The Education of Portia (13 page)

She woke from what seemed a dream when a drop of hot wax landed on her hand. She
had tilted her chamberstick dangerously, and that danger had saved her from another more
profound. She snatched her cap and her pins from his hand and withdrew in a cloud of flaxen
strands to a safe distance. "You, my lord, have been too long from the company of your lovely
lady friends!" she spat out.

His dark eyes narrowed. "And you, ma'am, have a distorted view of your own charms.
And woman-like you seek to blame me for your desires. But I agree I was distracted into the
inappropriate. I do apologize for that."

Portia retreated to her dressing room door once more. "The sooner your daughters are
well, my lord, and you leave us, the better it will be for my school. And I could wish you had not
come to London, so that your daughters had not had need to follow you."

"I came to London, Miss Crossmichael, to experience freedom and joy. Two things of
which I fear you have little knowledge."

She was cut to the heart by that slashing statement.

He seemed to realize it. "Portia, no, I did not mean that! You cannot understand what
my marriage was, what it lacked, but you must believe that I had need to discover what I had
missed and what I most valued."

"Your problems, Stadbroke, must remain your own. I acknowledge only my duty to your
daughters. They, God bless them, idolize you. And you disdain their very sex. That is a sad
conundrum, my lord."

"One I seek to solve, ma'am." He drew himself up. "And I think I am coming to a new
understanding."

She could not bear his company longer, and could make no sense of his words. She
opened her door, shook her thick hair over her shoulder, and with one backward glance entered
her room.

The glance told her he still stood there and, that when her candle was removed, the light
and the humour died from his eyes.

* * * *

Two days later Stadbroke stood before Miss Crossmichael's desk. "I shall remove the
burden of my presence from your establishment tomorrow." He crossed to the window so that he
would not have to meet the schoolmistress's calm gaze. "Penny is well, Mel nearly so, and
Sabina had only one or two difficult days after all. I must thank you, ma'am. The attention and
caring of your staff, and your own tenderness, towards your ill pupils has been impressive. A
child would scarcely receive such excellent care in her own home. I shall not be silent in my
praise for your school, Miss Crossmichael."

"Thank you, my lord. You are very kind. I would expect nothing less from my staff and
myself than complete attention to our pupils' needs."

Her words were as stilted as their relations had been since his damnable slip three nights
earlier. He had spent every unoccupied moment since wondering what had come over him. It
was true that she was possessed of the most glorious hair it had ever been his privilege to
liberate. But that could not explain the craving that had possessed him. It had been a brief hunger
dissipated quickly by her intemperate accusation. He had recalled that he did not care for her,
that she was a blue-stocking, and worse than all else, an intelligent woman.

He cleared his throat. "Well, I do thank you, ma'am." His words were inadequate and he
turned to leave. He was conscious that he was less than honest with himself in claiming to dislike
her.

He paused at the door. "And Miss Crossmichael, if I may be of any service in solving
the problem that has also occupied you and Mr. Dent during this time, I should be most happy."
He looked back at her.

The head teacher seemed momentarily frozen in place. Then she forced a smile to her
lips. "Problem, my lord? Surely you are mistaken."

"I overheard, quite inadvertently, part of your discussion with your brother on the
'necessity for speed', the 'urgency of delivery' and the requirement of 'utter secrecy'. Likewise I
happened upon Mme. Montlucon and Mr. Dent in the yew walk in the midst of an apparently
acrimonious discussion. I dislike secrets. If you are in trouble, Miss Crossmichael, it is to my
benefit and that of my daughters' that I be of assistance."

"There is no problem, Lord Stadbroke. You must have misunderstood our discussions. A
kitchen crisis, nothing more. And, forgive me if I am wrong, but you keep your own secrets, do
you not?"

A diversionary tactic, Ingram told himself, though a clever one. He would not be
distracted, but she was right, he did have secrets. However, she was lying about her problems.
He knew the signs as well or better than any man, and this woman was lying. For what purpose,
over what matter, he could not tell. "I bid you good day, ma'am. And as on the morrow you will
likely be busy, I add my farewell now." He would have to keep a closer eye on the Mansion
House Establishment while his daughters were in residence. Something was sadly awry.

Portia watched the door close after the viscount with relief. She would never admit to
regret. Concerned that he had scented their trouble, she was delighted that he had decided his
daughters could be left to her care.

She was aware of the time of his departure the following day, but beyond a quick word
with the Perrington sisters, she made nothing of it. The school's usual schedule was being
reinstated as young ladies returned to health, and she was busy. She did however seek out
Caldwell at her earliest opportunity, hurrying into his studio, interrupting his work without
compunction. "He overheard us. Stadbroke overheard our conversation, and is drawing his own
conclusions." Portia paced her brother's workroom in agitation. "He will be watching us, I am
sure of it."

Caldwell stood at his easel, tension visible in every line of his compact frame. "Why
should he care what happens in the school unless it affects his daughters?"

"I don't know... I don't know. He happened upon your discussion with Heloise
also."

"He was omnipresent all the days he was here. I cannot fault his devotion to his children,
but I shall be glad now that he is gone. If only we could return to normal in every way."

"I don't know why Harold Dent had to appear and threaten to destroy my livelihood and
your happiness. Perhaps you should go, Cal. Disassociate yourself with me; try to convince
Heloise to marry you and leave the school. You have such a successful beginning of your career.
It would be a crime for that to be lost."

"If I go my father will still spread rumours about what
was
going on here; he
will say my departure proves our guilt. We shall have to pay what he asks again, Port, I don't see
anyway around it."

"But it won't stop at two payments or three, you know that." Portia gripped her
etui
so tightly that her knuckles showed white.

"Well, he is drinking himself to death, if that is any comfort. His time on this earth may
be limited. We can only hope." He surveyed his canvas narrowly as he spoke.

"Cal!"

"He is my father by birth, nothing more. I will not pretend that I love him. We were
singularly unlucky in our parents, you and I. I can see why Heloise will have no part of me."

"Stadbroke said you had had words. What happened?" So great was her distress that
Portia thought nothing of breaking her vow of non-interference in Caldwell's affairs.

"She wanted to know about my father, why I look worried, why you look worried. I
wouldn't tell her." Caldwell laid down his palette, and stalked to the fire that danced with
contrary gaiety on the hearth.

"You should, you must. Where there is love, there must be honesty. And your resolution
will wear down her scruples eventually. So will success in your career. Arguing with her will not
further your cause."

"I do not want her to worry about my father's threats. It is for her own good that I tell her
nothing. If she will not love me without a villainous parent, she will not love me with one."

"She does love you, I know she does." Portia followed him to the fireplace and laid an
appealing hand on his arm.

"You know more than I do then," he said, his despair evident in every dejected line of
his body.

Portia took a deep, sustaining, stabilizing breath. "We shall pay. You are correct, we
shall have to pay him again. Then perhaps the matter will be done with; no one hurt, no one the
wiser. Perhaps he will not pursue us indefinitely. We cannot risk destroying your future for want
of spending a few pounds." She shook his arm in her intensity.

"Spending those pounds--hundreds of pounds--may destroy your future, this
school!"

"After these months dealing with the wretched viscount, I could almost decide to close
without regret." She sighed deeply. "Oh, I don't mean that. It is all I have, this school."

"I had a notion you liked the viscount rather better than you indicated." Caldwell was
searching her face with a keen gaze.

Portia released him and turned away. "No, Cal, you are quite mistaken. I can have no
admiration for him." She straightened her slender back and squared her shoulders. "Make the
arrangements, my dear. Pay Harold Dent his money, but he must understand our pockets are not
deep."

"Indeed he must," Caldwell muttered in agreement, aiming a kick at a firedog that
threatened to topple.

"He must," Portia echoed, her head aching.

The viscount was among them again.

Portia stared from her study windows at the vision of Ruff, the Perringtons' hound,
cavorting over the lawn with nearly every girl of the school in pursuit. The day was a fine one,
crisp and clear, repayment perhaps for the weeks of autumn rain that had plagued the
countryside. She could not fault the students for finding their way out of doors. They had been
scheduled for other activities but their instincts told them to be outside, and she would not argue
with it.

But if that dog was at her school, so too was the viscount. She could see Sabina among
the girls streaming across the lawn, and Melicent; she watched for another minute or two and
Penelope arrived in a tumble of youngsters giggling and bouncing about the hound. It was all
very unladylike, but the only parent present--the viscount--would not berate her for that.
Somehow she was certain of it.

She turned away from the window to return to her desk, but was halted by a knock upon
her door. She straightened her cap, twitched her cap and fichu into faultless order. Every
unexpected visitor these days frightened her. Every caller had the potential to be Harold Dent,
demanding more money, threatening the worst kind of lies, the most devastating exposure. It was
nonsensical, for he had never done other than communicate with Caldwell, and she had no
reason to think that he would change that pattern but still there it was...the fear. She took a deep
calming breath and reluctantly opened the door.

Lord Stadbroke was there, she should have expected it. He was, as ever, elegantly turned
out, and he inclined his head in a polite gesture and greeted her casually.

Portia's breath caught in her throat at the sight of his elegant figure, and she was
conscious of deep relief that her worst fears--that Harold Dent--had not been realized. Her
well-schooled face showed none of her thoughts, but she extended a hand to the viscount
thoughtlessly in her relief.

She could not snatch it back; he pressed her hand--for a moment longer than necessary
she thought--and then looked for a moment from the window. He moved to rest against the
mantel piece after watching the heaving crowd on the lawn, endangering a small oil by Caldwell
that she had recently placed there.

"What can I do for you today, my lord?" she asked, her tone even and unexpressive.
"Have you just arrived? May I offer you tea?"

"Thank you, no tea. I have been here an hour, I've seen the girls, and I have turned that
hound loose for their entertainment. I see everyone is diverted. I have need to disturb you
because I received this last week a cryptic note from Mel," he informed her with equal
blandness. "To the effect that Penny is wreaking mayhem in her set, and that Sabina is mooning
about. I understand, Miss Crossmichael, that my eldest daughter is in love with your
brother."

"No, my lord, Sabina
thinks
she is in love with Caldwell. There is a vast
difference. And I suspect Melicent of undertaking something of a diversion. She did not, in all
likelihood, mention that she threw her needlework in the midden, Lord Stadbroke?" Portia felt
unequal to immediately explaining Sabina's infatuation, and tossed out Melicent's reprehensible
act as a distraction of her own.

"Ah, I see. She has sought to distract attention from her own iniquities by calling others
into question." His angular face was suddenly full of laughter. "Just as you have sought to
distract me."

Portia coloured. She might have known he would immediately see through her ploy. She
quite understood what all the society ladies saw in the viscount, and willed her heart to a more
normal pace. No matter how attractive his lordship might be, he was not and never would be for
her.

Fifteen years of masculine indifference--since she had first become aware of the male
sex--had taught her that the attractive members of that sex viewed her without interest. But she
had recently learned that although she was without attraction herself, she was not beyond being
attracted to a handsome gentleman.
Oh, it was all pointless
, she thought hastily recalling
her attention to his words.

"Well, I would not have reported such an act to you, but of course she has no way of
knowing that. It was theatrically done," Portia's face unknowingly softened, as she described
Melicent's rousing denunciation of all needlework and her dramatic storming of the kitchen yard
where she had snatched up a stick, impaled the hated sampler upon it and thrust it into the heart
of the midden.

The viscount was helpless with laughter by the time she finished the tale and she was
more deeply attracted to him than ever. He retrieved a snowy handkerchief from a pocket
concealed in his deep green tailcoat and wiped his eyes.