The Education of Portia (23 page)

Stadbroke narrowed his gaze and clamped down on his sudden anxiety. "What sort of
problems?"

Lanark's expression begged his pardon for surprising him.

Isley, however, was before Lord Francis with a reply. "Demmed immoral ones. Seems
the schoolmistress' drawing master is not after all her brother, or her half-brother. Had it from
someone who spoke with the fellow making the claim, at the Afrique Coffee-House this
morning. M'wife wanted to send our eldest daughter to attend there, but I said, no, no need for a
demmed blue-stocking in the family. Turns out I was in the right. Enough demmed depravity in
society without exposing our children to it at school."

As most of the gentlemen had no daughters in attendance at the school, and so had no
interest in the matter, they began at the other end of the table a conversation on the latest crop of
opera dancers to grace the London stages.

Ingram was confounded by the insinuations. "What is being implied?" He kept a close
hold on his temper which was mounting by the moment.

Lanark waved his butler over, whispered a command, and that worthy returned shortly
with the Morning Mercury on a salver which he presented to Stadbroke.

Ingram took the paper which was folded to the appropriate page. He read the brief
public notice with rising concern. "Who was the person that writ this libel? Has anyone here
actually seen him?"

The gentlemen at his end of the table shrugged. Isley reiterated, "Friend of a friend
stopped in, that's all I heard. " He applied himself to lighting a pipe.

Stadbroke turned to Lanark who looked acutely uncomfortable. "What do you
know?"

"One of my other friends went to see the fellow," Lanark said. "Told me the villain
looks like a tradesman but stands by his information, and can provide proof. Well, my friend's
brother says he is removing his daughter from the school."

"Damnation." There was a wealth of disgust and frustration in Ingram's single, explosive
word, but he had the sense to lower his voice. "She's been lying to me. I asked her; I suspected
there was something wrong at Mansion House. No wonder Dent cancelled the portrait
sitting.

"I trusted her," he muttered, his thoughts in chaos. Portia had been the first woman he
had ever trusted and believed honourable, and she had lied to him and manipulated him just like
all the others. God alone knew what she and Dent were to each other. She had feared exposure
and she and young Dent had been paying to prevent it.

"She will hear of my wrath. It will be my pleasure to denounce her to her face, pack up
my daughters' effects and remove them from her dishonest presence."

Everyone around the table was staring at him now. In an undertone, Lanark said, "You
are not helping matters, Stadbroke. Don't do anything rash. And for the love of heaven, mind
your tongue. You are condemning them all without facts."

Ingram stared at his friends and acquaintances, his sudden, irrational anger dying. The
gentlemen's faces were avid, as keen for gossip as the most cynical crone. "I spoke in jest; it
cannot be true," he said loudly, meeting Lanark's compassionate gaze.

"I do not think it is. Neither does Dorothea. But we have no right to investigate; we have
no children in attendance there." Lord Francis was calm--pacific--and made certain every man at
the table heard him.

Ingram picked up a snuffbox and fiddled with it idly. No, he could not believe it, now
that he paused to reflect. There was no consciousness between Dent and Portia. They were
nothing to each other but step-siblings, he would swear to it. But the fact that they were unrelated
yet dwelling in the same house was enough to damn their association.

"You can do nothing else tonight in any event," Lanark said, urgently and quietly.
"Except speak with Dora, see what she might have heard."

Ingram rose abruptly, abandoning the snuffbox, and the conversations around the table
ceased again.

"Come, gentlemen, let's rejoin the ladies," Lanark said hastily.

Deep in thought, Ingram followed his host and his fellow guests above-stairs to the
drawing room. The sensation of betrayal that gnawed at his vitals had more to do with himself
than with his daughters. He did not believe for a moment that the girls were in peril, either moral
or physical. He knew without a doubt that Portia would never endanger them. But she had
endangered him.

She had come close to capturing his heart in a way no woman ever had, and if this
gossip was true--or even if it was not--he had been betrayed. If it was true, he had been
cuckolded in thought if not in fact; she had been disporting herself with Caldwell Dent while
leading him to being enchanted with her mind, her ideas and her slender, shapely,
blue-stockinged person. If it was not true, she still had lied to him, avoided telling him the truth,
evaded candour and feigned sincerity.

He only withdrew from his absorption when he discovered Lady Dorothea beside him.
Her charming drawing room, hung in straw-coloured silk and dotted with comfortable sophas
and chairs, was half-filled by the glittering throng of her guests.

"This is not how we would have wished you to discover this trouble at the school," she
said frankly, her dark eyes sincere. "We did not wish to communicate it to you by letter, but I see
now that would have been better than this." She looked down at her gloved hands. "I feel
somehow responsible, Lord Stadbroke. I encouraged you to trust the school, and I--"

"You have also been betrayed, my lady." Ingram knew he was too harsh, but his anger
was too new, too raw to contain. "You need feel no guilt."

"I must say then that I am convinced of the dishonesty of these rumours. And indeed, the
evidence of this man who puffs off his slander at the Afrique. Miss Crossmichael is blameless in
my mind. I am glad I met her at Lady Dartington's
salon
for it confirms my opinion. She
has not the aura of a wanton, or a trickster."

Stadbroke remembered Portia's chaste response to his kiss, her overwhelming
discomfiture at her own actions and her anger with his. "I have to agree," he said, his face
softening. "But she has at least been less than honest."

"Did she owe us details of her relationship to every member of her staff?"

"But she called Dent her brother. I believed him to be her half-brother."

"The distinction scarcely matters. They feel like siblings, that is the important thing. I
had two step-brothers and sisters. I called--still call--them just 'brother' and 'sister'."

His hope, which had flickered at her words, fell back to earth as he thought of the living
quarters at Mansion House. "They are not in any way related."

"They feel they are. They probably never gave the matter a thought. He is engaged to be
married, I understand. I am told his fiancée stands by him. These are not dissolute
people, Stadbroke." Lady Dora's earnest gaze rested on his face, willing him to agree with
her.

"I know it; I must believe it," he said. "But I shall investigate. First I will see this
tradesman at the Afrique. It occurs to me that he may be the same Mr. Harold I encountered at
the school on Boxing Day. I shall not be surprised if he is. But if so, Portia Crossmichael
purposely misled me, several times. I warned her that I would accept nothing less than complete
honesty."

"What will you do then? Remove the girls?" Lady Dora was moving away, back to her
other guests.

Stadbroke knew she would speak to every one of the company in order to help salvage
the reputation of Mansion House Establishment.

"I shall go to Hornsey and speak with Miss Crossmichael", he said. "I don't know what I
will do about the girls; their happiness will decide my actions. And it will depend if Portia will
be candid at last."

The first pupil was withdrawn two days after Portia had gathered her students together.
Now two letters sat on the blotter before her. She called "Come" in answer to a knock on the
door, and revealed a face she knew was tired and drawn to Heloise.

"You look as exhausted as Caldwell. He does not sleep, I think." She sank down in the
straight chair before Portia's desk.

Portia regarded her friend with compassion. "You are weary too. It is a terrible thing that
your engagement--such a joyous time--should be overshadowed by such unpleasantness."

"Bah, that is nothing to the anguish you suffer. That this
calomnie
should
endanger all your good work, and your livelihood, it is a crime. Portia, what will you do, if it all
fails?" Heloise whispered the last question.

Portia stared from the windows onto a hoar-frosted garden. Every detail of every plant
was enlarged, enhanced and invested with wonder. The labyrinth was outlined with silvery
magic. Any other time the view would have delighted her. Today it broke her heart, for what
if--perhaps in short months--she should never look from these windows again.

"I have not thought. I do not know," she answered her friend slowly. "I cannot--will
not--envision the possibility. I can only contend with one day at a time." She gestured to the letters
before her, before picking one up and breaking the seal. She unfolded it slowly, feeling that the
news it must contain could attack her physically.

"It needed only that. Here is another withdrawal. First Lady Sarah, now Miss Spofforth.
Her parents are arriving tomorrow to remove her from our contaminating presence." She thrust
back her chair forcefully and rose to pace, long fingers pressing her temple, where a permanent
pain seemed to have taken up residence. "Well, we refused to pay, and told Caldwell's father to
do his worst. He has done it, and is more successful I think than he could have ever imagined. No
one will listen to me, or believe me; I shudder to think of the gossip in Mayfair."

"Those who know you have listened and believed implicitly. You have the support of
every neighbour, every true friend is your champion. The idea of immoral behaviour between
you and Caldwell is laughable. You are more truly siblings than many I know joined by blood.
And my engagement to Caldwell is becoming more widely known."

"My detractors will see your betrothal as a feeble distraction from the truth." Portia drew
out the words with painful intensity.

"Well, they shall have me to deal with. I marry no woman's leavings; if I did not know
Caldwell to be honourable, upright, and true I would not allow him into my presence, much less
my daughter's life."

Portia gazed at her friend with grateful attention. "I do thank you, Heloise. You are my
prop and mainstay. I don't know what I should do without you. Lady Dorothea Lanark did write,
promising her support. Perhaps she has been able to effect a sea-change of opinion." She
managed a travesty of a smile.

"And Lord Stadbroke?" Heloise rose and made for the door.

Portia knew that the hour was closing in on her friend's next class. "Nothing. I have
heard nothing from him and his daughters are keeping their own counsel," she said briefly.

Heloise slipped away, leaving Portia's thoughts to dwell on the Perringtons.

* * * *

Ingram Perrington's mind was on her, or at least the situation, at the same time. As he
strode through a chill and lowering day towards Albemarle Street and St. James, Ingram recalled
the letter he had received from his daughters just that morning. The missive had been full of
indignation, and a complete report of the calumny visited upon their school. There was no hint of
distress, but only wrath and a bloodthirsty desire for revenge on those who slandered their
beloved Miss Crossmichael.

He rather thought he might be able to provide them with the vengeance. His actions
would be dependent upon what he found at the Afrique Coffee-House.

There was no crowd of curious on-lookers when he arrived before the ill-painted
façade of the Afrique. The place was typical of its sort, a coffee-house that had seen
better days and a more numerous custom in the previous century. Still they prepared a fine coffee
and were patronised by a mixed company who were devoted more to the stimulating drink than
to any political party, stratum of society, or school of thought.

Perrington recognized one or two faces as he entered the lamp-lit interior, and greeted
them circumspectly. He quickly located his quarry on a bench toward the north end of the large
room near the fire. Only one or two well-dressed gentlemen were seated with him. Ingram had
hope that whatever the extortionist's object, society was not overly interested in his tales.

He caught sight then of the man's unlovely countenance and indeed, it was the fellow
who had been made known to him at the Mansion House Establishment as Mr. Harold, the
butcher. A slow and righteous anger directed at Portia for her lies began to burn through
him.

The two gentlemen with Harold stood and withdrew to one side as Ingram strode up.
"What is your real name?" he snapped.

The man rose. "Harold Dent at your service, me lord. It is Lord Stadbroke is it not? And
you have three daughters in that benighted establishment. Have them out, my lord, have them
out."

Ingram ignored the unwelcome instruction. "Harold Dent? Then Caldwell Dent is your
son. And Miss Crossmichael?"

"My step-daughter, my lord, may God forgive me. Her mother I married in haste, hoping
to give my little son a mother, but the girl--Portia--was ever a conniving, malevolent wench. She
led my poor boy astray, my lord--"

Dent was halted mid-sentence by the strangling grip Ingram took of his neckcloth.
"Then why didn't you send her away, sometime over the twenty or so years of your
acquaintance? Why not take action when you first suspected something amiss? Why wait so long
to make public their sins? Has Miss Crossmichael not run this school these seven years or more?
Caldwell Dent has been teaching there five or so years, has he not?"

They were drawing a crowd now; the landlord was pushing ineffectually from the far
end of the room, the waiters formed a semi-circle about the pair.