The Education of Portia (12 page)

She had half expected his arrival, but not so soon. He must have left the city
immediately upon receipt of Madame's careful note. Portia had hoped, irrationally, that her letter
would not reach him, despite the girls' evident need of him. She closed her eyes briefly on his
immaculate person. She knew all too well that her hair was coming down, curling out of her cap,
the pocket of the sensible apron she had donned bulged with fresh handkerchiefs, and that her
fingers were ink-stained from earlier signing Madame's impeccably penned notes to parents.

She swallowed the mouthful of bread and butter she had just taken and rose. "Lord
Stadbroke."

"Miss Crossmichael! Please take me to my daughters." The viscount brought with him a
gust of fresh, chill air, and looked inexcusably hale and vigorous.

"You have had our note."

"I have!" His tone was inimical.

"Then you will know this is a simple attack of feverish colds, a straightforward catarrh.
The children are not in danger, and we can better nurse them without the interference of
parents."

"In my opinion, Miss Crossmichael, a parent can never 'interfere' in their child's
well-being; it is a parent's right and duty to be involved in their child's care. If you refuse me access to
my daughters I will remove them to my Hill Street residence."

"
Bona Dea
, my lord, of course I will not refuse to let you see your daughters.
You must see my difficulty however. They are being cared for in a dormitory with ten other girls
in varying states of discomfort, undress and affliction. Other parents would rightly be offended
by your presence there."

The viscount was appropriately abashed. "Oh. Of course. But you misunderstand me. I
do not wish simply to see them. I am here to care for them."

Portia inelegantly goggled at him, bereft of speech.

"It cannot be that unusual, Miss Crossmichael. You cannot yourself know the concerns
of a parent, but one cares for one's children to the exclusion of everything else."

Portia found her tongue. "It is not only unusual, Lord Stadbroke, but in my experience,
unprecedented. However, far be it from me to interfere with your parental impulses. You have
not brought the hound?" She added the last with a momentary flash of apprehension.

He shook his head with a flare of amusement in his eyes even in the midst of his
concern.

She was certain her relief was writ large on her face. "Well then, grant me a few
moments if you will and I will make arrangements."

Portia let herself out of the room, and leaned back against the door she closed behind
her. Drat the man; she would grant him no admiration for his parental devotion. Now she had to
find a place to put him so that he could help care for his children. There really wasn't a spare
room in the house, but one guest bedroom kept for the male teachers in the event that they had to
stay over night. It was next to Caldwell's chamber and would do very well for the viscount, but it
was totally unsuited for the girls.

The porter, handkerchief in hand, was watching her; Lord Stadbroke's portmanteau sat
by his feet. She pushed away from the door and gave Euston a faint smile.

Very well, there was only her own chamber; it would do. She could sleep in her dressing
room on a cot with a locked door, and his sick daughters could share her large bed while Sabina
slept at their sides in another cot. The viscount could make shift between the wing chair and the
guest bedroom. At least he had not brought the dog.

She went to seek out Mrs. Shap and effect the changes, and all was organized when she
returned to her study.

Before she could speak, the viscount was apologizing. "I interrupted your meal. I do beg
your pardon."

Portia was again bereft of speech. This kind thoughtfulness was unexpected; it did not
fit with her view of the man she privately called the venal viscount.

But he was continuing. "I thought it ought not to go to waste, however, so I ate your
gammon and a biscuit, having missed my own dinner, and I took a cup of tea." He appeared quite
serious and without regret. "There is a biscuit left for you."

Portia's overtaxed temper flared. Then she saw the twinkle in his eye, and she relaxed
into brief laughter. "Come along, my lord. I will show you to your room, and then into your
daughters' company."

Stadbroke carried his portmanteau above-stairs himself after advising the heavy-eyed
porter to look after himself. He was pleased to approve the guest chamber, and Portia was
altogether in charity with him as she ushered him--with some consciousness--into her own
bedchamber.

A quick glance about told her that Mrs. Shap had done an admirable job; personal
artifacts had been removed from the tops of her dressing-table and various chests. Her books and
her needlework had vanished, and an open door revealed that the press had been hastily emptied.
It was possible, she thought, that the viscount would never know it was her chamber.

Melicent and Penelope were tucked into the clean sheeted bed, and Sabina sat upon a cot
which had been moved in. The young ladies were waiting expectantly.

"Papa! Papa!" The cry rose from two clogged throats and Sabina hurried to throttle her
father with a desperate embrace. "We knew you would come."

Portia took only a moment to observe the reunion on the pretext of removing the empty
jug that had held refreshing lemonade. The viscount could not be faulted; he did not recoil from
his daughters' sneezes and coughs. He laid them down again with practised ease, and patted
Sabina's shoulder encouragingly. By the time she left the room, he was removing his coat and,
ignoring her departure, was bending to make up the fire.

* * * *

The week passed in a blur for Portia. Dividing her time between the young ladies who
were ill and those who were not was a tiring but necessary task. It gave her little opportunity to
wonder how the viscount was coping, but last thing before she slept she was ever aware of him
in the next room. His deep voice was quiet in reassurance, firm in discipline and, above all,
tender as he cared for his children.

So she was surprised when she encountered him in the kitchens at two o'clock one
morning.

"Do you never sleep, Miss Crossmichael? You check on my daughters at least three
times a day; I hear you on the floor above comforting the sick girls, on the floor below rallying
those in health, holding discussions with Mrs. Shap, Mrs. Yaxham, Miss Gosberton and Mr.
Dent."

Portia flushed. She was uncomfortably aware of the thick plait of sandy hair that hung
over her shoulder, and the soft slippers on her feet, not to mention her enveloping wrap of deep
blue challis. Her
deshabille
was echoed by his own; he wore but shirt and breeches with
a low shoes and a loosened neckcloth. He was attractively approachable and Portia had never
seen a man so comfortably attired and so unconcerned by his dishevelment.

"Needs must, my lord. But yes, I do sleep."

"In the dressing room--beside your bedchamber--which we have stolen from you. I do
apologize. When you intimated that my presence would be inconvenient I had no idea we would
roust you from your own refuge. Selfishly, I considered only my own needs." He ran long fingers
through his already disarranged hair.

"You were considering only your daughters' needs, and that, my lord, is admirable, not
selfish. And you may have noted I have no need of my bedchamber presently. I have time for no
more than sleep and the cot in my dressing room is perfectly adequate for that." Portia recalled
that she had come to the kitchen to prepare more barley water for the girls still sneezing and
coughing in the senior dormitory, and whisked herself into the pantry. Contrary to her wish, he
was still there when she came out again.

He was squeezing lemons. "Sabina has a desire for lemonade. I thought she would not
suffer the catarrah, she often does not, but she has been most uncomfortable. The other two are
nearly well though."

"I think we are nearly through with this miserable illness," Portia was measuring and
mixing her own brew, and was surprised to find the viscount at her elbow. She paused and
looked into his face. She found there an expression she had never thought to see, a
kindness--indeed a gentleness--that she thought could be her undoing if she was not careful.

"You work too hard," he said, touching the tip of one of those long fingers to the dark
circles under her eyes.

She ducked her head away, all too aware of the ravages of busy-ness upon her ordinary
features.

"I don't. At least not usually." The intimacy of the dim kitchen lit only by the banked
kitchen fire and a single lamp made her uneasy. No doubt the viscount was accustomed to
unchaperoned meetings in dark rooms--she tried to rally herself with venom--but she was not. "I
have a splendid staff and I rely upon excellent organization."

"You are too young for the burden of responsibility you have taken on."

"I am nearly nine and twenty, my lord." She edged away from him, but he followed her
until she was backed up against the cook's marble pastry slab. She wondered wildly if he was
missing his usual flirts, his female companions.

He brushed back the fine curls at her temple, and held her gaze with his own inscrutable
one. Then, just when she thought she bear the tension no longer, he turned away to his own
task.

Portia released a breath she had not realised she was holding, tried not to feel
disappointed, and could not conceal a slump of relief.

"You are not yet thirty and a female and you are providing the livelihoods of at least,
what, a dozen people--fifteen? As well as having responsibility for some thirty young women.
That is a significant burden, Miss Crossmichael, one most ladies of my acquaintance would
decline to undertake."

"The women of your acquaintance, my lord..."

"Ah, I think I have finished," he circumvented the hasty words on her tongue, by
preparing for departure. He poured his lemonade into the pitcher he had brought down from his
daughters' sickroom. "Good night, ma'am."

She saw nothing of him the following day though she kept a eye out for him on her trips
between the three floors of her small empire. She wondered what Heloise would say about the
kitchen encounter, but even as she wondered she knew she would never tell her friend. It was a
precious, private memory. She could pretend even that he liked her in those quiet moments, and
that she liked him, despite her odd panic.

Late the next evening she took herself to her study. She was tired but determined to
consider the stack of household accounts that had accrued during the busy days. She sighed and
took up the first sheet from the pile. She had had a brief conversation with Caldwell during a rare
shared dinner that day. He had heard from his father, and they discussed again the inevitability of
paying his demands. When the wave of ill health was over she would have again to confront the
threat of extortion that awaited them.

She worked for two hours or more, then rose and stretched her cramped shoulders. She
blew out her lamp and lit a chamberstick at the candelabra before extinguishing its lights. Soft
footed she checked the locks of all the doors--Euston the porter had taken to his sick-bed under
protest--and then, above-stairs, she reconnoitered the dormitories. All was reasonably well;
Matron was up tending one or two small sufferers but a whispered conversation indicated she
would soon retire.

Thankfully, Portia headed for her own cot, pulling off her cap as she trod the familiar
corridors. She passed her bedroom without hesitation and had her hand on the door which gave
onto her dressing room, when a soft sound behind her alerted her to another presence. She
whirled, sending her shawl and her skirts flying. She dropped the cap and her hand flew to her
throat.

The viscount stood closing the door to her bedroom behind him. "I am sorry. I would not
have startled you for the world," he apologized
sotto voce
. He was a little less
dishevelled this evening--his neckcloth was nicely tied and he wore a finely embroidered
waistcoat--but still with a casual and comfortable air.

She berated herself for her edginess, and relaxed, welcoming his presence. These
meetings, his presence, made her wonder if married life was like this: the comfort of having
someone about to share burdens, the unexpected visits, the companionship, the sharing of the
day.

Her mind wandered to the sharing of the night and she tensed again snapping at him.
"What can I do for you, my lord?" Even when she spoke she did not like her word choice. She
was such a spinster she did not even know what she could do for him--what his other women
did
for him. For the first time in an age vague longings awoke within her; longings that
she remembered recognizing long ago, during that single ill-fated season.

He seemed to read nothing into her words, though there was laughter lurking in his rich
brown gaze, dancing there with the reflected candle flames. "Nothing," he whispered. "I was
going to find my bed. My daughters have allowed me a little sleep each night at least. I was
longing for adult company earlier and looked in on you but you were deep in your work."

She could scarcely believe that she had not heard him, but supposed her weariness had
contributed to such preoccupation.

He bent and picked up her cap, holding it out then withdrawing it. He stretched out his
empty hand instead and withdrew the loosened pins from her heavy, coiled hair. It cascaded with
a susurration to her shoulders, her bosom and nearly to her waist.

She was immobilized, her lips parted on an astounded yearning. From some distant
place, she watched him transfer the pins to the hand with which he still held her muslin cap, then
she felt his fingers tangle in her hair. The intimacy of it was astonishing, the silence in the
corridor profound but for the sound of their breathing. His knuckles grazed her throat then his
hand slid under her hair to cup her head.