth.

  Not a single one whispered behind her hand to a neighbor.

  Not a single one snickered when a peer answered incorrectly.

  Not a single one drew pictures on her slate instead of sums or spoke out of turn or yanked a classmate’s braid.

  They were like perfect little dolls.

  Only once did a student voluntarily raise her hand to be recognized. When she did, the others, as one, looked to her with open apprehension as she requested permission to visit the necessary. Her pale face and trembling fingers as she took the token from his hand left no doubt that desperation had driven the request.

  Her prompt, bowed-head return and mumbled gratitude as she replaced the token on its hook sparked further unease in his gut. These children were completely terrified. Of him.

  Something is definitely wrong here.

  When class was dismissed, the rustle of cloth as his pupils rose to leave was unaccompanied by conversation. In eerie silence they departed in haste. As she approached the doorway, Miss Stone paused and glanced back at him with a furrowed brow. Then she was gone.

  The next class went much the same as the first. Experimenting, he paced across the room’s front while giving instruction and observed his pupils with peripheral vision. Twelve wary sets of eyes followed him. When he turned to regard the students, however, their gazes at once lowered to the tabletops.

  Again the bell clanged, and again his class was dismissed to depart in hurried silence.

  Lunch was a strained affair. Though the other staff members attempted to make pleasant conversation, he could tell they felt restricted by his presence. Madame Trouvère didn’t join them until near the end, by which time the students were free to converse.

  The room filled not with the din of forty-some-odd chatty girls, but rather a soft susurration of whispers that sent shivers down his spine. Repeated, furtive glances in his direction told him the conversations were centered on their new maths teacher.

  “It will take some time for them to become accustomed to you.”

  He looked up into the headmistress’s eyes. Soft, hazel eyes full of empathy. “The first day is always difficult for any teacher,” she added with a faint smile. “Give them a week, and I promise you will see a great difference.”

  “Begging your pardon, Headmistress,” he whispered, “but they seem almost…afraid of me.”

  Her gaze grew wary. “You must remember that until now, with the exception of Dr. Whitehall and now Dr. Horton, these young ladies have remained exclusively in the company of other females, some of them for nearly two years.” She laughed a little. “Though at first I was against it, I’m glad now that I hired a gentleman teacher. Perhaps it will help them more quickly adjust when they enter the greater world. But you must give them time. They do not yet know you.”

  And they don’t yet trust me. But they would eventually. “I noticed on the list you left me that my students this afternoon are divided into much smaller groups. Only five for the last one?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Some of our older girls are nearing completion of their time here. They have read all the primers and passed Mrs. Farrow’s final exam. Their knowledge is comprehensive, but they must become accustomed to applying it so they are prepared to fulfill an employer’s expectations. We discussed this during your initial visit.”

  Were it not for the anonymous tip that had sent him here, he would leave this instant.

  This was a bloody school. If it was a through-house for a flesh operation, then why in heaven’s name bother educating the girls in the scholarly arts? Yet instinct still told him there was more here than met the eye. It would do no harm to stay put for a little while, if only for peace of mind—and to satisfy his curiosity regarding Trouvère.

  Will didn’t like enigmas. They made him uncomfortable, preyed upon his thoughts. Once he had her figured out and the mystery solved, he’d be content and able to move on. “I remember, Headmistress. I shall endeavor to teach them the practical skills they’ll need.”

  During the free period after lunch, he explored the school. On discovering a small library, he was stunned to see two girls huddled by one of its large windows, their heads bent over books. “Hello,” he ventured with a smile. They stared back at him. “May I ask what you’re reading?”

  The younger girl, one he recognized from his first class that day, though he couldn’t recall her name, paled visibly as she held up her book, Divine Songs for Little Children.

  The other one had the courage to speak. “Pilgrim’s Progress
, sir,” she said in a voice that, to his surprise, neither quavered nor broke. Unlike all the other girls he’d met that day, her gaze was direct—and distinctly unwelcoming.

  “An excellent choice,” he said, nodding. “I’ve read it twice, myself. What other treasures are to be found in these shelves, I wonder?”

  Entering, he went to the side farthest from the girls and glanced over the titles. It was a small, but admirably varied collection. “Are you being punished?” he asked in a casual manner while flipping through the yellowed pages of an ancient copy of Orbis Pictus.

  Again, the older one answered. “No, sir.”

  Not being punished, yet staying indoors during a free period. “Are you ill?”

  “No, sir.”

  Turning, he faced her. “You’re here by choice, then?”

  “Yes, sir. Students are permitted to come here and read during free time, if we want. I prefer it here. The outside air causes me to sneeze. Dr. Whitehall said it’s because of the spores.”

  “I see. And what about you?” he asked the younger one.

  “I don’t like being outside,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.

  Suddenly, he remembered her name. “Why don’t you like being outside, Miss Fairfield?”

  Janet’s brown eyes darted to her companion. Had he not been watching, he might have missed the infinitesimal warning shake of the older girl’s head. “I dislike the cold,” she said at last, her gaze sliding away. “It’s warmer inside.”

  “The sun is shining out there, you know.” He pointed to the window, through which could be heard the muffled high laughter he’d marked absent all day. If I walked outside right now, would they all fall silent? “I think it must be quite warm. None of the others are wearing shawls.”

  The little girl squirmed. “It’s cozier here by the fire. And I’m keeping Suzette company.”

  Scooting closer to Janet, the older girl—presumably Suzette—closed her book and stared at him with hard, blue eyes, challenging him to question it further.

  How very curious. “I’ve no intention of forcing either of you to go outside,” he said lightly. “If you prefer to remain here rather than playing outdoors, by all means do so and with my blessing. I’ve a great appreciation for reading, myself.”

  Replacing the book he held, he clasped his hands and stared out the window. Behind him, he heard the rustling of skirts as the children rose. Would they flee as all the others that day had done?

  A featherlight touch on his sleeve made him look down.

  “This one is my favorite,” said Janet, proffering a copy of Aesop’s Fables. “I like The Lion and the Mouse best.”

  Taking it, he offered her a smile. “Thank you. It’s been many years since I last read these. I shall have to take another look.”

  “Be certain you return it to its proper place,” the little girl instructed, earning a nudge from her companion. “I—I mean no disrespect, sir. Headmistress just likes the library to stay tidy and expects us to keep it in order.”

  “Of course,” he reassured her. “Thank you for your kind recommendation, Miss Fairfield.” Reaching out, he patted her head only to draw back his hand in dismay as she recoiled with a gasp.

  At once, Suzette wrapped an arm about the child’s shoulders. “Come, Janet. We’ve lingered overlong. We don’t wish to be late.”

  Will glanced at the tall clock in the corner. Classes resumed at two, and it was only now half past one. “I, too, must go and prepare for my next lesson,” he said, acting as though nothing was amiss. “Again, I thank you. Until we meet again, ladies.” Nodding to the white-faced pair, he departed.

  Remarkable. In the space of ten minutes, all his suspicions had been renewed.

  Miss Fairfield’s frightened reaction to his gentle touch had been telling. As was Suzette’s demeanor. At her young friend’s flinch, the girl’s hands had fisted. Had he actually threatened violence, he didn’t doubt she would’ve attacked him.

  The children’s strange behavior all morning, and now this incident, told him something was definitely going on at this school. It was plain the girls expected ill treatment, yet the headmistress had denied the use of physical punishment.

  He marked the encounter as a triumph of investigation. Not only had he uncovered evidence, but he’d begun to build trust between the students and himself. Those girls would no doubt tell all their friends about their chance meeting with the dreaded new teacher. Once they realized he wasn’t a monster, perhaps they’d be willing to confide in him when provided an opportunity.

  Maybe this didn’t involve the Archangel, but it was worth examination.

  Entering his classroom, Will sat at his desk, took out his pocket journal, and wrote down the two girls’ names in it below Miss Emma Stone’s. Suzette’s surname would be on the list Trouvère had provided. Scanning through, he found it: Suzette Bagley, age thirteen. She would be in one of the day’s final two classes, he was sure.

  The gentle swishing of skirts just outside the door told him he was about to have company. Closing the journal, he tucked it back into his pocket.

  “How are you liking our school so far, Monsieur Woodson?”

  Turning, he addressed his visitor. “Quite well, Headmistress. I chanced upon your library during the respite just now. An impressive collection for so small a school.”

  A raven’s wing brow arched. “For a girls’ school, you mean?”

  “Not at all. I would say it equals or even bests some others I’ve seen. Many charity schools have none.”

  “As I said, we are blessed by the generosity of our benefactors.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you about those fine gentlemen. I should not like to pass one on the street without tipping my hat.”

  “They prefer anonymity.”

  Damn. Smiling a little, he acted as though confused. “Why should they not want anyone to know of their goodness to these children?”

  Her face tightened. “Because they have been taught not to commit their charitable deeds before the eyes of their fellow man, lest in receiving glory here on earth they lose their heavenly reward.”

  Trust a woman to paraphrase scripture and put an end to a discussion. He struggled not to frown. “Forgive my curiosity, madame. I meant no offense.”

  “None taken, monsieur.” A faint smile returned to her full, rosy lips. “You are not the first to inquire. Nor will you be the last, I’m certain. In any event, I’m incapable of giving you a complete answer. I do not myself know the origins of the school’s income. Funding is received through an intermediary who has been sworn to secrecy on the subject.”

  Interesting. “I see. Then I shall pray these nameless souls reap a heavenly harvest in their proper season.”

  Her smile cooled. “I will stop by again at the end of the day, monsieur. I would like at that time to hear your thoughts concerning the curriculum as well as answer any further questions you may have.”

  You mean those you’re willing to answer. “I look forward to it.” The curve of her waist as she turned to leave drew his gaze. Her form was graceful and elegant, like that of a ballet dancer he’d once seen while serving as a personal guard to a visiting dignitary. Again, he wondered about her former life. What had she done before arriving here? Neither Mrs. Hayton nor any of the other residents at her boardinghouse had said anything about her past. Did they know?

  Taking out his notebook, he scribbled a hasty note. Voices filtered in from the hallway. Time for another hour and a half of uncomfortable silences and furtive glances.

  …

  She’d expected him to inquire regarding the school’s sponsorship, of course, but not on the first day. He will have to be content with ignorance.

  Sweeping into her class, Jacqueline disrupted several hushed conversations and sent the girls scattering to their seats. “Bonjour, mes filles. Tournez à la page vingt-deux dans vos livres. Aujourd’hui, nous allons discuter de conjugaison des verbes…”

  Three and
a half hours later, as the last pupil filed past to lay her book atop the growing stack, Jacqueline rolled her aching shoulders and sighed. Verb conjugation was invariably the most challenging aspect of teaching her native tongue to English girls already attempting to conquer their own language in its proper form. But it was necessary. Any girl seeking to become a lady’s maid for the Quality must speak passable French or she would be more difficult to place and receive less wages than one who could.

  One recent graduate’s English had been so atrocious she’d adjured her to speak only the perfect French she’d taught her and claim only minimal English, pretending instead to “pick it up” during the course of her employment. It had worked. Annabelle Charbonneau of Nice—formerly Annie Greenlow of Cobb Street, London—was now an elegant “French” lady’s maid for a wealthy baroness.

  Annabelle was living proof of how intelligent and quick her girls were. In the space of sixteen months, the girl had learned another language and passed herself off as a nonnative of the city in which she’d been born, the city that had discarded her as worthless. It had been a triumph for them both.

  All her pupils were capable, worthy human beings deserving of a life shaped by their own will rather than an ill-fated circumstance of birth. She would give each and every one of them the tools to become more, to attain security, and find what happiness they could—in spite of inquisitive math teachers.

  Keeping Mr. Woodson busy was the best possible means of distracting him. The curriculum laid out by Mrs. Farrow was more than satisfactory, but doubtless the man would want to alter it. Men liked to put their stamp of ownership on everything they touched.

  The thought was tinged with bitterness and remembered pain. She massaged her right thigh to dispel the ache and then, rising, gathered up her shawl and blew out the lamp. It was only a quarter past five, but already it was growing dark. The windows showed a sky heavy-laden with the threat of rain.

  A few students still lingered in the hall. She shooed them on to prepare for dinner and proceeded down to Mr. Woodson’s classroom. Her quarry still sat at his desk, head bent as he wrote. A low rumble of thunder shook the ground beneath her feet.