If the Slipper Fits (2 page)

The thump of falling books yanked Annabelle’s attention back to the classroom. The rest of the pupils had seized upon her silence as an invitation. They made haste to crowd around Cora and Dorothy at the windows.

The buzz of their excitement infused Annabelle, too. As a former charity student, she knew the ennui of endless classes in deportment, art, music, and other skills necessary to become a lady. How could she scold the girls when she herself felt an irresistible curiosity?

Maintaining a semblance of dignity, she strolled to join them. For once her tall stature proved a boon. Peering over the heads of the students, she studied the vehicle that rolled up the graveled drive.

The girls were right to ooh and aah.

A team of four white horses drew the cream-colored coach with its fancy gold scrollwork decorating the door. Large gilded wheels glinted in the dappled sunlight. A coachman in leaf-green livery drove the equipage, while a pair of white-wigged footmen perched at the rear.

Annabelle forgot herself and stared openly. Never before had she seen a sight so magnificent. The girls here were mostly commoners, the daughters of local landowners, and they tended to arrive for the term in pony carts or sturdy carriages suitable to the country.

This coach, however, had sprung straight out of a fairy tale.

The fine vehicle drew to a halt in front of the portico. One of the footmen leaped down to lower the step and open the door. A moment later, a woman emerged from the vehicle. Petite and slim, she wore a waist-length black mantelet over a turquoise gown with a fashionably full skirt. A black-veiled bonnet embellished with peacock feathers hid her features from view.

All at once, she cast an upward glance. For one piercing moment, she seemed to stare through the dark tulle straight at Annabelle. Then the woman lowered her head and started up the steps to the porch.

The incident unnerved Annabelle. The skin prickled at the nape of her neck and she stood frozen, her gaze locked on the figure below. How ridiculous to think that keen look had been directed at her. More likely, Lady Milford had merely been inspecting the façade of the school.

Mrs. Baxter appeared on the porch. The headmistress sank a deep curtsy and exchanged a few words with her guest. Then the two women vanished into the ivy-covered stone building.

A collective sigh rippled from the girls. They turned away from the window to chatter among themselves.

“Do you suppose she might be Princess Victoria?” Dorothy asked in a reverent tone.

“At this backwater school?” Cora said with a toss of her reddish ringlets. “Hardly. Besides, Princess Victoria is only seventeen and
I
think this lady looks quite a bit older.”

Annabelle said nothing, though she privately agreed. There was a mature dignity in the way Lady Milford had moved, a graceful self-assurance that made Annabelle feel gauche and countrified in her much-mended gown of drab gray worsted wool. How did she dare hope such a vision of elegance would hire her?

She shook off the question. Misgivings would win her nothing. Her credentials were all that mattered. That, and her determination to present herself as the best possible candidate for the post.

Dorothy clasped her pudgy hands beneath a dimpled chin. “Miss Quinn, you simply
must
find out her name. Please, we shall die of curiosity if you do not.”

A clamor arose as the other girls chimed their agreement.

“All in due time,” Annabelle said. “In the meanwhile, you must practice your posture so you’ll know how to comport yourselves someday in the presence of such fine ladies.”

Grumbling, the pupils resumed parading around the room while balancing a book on their heads. But an atmosphere of liveliness lingered, affecting everyone’s concentration. More than once, a girl squealed as her tome thumped to the floor. The others giggled and whispered among themselves.

Annabelle was too distracted to scold them. The impatience to put her plan into motion gnawed at her composure. But it was too soon, she told herself. Better to wait a while and give Lady Milford an opportunity to chat with the headmistress and to enjoy refreshment from the tea tray.

Annabelle bade the class return to their desks where they took turns reading aloud from a book of manners. Scarcely listening, she eyed the wall clock as it ticked away the sluggish minutes. It seemed an eternity—although no more than three-quarters of an hour had passed—when finally the bell rang and the girls left in a chattering horde, some for drawing classes and pianoforte lessons, others to a choir rehearsal.

Annabelle followed them into the passageway. Her heart kicking up a few beats, she opened a door hidden in the dark paneling and started up the steep wooden staircase used by the servants. While Mrs. Baxter and Lady Milford were interviewing the other teachers, Annabelle had time to set her trap.

With any luck the plan would work. It
had
to work.

The tapping of her footsteps echoed in the narrow utilitarian shaft. The other teachers used the main staircase, but she often took this shortcut to avoid encountering the headmistress, who was wont to pile on extra tasks if she suspected Annabelle had a bit of free time.

Now, she reached the third-floor corridor. Here lay the dormitories for the pupils and bedchambers for the teachers. Annabelle hurried along the passageway, stopping only at a linen closet to fetch a pillowcase. Then she went straight to Mrs. Baxter’s quarters.

The door was ajar as usual. The headmistress liked to allow Mr. Tibbles the freedom to come and go as he pleased. Jittery at the notion of being caught, Annabelle glanced up and down the passageway again, then slipped into the bedchamber.

Brocaded green curtains and dark mahogany furniture created a rich, cavelike décor. The scent of stale roses hung in the air. At any other time, she might have been tempted to explore the forbidden place, but not today. Today, she had to find Mr. Tibbles.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” she crooned.

The tomcat usually napped up here during the day; she had seen him saunter down the stairs in late afternoon. But now he was nowhere to be found. What if the tabby had changed his habit? That was the one circumstance that worried her. He could be anywhere in the house—or even outdoors.

Annabelle peeked under the bed, in the dressing room, and inside the cabinetry. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece served as a reminder that time was growing short. She was about to give up and seek him elsewhere when the tip of an orange tail moved between the window curtains.

Drawing back the drapes, she found the cat curled up in a patch of sunlight on the sill. He glared balefully at her and bared his teeth in a hiss. “Nice Mr. Tibbles,” she murmured, leaning closer, the pillowcase at the ready. “I do need you to be a good boy—”

The cat’s paw lashed out, leaving four stinging red lines on the back of her hand.

Annabelle sucked in a breath through her teeth. Then she threw the pillowcase around the little devil and scooped him up. Immediately he transformed into a wriggling, spitting ball of fury. She grimly held on to the cat, the bleached white linen protecting her from the full force of his indignation.

“I
did
try to do this nicely,” she told the tabby, while carrying him into the dressing room. “It was
you
who declared war.”

Without further ado, she opened a clothes press at random and dropped the bundled cat onto a pile of petticoats. She yanked off the pillowcase and shut the lid quickly.

He howled and scratched inside the chest. But there was no way he could escape. He’d be safe enough for a few minutes, she reasoned, until Mrs. Baxter came charging to his aid.

Annabelle retreated down the stairs, this time going all the way to the ground floor where she peeked out into the corridor. Her gaze swept past the landscape paintings darkened by age and the straight-backed chairs set against the paneled walls, to the closed door at the end of the passage. To her surprise, no queue of hopeful teachers waited outside the parlor.

Alarm niggled at her. What if she had trapped Mr. Tibbles for nothing? What if Lady Milford had hired the very first applicant? What if Mrs. Baxter had recommended Mavis Yates for the post and the matter was already settled?

No, surely the lady would wish to view all the prospects. Deciding upon a duke’s governess had to be serious business. Not that Annabelle knew much of the ways of the aristocracy. She’d never had occasion to meet any nobleman beyond a stuffy old viscount who had once delivered his daughter to school here.

The thought rattled her confidence—but only for a moment. She adjusted the spinster’s cap that covered her dark hair and then used her fingertip to rub away the traces of blood left by Mr. Tibbles’s claws. Nothing could be gained by dithering. It was time to seize her future.

Her arms swinging, she strode boldly down the corridor. She would knock on the door, send Mrs. Baxter off on the rescue mission, and then use the opportunity to beg an interview.

The ploy would work. It
would
.

She had nearly reached the parlor when the rustle of fabric caught her attention. From out of a nearby chamber stepped Mavis Yates.

Chapter 2

Mavis sprang forward to block the door. The long brown ringlets that framed her dark eyes and narrow face brought to mind a floppy-eared hound. A russet gown sheathed her stocky figure, and her nostrils flared as if she were sniffing for vermin.

“You were ordered not to come here,” she said, her chin tilted high. “I was correct to assume you would disobey.”

Annabelle fabricated a pleasant smile. The last thing she needed was a guard dog standing in her way. “Lying in wait for me, were you? Are you so doubtful of your own ability to earn the post of governess?”

“Certainly not! Lady Milford
will
choose me, she made that quite clear by her praise for my many superior qualities.”

So Mavis had had her meeting already. Annabelle glanced at the polished oak door. Who was in there now? “Yet the lady is presently interviewing another contender, is she not?”

Mavis curled her lip. “That is merely a formality. Mrs. Baxter has promised me a glowing recommendation.”

“How wonderful for you.”

“Indeed, her ladyship was most impressed by my impeccable lineage.” Mavis cast a superior look at Annabelle. “My father was a vicar, and we can trace our ancestry back to the finest families in England. Of course, one must pity those poor souls who were born on the wrong side of the blanket and know nothing of their heritage.”

“Mmm.” Annabelle knew better than to react to the slur. “Well, perhaps I should point out that all your hopes will be for naught if the door opens and Lady Milford catches sight of you lurking out here.”

“Lurking—”

“You will appear to be a snoop, and that would hardly speak well for your character, would it? The position of duke’s governess requires someone who is exceptionally discreet.”

Swallowing the bait, Mavis edged away from the door. “Hush! Do keep your voice down.”

“It might be wise for you to leave here at once. That will solve the problem altogether.”

Annabelle shooed the other teacher down the corridor. Her brow furrowed in worry, Mavis complied, but only for a few steps. Then she stopped dead and planted her fists on her wide hips.

“Hussy!” she snapped. “You want me out of the way so that you can lie to her ladyship and steal my new position. Well! Your plan will fail, Mrs. Baxter will see to that.”

“I’m sure you’re right. Which is why you may safely depart from here without a care in the world.”

Annabelle reached for the door handle, but Mavis dashed to stop her. “No! You can’t go in there. You mustn’t—”

The door opened abruptly. On the threshold stood Prudence Easterbrook, her dumpy form squashed into an olive-green gown with too many ruffles. Her squinty brown eyes moved to Mavis—who had flattened herself to the wall beside the door—and then to Annabelle.

“What’s this?” Prudence said stupidly. “No one else is supposed to interview. I am the last one.”

“I’ve an urgent message for Mrs. Baxter.” To Mavis, Annabelle whispered under her breath, “Do stay out of sight. May I remind you, eavesdroppers do not make trustworthy employees.”

With that, Annabelle brushed past them and stepped into the parlor. The cloying odor of beeswax and wood smoke stirred an echo of dread in her. As a girl she had endured many a scolding here and an occasional whipping with the willow switch that was stored in a tall vase beside the door. The punishments had been her own fault for being cursed with a tart tongue. Eventually she had learned to control her headstrong temper, swallow her pride, and behave with humility.

She did so now, assuming an expression of modesty as she approached the two women sitting by the fireplace. In contrast to the spartan furnishings accorded to the teachers and pupils, Mrs. Baxter’s private parlor was decorated as richly as her upstairs quarters. Red velvet hangings framed the tall windows. A rosewood desk sat against the wall. Every table and shelf bore china shepherdesses and porcelain cats and other bric-a-brac. A grouping of chairs and chaises stood before the marble mantelpiece, where a wood fire crackled merrily.

Annabelle’s gaze settled on Lady Milford, who occupied an ornate chair rather like a throne. Her posture was perfect, her gloved hands resting on the gilded arms. The peacock-feathered hat still sat at a jaunty angle atop her head, but the black veil was drawn back to reveal a face of arresting beauty. She had dark hair and violet eyes, and her skin bore fine lines of age that gave her features a look of distinction.

When she turned her head toward Annabelle, one slender brow quirked upward. It was an expression not of haughtiness, but of keen interest. The scrutiny made Annabelle feel as if she were being assessed and evaluated. Discomfited, she saw herself through Lady Milford’s eyes, a too-tall woman in a much-mended dress of unflattering gray.

In an effort to redeem herself with good manners, she sank into a deep curtsy. “My lady,” she murmured.