The Education of Portia (20 page)

"She loves people nearly as much as she loves ideas," Portia replied. "I have had her
acquaintance quite some time. Her daughter attended at the Mansion House for a year. We
became friendly and she has ever since sent me an invitation to her
salons
." Her words
were almost absent-minded, polite to the edge of vagueness. "I attend when I can."

Stadbroke was troubled by her courteous ambiguity. He preferred her hostility, he
thought. "You look very lovely this evening." He thought the words might fire her temper, but he
spoke them in all honesty. Her gown of silver-grey crepe was enhanced by a tunic-styled
overdress of deep blue with side openings caught by silver clasps. The plain bodice left her
smooth throat bare to the swell of her bosom and only a shapely silver necklace adorned her pale
skin. A twist of the blue silk caught up her abundant hair with an attempt at confinement that did
not quite succeed. Ingram found the fair curls escaping on her temples quite remarkably
distracting.

But at last he had all her attention. His flattery had certainly drawn her out of her
abstraction.

Her wide eyes flashed scorn. "You are in the wrong place, my lord, if you are looking
only for beauty. You will not find it in my company, flatter as you will, and a
salon
such
as this has more important things to discuss than the physical attributes of its denizens. These,"
she swept an expansive gesture, "are the women you don't believe exist. These are women of
intelligence, wit and learning. The sort of women I try to nurture in my school. The women you
don't believe your daughters can become. I am surprised to see you here, given your opinion of
my sex."

"My opinion of your sex is undergoing a drastic alteration, Miss Crossmichael, due to
your influence. I have come to see that I judged all women on the strength of one or two, and I
am now fully alive to the possibilities of excellence existing in my daughters. I am learning, I
hope, to communicate as easily with my young ladies as I did with my little girls." His words
seemed to puncture her irritation and she relapsed into apparent apathy.

Stadbroke was alarmed by her lack of spirit. Suddenly impatient with the weak lies with
which she had kept him at arm's length since before Christmas, he said, "Portia, I can see that
something is troubling you. I want only to be of assistance. For God's sake, will you not trust
me? Tell me what is wrong."

She stared at him as though seeing him for the first time that evening. "You cannot help
me, Lord Stadbroke."

"Surely matters cannot be so desperate." A cold chill crept up his spine at the desolation
he glimpsed at the back of her eyes.

"No of course not." She seemed prepared to agree with whatever he said for the express
purpose of being rid of him.

He had no intention of leaving her until he discovered her problem. He leaned closer.
"Portia..."

"My lord, just because you once kissed me--testing the waters, as it were--you have no
license over my concerns, my thoughts or my affairs." She roused from her lethargy again. "Your
continued harassment this evening is destroying a much-needed change of scene for me. There is
nothing wrong, not with me, not with your daughters, not with my school. I will be obliged if
you will abandon the matter!"

Ingram straightened. "My apologies, madam, for my importunities. I had thought we had
achieved some sort of mutual esteem if nothing else. I will relieve you of my presence." He
bowed and, turning on his heel, joined a group of scholars who he knew would be discussing the
latest of scientific findings.

Portia watched him go with a mixture of relief and regret. She had decided to attend
Lady Dartington's monthly
salon
this evening to escape for a little the worries that beset
her. It was typical of her luck recently that an unkind fate should present her with Lord
Stadbroke. The pleasure that had swept over her at the sight of him had frightened her. She
disliked the man, she told herself. She had either to drive him away or confide in him, and the
second was not a possibility. Why should he care? How could he understand the disaster which
had befallen her, when she little understood it herself?

It seemed incredible that someone like Harold Dent could have so little human kindness
and so much greed in his makeup. How could he compound the tyranny of a despotic parent with
the viciousness of a grasping individual? Her supposition that he had been left far in their past
had been laughably wrong; he over-shadowed their every waking moment. Caldwell's
consistently drawn face haunted her at Mansion House and her own concern was affecting her
relations with her staff and her pupils.

Her gaze followed the viscount across the chamber. He was very angry with her now; he
would judge her harshly on this rebuff. He, who had all the forbearance in the world for his
young daughters, had none at all for her.

But he gave no sign of his displeasure. The ladies in the chamber despite their age,
learning and sophistication fluttered about him as butterflies to a particularly succulent flower.
They drew him away from the scholars of his choice to an impromptu poetry reading at the other
end of the large chamber.

Portia found Lady Dartington at her elbow.

"Should you like to join the poetry reading, Miss Crossmichael? Are you as surprised as
I to see Lord Stadbroke here? I have invited him persistently to my evening affairs for an age,
but had quite given up his attendance. His attendance must always be a triumph for any hostess
but beyond that, his views and his breadth of knowledge are so wide that he can only be a
valuable addition to such a gathering as this."

Portia was speechless in the face of this information.

"You are surprised?" Her ladyship was rattling on. "He gives every appearance of a
sporting gentleman without two thoughts to rub together does he not? But his society is valued as
much by the scientists and philosophers gathered here as by the less judicious ladies." She
nodded down the room where the poetry reading had been abandoned for a declamation by the
viscount.

"I would rather join Mrs. More and her companions," Portia managed to say. She
ignored the subject of Stadbroke's predilections. Her hostess appeared unoffended by her
apparent lack of interest in the viscount, and led her to a group of educators who wished to
discuss theories of moral instruction.

Portia briefly forgot her troubles in a stimulating debate with her peers. When next she
looked about her the viscount was again at her elbow.

"Will you take a turn about the room with me?" he asked, offering his arm for her
support, showing no sign of his earlier anger. She placed her hand upon his superfine sleeve with
a show of unwillingness. She hoped that only she was aware that her reluctance was false.

They perambulated in silence for some minutes, bowing to acquaintances, exchanging
greetings with friends.

"I spoke hastily a little while ago," she began, awkwardly, to apologize. She had had no
notion that she intended to do so. "I beg your pardon. I am become, I think, a crusty old
schoolmistress."

He brushed off her apology granting her, it seemed, all the tolerance she had thought she
had forfeited. "There is someone here I would like to introduce, if you will permit?"

"Of course," she said, summoning an interest she did not feel. He led her across the
room to a gentleman of medium height who was as fair as she was herself. He was accompanied
by a handsome well-dressed lady whom, Portia noted, was undoubtedly
enceinte
.

She had seen this couple before at these
salons
, of Lady Dartington, but had
somehow never had occasion to be introduced. Now Portia discovered them to be Lord Francis
and Lady Dorothea Lanark. They were kind and conversable, and when someone drew
Stadbroke away, demanding his opinion on a new theory of combustion, she was less
disappointed than she might have been if left in anyone else's company. The Lanarks had dozens
of questions about her school, and about her methods of education, and quite monopolized her
for the rest of the evening. Portia was not unhappy with the development; she had the notion that
in Dorothea Lanark she had discovered a true friend. But she had to wonder how long the lady's
friendship would last in the face of the scandal that Portia could not think how to prevent.

Lord Stadbroke did not approach her again that evening so she was left, as she drove
home with an aching head, with a lingering regret. She wondered if she had given him a
profound disgust of her with her accusations of harassment. Surely not. After all he had chosen
later to walk with her and to introduce her to his friends, the Lanarks.

Portia leaned her head against the plump squabs of her carriage's seat, and admitted the
truth to herself. She wanted Stadbroke's approval, his friendship, and more, much more. Now
that he had awakened her to a knowledge of desire, she wanted to explore the experience further.
Remembering Lady Lanark's interesting condition, she thought even of that eventuality with
something of envy.

She stirred uneasily. The chill of the winter night was biting close and she was returning
to Mansion House where all her problems awaited her. Daydreams about love and desire offered
no solutions to her difficulties. But her evening in different surroundings had given her--as she
had hoped--a new perspective.

She and Caldwell had to face up to Harold Dent, and defy him. They had to weather
whatever storms his lies brewed. They would find out who were their true friends, and had to
face the possibility of the ruination of their careers. There was no other way.

Stadbroke had been correct in at least one of his assertions; it was time to be done with
lies.

* * * *

A few days later when Caldwell invited her to his studio to voice her opinion of the
portrait he had begun of Penelope, Portia was glad of the opportunity to be private with him. The
winter term was always a difficult one for the young ladies and their teachers. Foul weather
contrived to dampen spirits and to confine everyone to close quarters without adequate exercise.
Tempers were short, and all of Portia's energy was directed to preservation of an atmosphere
conducive to learning.

She closed the door to the studio behind her with a sigh. Her brother stood at his easel,
regarding his portrait with a critical eye. He was capturing the child as she worked on her own
art, small tongue pinched firmly between her teeth, but had passed the need for her
presence.

"Will Stadbroke like it?" he asked.

"How should I know what the viscount would like?" she said, with a purposely obtuse
air.

"You have seemed--forgive me if I am wrong-- in harmony at times. There is an air
of...understanding between you..."

"The only air of which I am aware between us, is a rancorous one." She strolled over to
examine the nearly completed portrait of the viscount and his daughters, uneasily aware that she
was not admitting the truth. She stared at Stadbroke's painted face with avidity, admiring every
angle and plane. She could never stare so openly at him in company.

"But you said he was at the
salon
... He introduced you to the Lanarks."
Caldwell appeared confused.

Portia knew herself to be just as confused. "We were civil, between exchanges of
insults," she admitted, remembering Stadbroke's apparently sincere appreciation of her
appearance. "He knows something is wrong, Cal. He will not rest until he discovers it for he
fears it endangers his daughters. I do not wish to lie anymore. And we cannot afford to pay
Harold Dent anymore money."

Caldwell laid down his brush and fidgeted uncharacteristically about the room. "He is
staying at The Three Compasses in the village, you know--my father, that is. He sends me
notes..."

Portia drew in a quick sharp breath of dismay. She had not known the man was still
established in Hornsey. "So you have been keeping secrets from me," she said, her voice flat
with despair. "Does our circle of deception never end?"

"I knew it would only upset you."

"It upsets me if I cannot trust you, Cal. Perhaps I know how Stadbroke feels, wondering
what is truth and what is lie!"

"The only other prevarication I have perpetrated is that Father has asked, here and there,
for more payments, small ones, a guinea here, a pound there. I did not want to worry you."
Caldwell paused before her, defiance, anxiety and supplication in his pleasant face. She recalled
him with just such expression when he had stolen pasties from the kitchen at the age of nine.

"You have to worry me; you must," she said more gently. "Your future and mine are
both at risk here."

"I knew you would be intent upon revelation. I cannot..." He swung away again.

"You must. We have to end this. We must tell Harold Dent that we will pay him no
more money, and that he must do what he will." Portia turned away from the portraits,
straightening her slim shoulders, already bearing the weight of her decision.

"It will be ugly. It might be the end of Mansion House, and it might be the end of my
career."

Caldwell began to clean his brushes, avoiding her gaze, avoiding agreement.

"Those are risks we shall have to take."

"But Heloise...she will never..."

The door opened suddenly after a brief rap and a brief interval. Heloise Montlucon, her
head tilted with an appearance of intense curiosity, entered and closed the door firmly behind
her.

"Heloise will never what,
mon bravez un
? Are you ready at last to tell me what
draws Portia's face to creases and lines, and marks your brow? Gavrielle asks if you are annoyed
with her, and I... I wonder if you have thought better of your avowals."

Portia's heart ached to see her friend so uncertain, and her brother so tormented. She
knew without doubt what she must do.