The Headmistress (Ladies of Miss Bell's Finishing School Book 6)

by Elizabeth Johns

  The Headmistress

  A Lady of Miss Bell’s Finishing School Novella

  Elizabeth Johns

  Copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Johns

  Cover Design by La Voisin Art

  Edited by Heather King

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7339587-3-8

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Elizabeth Johns

  Preview Brethren in Arms Series

  Chapter 1

  Hannah waved her last student goodbye and locked the door against the cold December wind. She leaned against the heavy wood and looked around at the large, empty house. It had never felt cavernous before, when filled with the gay chatter of young ladies, but now it was eerily quiet. She frowned, trying to remember the last time she had been alone; truly alone. The only other time she could recall was after the passing of her parents, due to influenza, over twelve years ago. Even then there had been servants about, but she had given every last person a holiday, including Mr. and Mrs. Holcomb. They were the caretakers who lived there all year and had taken the opportunity to see their new grandchild.

  Trying not to feel melancholy, Hannah forced herself to move and went over the house to make certain everything was tidied and secured. There was always one girl who left something behind that had to be sent on. Always. She chuckled fondly when she found Lady Madeline’s beloved locket on her dressing table and put it in her own pocket to send to the girl.

  Once Hannah was satisfied the house was secured, she walked through the quiet halls, her boots echoing through the empty corridors. Passing through the kitchen to make herself a cup of chocolate, she arrived at her small parlour—her only truly private place—and stoked the fire before sitting down to attend to her correspondence. The pile was high, but the end of term was always too busy to deal with her own personal mail. Christmas greetings from students brought smiles to her face.

  It had been almost twelve years since they had taken on their first student; twelve years since Hannah had gone to live with her aunt and had started teaching students watercolours, piano, and French. When her aunt died and left her the house, Hannah began taking in girls one by one, and slowly the school was born.

  Her youth had been spent in a worthy cause, Hannah thought as she stared into the flickering blue, yellow and orange of the fire. Worthy. She supposed there were worse things to be known for, but she had always wondered what would have happened if…that was a rabbit hole not worth going down, she chided herself and picked up another letter. This handwriting was familiar, Hannah thought and smiled fondly.

  Jane, the Marchioness of Dunsmore, who had known Hannah was a fraud from the beginning, had been one of her first students and was almost of an age with Hannah. They had become fast friends—far more than student and pupil. Jane had married quickly and was now widowed. It was a shame for one so young and beautiful. Her life had been a glamorous societal whirl and Hannah lived vicariously through her stories. Eagerly, she opened the seal.

  Dearest Hannah,

  You cannot know how delighted I was to hear that no students will be boarding with you over Christmas. Now you have no excuse not to spend the festive season with me! My carriage will arrive for you on the morning of the twentieth so you may reach Dunsmore before dark. All of the arrangements have been made for your journey. I know you will not fail me.

  Ever your loving,

  Jane

  Post script—pack your best gowns, we will have a few guests.

  “A few guests,” Hannah repeated and smacked the letter down in her lap. “She has arranged it so I cannot refuse!” Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back on the chair and thought of a thousand reasons she should order the carriage to turn around when it arrived the next day. But she could not refuse her best friend, and Jane knew it.

  It would have been nice to have had one day to do absolutely nothing—although Hannah would not have lasted two hours lazing about. Still, it would have been nice to have had the option! Nevertheless, she missed Jane, so she would go. Rising to her feet, she needed to pack and leave a letter for the caretakers, who would return before Hannah did. They were always telling her she needed to go on a repairing lease, so they would approve.

  Hannah thought about her wardrobe. It was not as bare and colourless as one would think for a headmistress. Occasionally, Hannah attended local functions, as a representative of the town’s interests, or a dinner hosted by one of her students’ families. Sewing was part of the curriculum at Miss Bell’s and some of the girls who would not marry and be fine ladies would need to know how to make clothing. Hannah had a few of their efforts. None were of the latest fashion, but with a little bit of Jane’s ingenuity, Hannah would do well enough.

  Even if Jane were having a grand house party with dukes and duchesses, no one would expect much of a schoolmistress who was firmly on the shelf and had never had a Season, and was closer to thirty than she was twenty.

  “Why so maudlin?” she asked aloud.

  Turning to survey herself in the looking-glass, she saw sad resignation staring back at her. Hopes and dreams were something she had given up several years ago, when she had realized that this was to be her fate. At first, she had thought the school was to be temporary ‘until she met the man of her dreams.’ Then it had evolved to ‘until she saved enough money to buy a cottage—perhaps even visit some of her friends on occasion’ and ‘meet someone to grow old with.’ Yet as each year had passed, she had grown more comfortable in her role and it became too easy to put those dreams off. The girls needed her, she rationalized. But now?

  There was absolutely no reason she could not leave for a few weeks. The school was so well established it practically ran itself. There were caretakers, there were gardeners, there were teachers and even another matron, who had been hired to lend respectability to the place when her aunt had died. Mrs. Gates filled Hannah’s shoes as often as not.

  Hannah pulled the pins from her hair and her curls tumbled down past her shoulders. Was there still a hint of beauty left? It was hard to be unaffected and self-conscious when the young debutantes in bloom passed through her doors every year. Pulling a brush through her thick curls, Hannah reflected that she at least had kind eyes and good skin—a fat lot of good either did her.

  People had strange notions of what a headmistress should look like. Many thought she was too young (hence Mrs. Gates), some did not think she looked stern enough (Hannah rather thought this was a good thing), and some did not care as long as she readied their daughters for the Marriage Mart. Usually that was easy enough. There was always the one, though. Always. She laughed when Miss Lawson’s wayward vocabulary came to mind…

  Hannah sighed. It was silly to mourn what she could not alter, but on the cusp of turning nine-and-twenty, she wished for a change, just this once. Perhaps visiting Jane would be enough to last another decade.

  Opening her travelling trunk and valise, she pondered what Jane meant by a few
guests. They would go to church, certainly, and she would need to dress for dinner… She walked into her dressing room and lit a candle to select which gowns to take, smiling when she saw a gift sitting on the bench for her. Hannah had given all of the teachers the new novel, Mansfield Park, which was a dear gift, to be sure, but Hannah had been fortunate enough to meet the authoress whilst she lived in Bath. She had felt a kindred spirit with her immediately and they had remained friends until Miss Austen moved away in 1806. Had eight years already gone by?

  Hannah often received donations to the school, or small gifts, from the students—knitted slippers with two left feet, gloves for six fingers or the like—but when she opened this particular parcel, it was the most beautiful Norwich silk shawl she had ever seen. It was of a deep greenish-blue colour, in a paisley pattern woven with creams and reds. Hannah could not remember owning anything so beautiful.

  She searched for a card to see who it was from, but there was nothing there. “How odd,” she murmured. Was it from Jane? Hannah did not think so, but it was too perfect and the timing too coincidental with her proposed trip. It was beyond her touch and that of any of her teachers. She wrapped it around her shoulders and inhaled the freshly dyed scent.

  How frivolous she felt as she twirled about the room, but somehow it seemed an omen, and she packed her gowns, looking forward to the Christmas season after all.

  Oliver Channing, Lord Wolford, no more wanted to attend a house party than he wanted to, well, do any number of things. However, his sister had made him feel so guilty he had felt obliged to agree. Oliver was perfectly content at Channing Park with his hounds and his sheep. They made lovely companions, sheep and hounds. Since his first wife had died in childbirth in their first year of marriage, he had closed himself away from as much of humanity as possible. But he had not seen Jane in some time, and he was very fond of her, so he would go to her house party for Christmas.

  Therefore, on the twentieth of December, he set out from south of Bristol in his carriage, thinking the smell of snow was in the air and hoping he would not become stranded somewhere. There was nothing he liked less than being stranded somewhere indefinitely. He hoped Jane had not invited too many people, as she was wont to do. How he and his sister had come from the same parents, he could not fathom. She loved people and he did not particularly care for most of them.

  And of course, his sister wanted him to pick something up for her from her old school in Bath. Oliver had not particularly enjoyed his time at school, except for the games. What male did not enjoy blood, sweat and tears? Jane, on the other hand, said school was the best thing that had ever happened to her. There had been that friend of hers, he recalled; Miss Bell, he believed her name was. They had danced at Jane’s wedding. He remembered being somewhat enchanted with her, but he had been so young. What was that, over ten years ago now? She must have married and moved on from the school by now. It had struck him as odd that one so young should own and run a school.

  What was it that Jane wanted him to fetch? He could not recall. She had been most insistent that he bring a carriage. Thus it was that Oliver left at dawn to make a slight detour through Bath before travelling on to Dunsmore Castle for Christmas.

  It was half past eight when he reached Jane’s old school. He had almost forgotten about the place. It seemed very quiet and no servants came out to hold his horses. He would have to take turns with the ribbons and give his coachman a break, then. He had climbed down to stretch his legs when the front door to the school opened. A tall lady, bundled up in a heavy cloak with a hood pulled over her head, emerged from the house.

  “Good morning. Are you the carriage to take me to Dunsmore?” she asked.

  What?

  “Oh, I beg your pardon!” she said as she looked up into his eyes. “Lord Wolford?”

  “Miss Bell,” he said with a bow. “I trust you are well?”

  “Yes, my lord. Have you travelled far? Would you like to come inside?”

  “I am on my way to Dunsmore. Jane asked me to collect something here. I do not suppose that something is you?” He tried not to laugh. It would be just like Jane to do such a thing.

  “I am afraid you are correct, my lord. However, I cannot go with you. I have not a single person to attend me.”

  “You mean as a chaperone?” Oliver did not know why he was not perturbed by his sister’s manipulations, but even she would not have supposed Miss Bell not to have a maid.

  “I gave everyone a holiday, I am afraid. I did not see your sister’s invitation until last night—although she sent it late enough that I could not refuse.”

  “Alas, just like Jane,” he mused. “I think we are old enough that we may contain ourselves for a few hours in a carriage.”

  “Supposing we see someone we know?” She seemed to be pondering aloud.

  “I think it unlikely, but there is always an excuse.” He looked up at the clouds which were certainly hinting at snow. He could sense Miss Bell’s hesitation. Her reputation was everything she had to maintain her establishment. She enjoyed the custom of the haut ton and they were fickle enough to remove their daughters at a whiff of the smallest rumour.

  “I do hate to disappoint Jane.”

  “She would be very disappointed if you spoiled her numbers,” he teased. Wherever was this uncharacteristic behaviour coming from?

  Her eyes twinkled in response. He remembered that unusual amber colour from the dance they had shared some years previously. Funny, was it not, how one moment could set you back a decade?

  “Where are your trunks?” he asked, anxious to be going.

  She sighed and gave in. “Just inside the door, my lord.”

  He hefted one trunk and placed it in the boot of the carriage. She picked up a valise and set it beside the trunk before walking back into the building. She came out again with a large hamper on her arm and locked the door behind her.

  Taking the hamper from her, Oliver was surprised at the weight of it as he handed her inside the carriage. He set it on the floor and climbed in after her. She looked a little sheepish. “I could not bear to leave food behind to waste,” she explained.

  “Then we shall not grow hungry on our journey.” Bringing food along had not occurred to Oliver.

  As the carriage rolled forward, Oliver immediately felt awkward as he realized he would be enclosed in the small space for hours with a woman he barely knew. He was a tall man and she was a tall woman and their legs and the large hamper filled the space. Miss Bell began to settle herself and pulled back her hood, revealing one of those dreadful caps spinsters and matrons wore. She must be close to Jane’s age, he reflected, although she did not look old enough to have been mistress of a school for a decade. Certainly her bearing held the maturity, but her eyes were kind and the tiny lines around them spoke of easy humour. Suddenly, a great many questions came to him when he was typically not one to be terribly curious about others.

  She pulled a book out of the hamper and set it in her lap, then proceeded to pull out a jar of biscuits. He waited for her to produce some milk, to make the picture most domestic…he almost laughed, and felt the corners of his mouth turn up.

  Reading while moving made him feel sick. Usually, he would ride when going on a journey or take his curricle. He truly did not enjoy being confined with nothing to do.

  She looked up and noticed him watching her. “Do you like to read, my lord?”

  “If I need to,” he replied.

  “Such as a treatise on crops?” Her eyes were twinkling again.

  “Precisely. What are you reading?”

  “A novel,” she confessed. “I rather fancy the escape from reality. We have so much of that as it is.”

  “I have never read a novel per se, except what was required at school.”

  She considered him, and he did not miss the look of pity in her eyes.

  “Why does that make you feel sorry for me?” he asked, more forward then perhaps he should be, but something about her made him feel as tho
ugh she would not mind. She was a schoolmistress, after all.

  “I suppose it is unfair of me, but I find so much pleasure in the written word.”

  “Spoken like a devoted headmistress,” he replied dryly.

  “Ever since my parents died, it has been my refuge.”

  Now he felt like the earth beneath the horses’ hooves. “How came you to be managing a school? I do not think Jane ever told me.”

  Miss Bell looked out of the window and he wondered if he had offended her with his blunt questioning.

  “Forgive me if that is impertinent.”

  “No, you are hardly the first to ask. I was sent to live with my aunt when my parents died and though she left me the house, there was little income. I began by taking on private students and that is how the school was born. It is not very exciting.”

  “I think of stuffy old matrons with rulers wrapping knuckles when I think of a headmistress.”

  She laughed musically, surprising him. “I suppose I do not fit the mold, but needs must when the devil drives.”

  “Yes indeed,” he agreed, although devils hardly came to mind when he thought of her.

  “Jane was one of my first students and we were instant friends.”

  “She has that effect on people. She said your school was the best thing to happen to her. I do not doubt it was very lonely in the country for someone like her. I rather prefer the solitude.”

  “I believe you are correct; as was her time of mourning.”

  “Just so.”

  “Shall I read aloud?” she asked, offering him a biscuit. “I assure you this author is most respectable.”

  “And here I was prepared to be scandalized.” He feigned a look of horror.