The Education of Portia

By

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon
2008

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-061-8
ISBN 10: 1-60174-061-1

Copyright © 2008 by Lesley-Anne McLeod

Cover art and design
Copyright © 2008 by Cait Shakoriel Bens

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in
whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or
hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.

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Portia could not like him. Whether it was his aristocratic arrogance, his overpowering
masculine energy, his clipped, assured speech or his confidence in his ability to have his own
way, she did not know. But she did not like the Viscount Stadbroke.

Unwillingly, she would have to admit herself impressed by his fine figure. To his
imposing height he added broad shoulders enveloped in an expertly cut tobacco brown riding
coat, a fine calf encased in gleaming topboots and the muscular legs of an active man displayed
in leather breeches. His dark brown curling hair was brushed ruthlessly back from a broad brow.
He was not precisely handsome, but his sharp features were strongly boned and his dark eyes
well opened and disconcertingly acute. Added all in all, he looked vaguely, inexplicably familiar.
Nevertheless, she found him dislikeable.

Portia Crossmichael rarely took an immediate aversion to anyone. She prided herself on
her rational and reasonable approach to people. In general, she gave new acquaintances time to
reveal their dispositions and their temperaments...time to prove themselves. In her position as
school proprietress and schoolmistress, she could not afford to judge too harshly. And certainly
she could not display her feelings about the characters of her patrons. It was her lot to be
conciliatory, to be diplomatic and to coax the best of their natures from her lady pupils, and their
parents.

"I have only two openings at present, Lord Stadbroke. You have three daughters. I think
we cannot solve this conundrum of numbers." She picked up a pale quill from her ormolu
inkstand, and ran her fingers over the firm yet soft feather. She had already learned that the
viscount was widowed--his children motherless for the past four years--and that the family seat
was in Lincolnshire. Stadbroke had imparted the details reluctantly, in response to her inexorable
inquiries.

"You cannot wish to turn away business, ma'am," he said, his abrasive tone at odds with
the precision of his diction. "You seem not to desire my custom."

Portia's habitually calm façade stood her in good stead even in the face of the
viscount's frown. "I do not regard my pupils as 'business', my lord, nor am I in trade. I do not
accept or reject custom. I am a teacher. My students are children and must be carefully guided
and educated. If I accept too many students, they will all suffer from lack of attention and
insufficient guidance."

Driven to agitation by the viscount's attitude, Portia rose. Her height was not
inconsiderable and she had a presence born of dignity and gravity. She did not hope to impress
Stadbroke however, but only to indicate that the interview was coming to its close.

He rose politely as well, but showed no inclination to depart. He ignored her discourse
on her occupation. "You said you have two places available among the older girls." His tone
softened, a coaxing note infiltrating his words. "Surely one more small girl only eight years of
age, Miss Crossmichael, cannot cause much difficulty. My daughters will not be separated, I
fear, and they have their hearts set on attending your school."

Portia wondered why, but she refused to ask their father. "Even if I could admit all three,
my lord, they still would be separated. The older two, at almost twelve and fifteen, would join
the senior girls in the west dormitory and the younger would need to reside with her peers in the
north dormitory." Before she had finished speaking, Portia knew she had made an error. The
viscount was taking her explanation to be equivocation and thought that he had her
wavering.

He was tapping his booted foot impatiently, as though inactivity was anathema to him.
"That separation would cause no difficulty. Penelope is a sturdy, independent child; she would
not be intimidated by that degree of disunion. The point is they all three wish to attend
here."

Portia half turned from him to stare from the open door to the garden while she
considered. Some of the older girls were reading in the shade of a massive chestnut tree; their
muslin gowns reflecting the colours of the China asters and phloxes in a nearby flower bed.
Beyond the glasshouse, a lively group of younger students, under the guidance of a mistress, was
heading for the hawthorn wood. A gentle breeze wafted the summer scents into her study, with
snatches of conversation and laughter. Her school showed to advantage in the sunny late August
day.

She pressed a long finger to her temple and suppressed a sigh. Despite her dislike of the
gentleman, Lord Stadbroke was correct. One small child more or less would not disturb her
organization or disarrange any of the school's routines. She had only to order one more cot set up
in the north dormitory. And it would be useful to have the two places in the senior class
filled.

Besides, she wanted the viscount gone from her premises and her agreement would
assure his departure. Her study--her cool, well-ordered, book-lined sanctuary--was violated by
his presence. Portia found Stadbroke oddly disturbing. He was too aggressively male, and too
demanding for her comfort. Her schedule as well had suffered with his visit. She had paper work
to tend, a class to teach within the hour and the cook's problems to sort.

She fingered the equipage--keys, watch, and kit of tiny useful tools--that was suspended
on chains from the band at the high waist of her gown, and found the familiar shape of the
mother-of-pearl panelled
etui
that held the tools. Gripping it, she took her decision with
customary resolution. "Very well, my lord. You have convinced me. We will welcome your
daughters, and endeavour to teach them each of our subjects to the best of our, and their, ability.
They will be returned to you young ladies of accomplishment, learning, and modest
behaviour."

"Excellent!" The viscount did nothing to conceal his satisfaction. He slapped the gloves
he carried into the palm of his left hand.

Portia was hard put to maintain her civility. "When shall we expect the young
ladies?"

"This day three weeks?" He smiled in great good humour, with confident charm.

Portia despised him for his self-satisfaction and his vanity. He had been very certain he
would achieve his aim. She regretted that she could not--would not--deny him his object. But he
would never know it.

Her façade of calm serenity did not falter. "We shall look forward to it, Lord
Stadbroke. Your daughters will have their own bed each, but will each share a press with one
other girl. We pride ourselves on the quality of our meals, and we have a matron that sees to the
little needs of children away from the comfort of their families and their homes." She opened the
top drawer of her handsome desk and withdrew a sheet of paper. "Here is a list of items that the
young ladies may bring with them if they desire, and it includes the style and quantity of clothing
we recommend. My invoice for the first term will be presented on the second of January, forty
guineas per child. Have you any further questions, my lord?"

The viscount looked momentarily annoyed by her swift and concise completion of their
transaction. He took the paper she handed him and gave it only a careless glance before folding it
twice and jamming it in a small pocket in his riding coat. "None," he said. "I should warn you
that I do not expect my daughters to remain long with you. I cannot think why they have
undertaken this start. They have an excellent governess whom they appear to revere. I am
keeping her in my employ with a view to the girls' quick return." He offered his hand, apparently
unaware of the insult implicit in his words.

Portia could not ignore that slight. He thought his daughters would shortly wish for
escape, did he? Well, he would learn that they would enjoy their time at Mansion House; all her
girls did. They would not wish to soon leave.

Nevertheless, the girls' motive in attending at all was a mystery, one that she looked
forward to solving. Could it be that the governess was less to their taste than they had admitted to
their father? Or was Lincolnshire just too far away from London where their father seemed to
reside? And how had they heard of the Mansion House Establishment for Young Ladies?

A cough from the viscount drew her attention. He was still holding out his hand. She
eyed his strong, hard fingers with some distaste. She much preferred to shake gloved hands when
they belonged to strangers. There was no help for it however, and she released her
etui
and gave him her own slender hand. He shook it briefly, his clasp as cool and dry as her own.
Their contact was brief, no longer than polite, and yet it was rife with awareness. She snatched
her fingers out of his clasp with a momentary loss of control, then pinned a smile to her lips. She
avoided his eyes; she had no wish to discover if he too had experienced that consciousness.

"We will expect your daughters on the tenth of September then, my lord." She pulled the
bell to summon her elderly porter. "Good day."

Viscount Stadbroke found himself on the stone doorstep, well-satisfied with his visit
despite his summary dismissal. He sauntered down the well-scrubbed steps of the substantial
villa that was the Mansion House Establishment for Young Ladies, Hornsey. After some stout
disputation, and several organized arguments on the part of Miss Crossmichael, he had carried
the day. He had not expected her opposition, but had welcomed the opportunity to cross swords
with her. She was a worthy opponent though the sort of female he could not admire: she was
plain, officious and clever.

Miss Portia Crossmichael, he decided, could have been nothing other than a teacher.
From her long, straight nose to her undoubtedly blue-stockinged toes shod in neat half-boots, she
proclaimed her chosen profession. Her grey-striped muslin gown, though it was subtly
fashionable, had been made high to the neck and long sleeved despite the summer warmth. A
modestly ruffled cap had framed a rather long oval face that was without strong bone structure.
The cap had also very nearly concealed undeniably sandy hair. Darker brows and long lashes
surrounded a pair of fine grey eyes that some might have called handsome.

Whatever the deficiencies of her appearance, it was Miss Crossmichael's character that
concerned him most. Her nature, by his judgement, was serene but verged on cold and detached.
And she could not have more than thirty years in her dish.

There had been, he thought, a momentary interruption in her reserve when they had
shaken hands. He had been very aware himself of the delicacy of her bones and the tenderness of
her skin. He shook his head at the rank foolishness of his thoughts. He was imputing
attractiveness to a long-meg of a schoolmistress? No, she was surely a starched up prig. The girls
would not find her so kind as middle-aged Miss Thripton, or as willing to join in their games and
plays.

She would do however, and she offered a substantial curriculum. The noisy occupants of
the several classrooms he had seen appeared happy and those abroad in the gardens looked
contented. And he could not fault Miss Crossmichael on the fabric of her institution. The
building was impeccably maintained, the gardens well kept. The corridors and chambers through
which he had been quickly toured by the so-charming French mistress on his arrival were
spotlessly clean. He had admired the fountain which played in the afternoon sun outside the
schoolmistress's orderly study and the glasshouse which lay beyond a terraced yard. All in all a
prosperous business.

The dearest wish of his three daughters had been fulfilled; they could attend the
Mansion House Establishment for the winter months. Why they wished to attend the school
when they seemed always to be perfectly happy at his seat, Stadley Place in Lincolnshire, he had
no idea. But then the thought processes of women had always been a mystery to him. His
daughters--at least the eldest of them--were all too rapidly approaching womanhood.