His brow lowered in a frown but before he could speak, Lucy broke in. “What are you doing here?” she wailed. “Oh if it isn’t just like you to appear just when—” She broke off.
“Just when you were getting into a scrape?” He made the question sound innocent.
“Oh I hate you!” the girl cried.
“Of course you do,” he soothed. “But I do not believe this is the place to tell me so in detail, do you? I know this may seem an outlandish suggestion,” he added, turning back to Phoebe, “but you might find it much easier to enter if you simply apply the door knocker.”
“No!” cried Lucy.
Phoebe eyed him with speculation. “A kindhearted gentleman,” she suggested, “might help us to gain entry without announcing it to the household.”
“But I am not a kindhearted gentleman. I am a brother—and a guardian.” And with that he mounted the steps and suited action to words.
Lucy cowered and Phoebe glared at his back. A most disobliging brother, she fumed but already the maid Sarah opened the door to them and only one course presented itself to Phoebe. She swept up the stairs, pushing Lucy before her, then turned on the threshold and held out her hand to Lucy’s brother. “I must thank you again for escorting us home, sir. Come, Lucilla, it is time and past you were in your bed. Good night, sir,” she added over her shoulder.
“But we have not yet finished our discussion.” Somehow he stood in the darkened entry hall just behind her, the door firmly closed to the street.
“It is quite late,” she protested, inserting a note of authority into her voice.
He ignored it. “I shall not keep you long. Is there an office we might use or would you rather remain here?”
Here where every girl in the school who chose to peer over the banister might hear. She forced a smile to her lips. “The music room perhaps?”
“Miss Caldicot,” whispered Lucy, her voice strained, her expression one of extreme anxiety.
“Run along to bed, Lucilla. I feel certain your brother will call again tomorrow.”
“You may depend upon that.” He regarded Lucy with a creased brow.
The girl sniffed, cast one last appealing glance at Phoebe then made her way up the stairs. Phoebe knew a temptation to follow her but forced herself to light a taper from the single candle that burned in the hall then crossed to the room where she had spent many an unpleasant afternoon with her music classes.
She lit the nearest candelabrum and heard the door close with a fatalistic thud. Well she was for it now, she supposed. Gathering her courage, she turned to face him and saw him clearly for the first time.
He swept a shallow curly beaver from his head, revealing a riot of thickly curling hair that in the indifferent light might have been any dark shade. It gleamed with mahogany highlights. Wide-set eyes studied her from above a nose with a decidedly aquiline cast and a generous mouth curved upward in a cool assessing smile that nevertheless turned her knees to jelly. If she were of the same nature as her romantically inclined pupils, he might set her heart fluttering. As it was his effect on her bore a distinct resemblance to the time one of the younger girls had catapulted into her stomach.
With an unusual measure of difficulty, she commanded her voice. “What is it you wished to say, sir?”
“It is Miss Caldicot, is it not?” The cordiality had left his tone and the eyes that regarded her held a cold glint of steel. “I wish to be quite certain about that.”
She inclined her head. Every instinct warned her to be wary. He exuded an aura of power, of implacability, that challenged her own authority here where he was the visitor and she at home and supposedly in charge. “And you are Sir Miles Saunderton?”
He too inclined his head. “Now that the niceties have been observed, you will oblige me by explaining where my sister went this night. And we shall save considerable time if you do not try to fob me off with that nonsense about Miss Middleton.”
“She wished to attend the concert at Sydney Gardens but the Misses Crippenham decided they would rather the girls not go.”
“So my sister slipped out when she was thought to have gone to bed?”
Phoebe made no response.
“I see. You don’t know. Did you find her alone?”
She raised a haughty eyebrow. “As you saw, none of our other young ladies went with her.”
The creases in his brow deepened. “That is not what I asked and well you know it. I cannot imagine even a young lady as flighty as my sister slipping out to a concert on a chilly night merely for the novelty of it. She went to meet someone, did she not?”
Phoebe straightened to her full five feet and a hair. “I have no idea why she went. You shall have to ask her that yourself.”
“I intend to. But as her guardian I believe I have the right to be informed of such matters by her instructresses.”
He had, of course but she didn’t feel like admitting it.
“An officer, I presume. Foot or Hussar?” he asked.
She blinked. “How—” she began then broke off at the triumph in his expression, vexed with herself for giving that much away.
“I might have known. Where did she meet him? Or do you not know that either?”
Phoebe stiffened. “I am sorry if we have not guarded your sister as well as you might like but—”
“As well as I have the right to expect,” he snapped back.
Her chin rose. “We are not accustomed to young ladies who must be kept under constant surveillance.”
His eyes flashed with sudden anger. He opened his mouth, closed it again then after a moment said, “I see there is no point in speaking with you any further.”
“Indeed there is not,” she agreed with extreme cordiality.
“Then I will wish you good night.” He gave her a curt dismissive nod and strode out.
She remained where she stood, fuming at the high-handed tone he had taken with her, at the sheer arrogance of the man. Obviously he was too accustomed to having his own way, of having his every whim catered to. She would miss Lucilla Saunderton of course but the girl’s absence from the Academy would be a small price to pay not to have that supercilious brother inflicted upon her again.
Then the probable consequences of this acrimonious interview dawned on her. He would lodge his complaint with the Misses Crippenham in the morning. Would they blame her for Lucilla’s reprehensible behavior? Reasonably they could not. But little of reason characterized those two ladies when the reputation of their Academy lay at stake. She could only hope she would not become their burnt offering on the altar of respectability. If she were to lose her job— But that did not bear thinking about. She would not lose it. She could not.
Holding that thought in her mind, she extinguished the candles then made her way up the several flights of stairs to the tiny apartment in the attics that was her room. Originally supplied with a narrow bedstead, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers with a small mirror, Phoebe had added to it a padded chair, a small writing desk and a bookcase crammed with her favorite volumes of poetry and literature. A colorful counterpane covered the bed, a rather fetching brass candelabrum she had purchased quite cheaply from a pawnbroker stood on the writing desk and a bowl of dried flower petals rested on a tatted lace table scarf on the dresser, wafting a delicate scent throughout the chamber. More tatted lace covered the single window and what little spare time Phoebe could muster she devoted to making another piece to go under the candelabrum.
Home—at least until she could find some way to escape the drudgery of academy life. That wouldn’t be for a while yet though, not until Thomas graduated from Cambridge and joined the ranks of lowly curates. Even then he would need some form of supplemental income until he was able to secure a vicarage with a comfortable living.
She picked up her young brother’s latest letter and found some solace in rereading the lines crossed so carefully to save her the expense of receiving a second sheet. His studies prospered—but then they always did. In fac
t only one of his many paragraphs disturbed her. It grieved him, he wrote, that he had yet to make the sort of connection that would assure him of a living when he graduated so he would no longer be a burden to her.
Phoebe’s fingers tightened on the page. He would meet someone or obtain a recommendation or discover a patron among the wealthy and influential gentlemen who maintained their old ties to their university. It might take time of course—another month, perhaps another term—but he would manage it. He had to. In her own subservient position she had no chance of finding him a patron. She was lucky enough to be able to earn sufficient funds to help meet his expenses.
Of course if she’d enjoyed a Season and been able to marry— But that had never been financially possible. Best to shove such a wistful dream to the back of her mind. She knew all too well that brooding over the impossible did no good. A suitable marriage, while it would solve so many of her difficulties, would not come her way. Setting aside Thomas’ letter, she prepared for bed and slipped between the sheets.
Even without a patron, she and Thomas would manage, she assured herself as she drifted toward sleep. She had only to retain her position for two or three years more at the most.
But she had to retain it. Both she and Thomas desperately needed the money she earned.
An image rose in her mind of Sir Miles Saunderton’s tall dynamic figure, of the implacability of his expression and her heart shrank within her.
* * * * *
Phoebe entered the dining room a trifle late the following morning to be met by a frown of disapproval from a gaunt lady of advancing years and receding patience. The spinster wore her usual austere gown of brown merino, made high at the neck and long in the sleeve and the steely gray plaits of her hair wound about her head in a style that defied so much as a single tendril to dare to escape confinement. The irascible temperament of Miss Aurelia Crippenham, the junior of the sisters who ran the Academy, had never been known to improve one jot with the consumption of her breakfast.
Phoebe murmured an excuse, very much aware of the agonized gaze of Miss Lucilla Saunderton following her as she filled her plate and took her accustomed seat.
The elder Miss Crippenham, a softer plumper version of her younger sister, appeared in the doorway. The gaze she cast about the assembled company held resignation and regret and more than a little annoyance. It settled on Lucilla. “Miss Saunderton,” she said in a weary voice, “you will oblige me by coming to my office if you please.”
Phoebe looked up and met the unspoken plea for reassurance in Lucilla’s eyes. She gave her a smile of encouragement then resolutely studied her plate while the girl hurried from the room. Lucy had nothing to fear. Her brother must have returned and would shortly whisk her from the clutches of the martinets who ran the Academy, leaving Phoebe to bear the brunt of their annoyance. While Lucy set forth to enjoy an undoubtedly successful London Season, Phoebe would remain here in deep disgrace until some new problem redirected the attentions of the Misses Crippenham. Disgrace she could bear as long as she retained her position—and her salary.
The meal continued in a silence unusually tense. Only an occasional whisper sounded, to be hushed when Miss Aurelia fixed the culprit with an icy stare. Phoebe kept an eye on the door but Lucilla did not return. At last as the hour neared for the first lessons of the day, she gathered her other students, shooed them up the stairs and set them to their task.
A short while later a sudden whispering and giggling erupted in the schoolroom that should have contained only the sounds of young ladies hard at work composing letters of acceptance and refusal to a variety of social engagements. Phoebe looked up from the poorly phrased example she corrected. Five of her six charges remained at their writing tables but one had crept to the window which looked down on Queen’s Square.
“He’s stepping down,” hissed Miss Georgeana Middleton, an enterprising sixteen-year-old. “I can see him.”
“Are his grays hitched to the curricle?” whispered Miss Honoria Weyland, a fair-haired seventeen-year-old with pale skin prone to freckles. She fixed her bright eyes on her informer with avid interest.
Lady Jane Hatchard, a long-faced child with dark hair and a supercilious gaze, wrinkled her nose. “Only you’d care about such a paltry thing as that.”
“Paltry! Why I daresay they are almost as famous as he is,” asserted the indignant Miss Weyland.
“How has he tied his neckcloth?” demanded the plump and quite pretty Miss Hanna Brookstone in hushed tones that carried all too well. Several giggles answered this question.
“Silly. I can’t see it from here,” said Miss Middleton. “He’s wearing a driving coat though and it has upward of sixteen capes and the largest, shiniest buttons I have ever seen.”
“No, has it really?” Miss Brookstone sprang to her feet. “Is he wearing his Hessians? And are they shining so one can see one’s face in them?”
Phoebe stood, straightening to her full if decidedly uncommanding height. “You will oblige me,” she said in icy tones, “by coming away from the window and not behaving as if you were raised in a stableyard.”
“That is only Honoria,” declared Lady Jane.
“But it is Rushmere!” cried Miss Middleton, making no move to obey her preceptress’s injunction. “He has come to take Juliana on a visit to her grandmother, for the old lady hasn’t been well. It’s been in the papers, you know, that the dowager marchioness has been staying here in Bath to take the waters and that Rushmere has been in frequent attendance upon her.”
“In Laura Place,” added the well-informed Miss Brookstone.
Phoebe regarded them with disapproval. “Your behavior goes beyond polite interest. You seem to think a marquis is a raree at a fair.”
“Not just any marquis,” explained Miss Middleton in the tone of a social superior explaining the obvious to a hopeless outsider. “It is Rushmere. Even you must be aware he is a noted Corinthian.”
“A Nonpareil,” added Miss Weyland in a voice of awe.
“A widower,” stuck in the socially aware Miss Brookstone. “It is a pity he is so very old. He must be five-and-thirty if he is a day.”
Miss Sophronia Farhnam sighed. “What does that matter? He is quite the handsomest gentleman I have ever seen.”
“You think every gentleman you see is the handsomest,” came Lady Jane’s prompt and withering response.
“Well, Rushmere is-is—” Miss Farhnam faltered, searching her limited vocabulary for words to express her opinion.
The embodiment of the dream of every schoolroom miss, reflected Phoebe. Not to mention every schoolroom instructress. She’d indulged in a few daydreams herself since first she’d encountered him in the office of the Misses Crippenham. He’d seemed the ideal of masculine perfection.
A horrid realization thrust itself into her mind. The Marquis of Rushmere had been eclipsed, his perfect Corinthian image fading before that of another, less noble but more commanding, gentleman. The devil take Sir Miles Saunderton, she fumed. How dare he invade her private daydreams? And how dare the mere thought of him set her pulse beating faster?
It has to be with anger, she reassured herself. He was far too disagreeable to stir any other emotion within her. What she really needed was to encounter Rushmere again, to allow his obvious good breeding and elegant appearance to soothe her ruffled composure. Of course the only time she’d been introduced to him, when he’d been awaiting his thirteen-year-old daughter on a previous occasion, he had barely acknowledged her. But that was only to be expected in a nobleman of his rank.
“He’s the handsomest!” finished Miss Farhnam, giving up the struggle.
“And he is a leader of society,” added Miss Middleton, “which you would know, Miss Caldicot, had you ever been to London. Even if he weren’t a marquis he’d still be important.”
“And handsome,” asserted Miss Farhnam.
“He is a hardened rake!” pronounced the whey-faced Miss Amabel Grisham in tones of disdain. “I have not t
he least interest in seeing him.”
“That’s because you’re such a baby. You’re only fourteen,” laughed Lady Jane from the lofty advantage of being almost eighteen months her senior. “Besides, what would you know of him? Or of rakes for that matter?”
“And what makes you think it is acceptable to speak of such things?” demanded Phoebe, without much hope of being attended to.
“I do know,” persisted Miss Grisham. “Better than any of you. He danced with my sister Louisa once and she said he flirted with her in the most outrageous manner and put her to the blush so many times she was near to tears.”
“Louisa Grisham is always near to tears,” exclaimed Miss Middleton. “She’s a pea goose. My brother says so.”
“Your brother—” began Lady Jane but subsided under the quelling glare directed at her by Phoebe.
“That is quite enough of that.” Phoebe strode to the window and pulled the curtains. A useless gesture, she knew, for the marquis had long since disappeared within doors, denying her the chance of a glimpse of him as well. But he would come out again and as much as she might be tempted to imitate Miss Middleton and peek out the window at this elegant personage, she would do no such thing. Nor, she determined as she turned back to the room, would she permit her charges to so indulge themselves either. “Now I presume, since you all have so much time to fritter away on gossip, that you have each completed your letters? If so then you will not mind writing an invitation to a house party which I expect you to hand to me before you meet with Mademoiselle Dupre for your French lessons.”
A series of groans greeted this pronouncement but Phoebe had the satisfaction of seeing the young ladies return to their tasks with determination if not with enthusiasm. That would do, Phoebe reflected.
The marquis would be gone by the time she went downstairs to the music room where she next must spend a painful hour or more instructing her young ladies upon the pianoforte. A pity, for a glimpse of him would have quite brightened her day. Repressing a sigh, she returned to her desk and resumed her interrupted task of trying to decipher the illegible scrawls of Miss Honoria Weyland.
Candlelight Wish Page 2