The Education of Portia (19 page)

Two weeks had passed since Dent's visit and January, with its chill winds and flurries of
icy rain and snow, was advancing relentlessly. Its darkness of mood reflected Portia's with
precision, and only the most steadfast will kept her purpose steady and her disposition equable
before her students and her employees.

Privately, she was consumed with worry. Harold Dent had taken forty of the precious
fifty pounds Stadbroke had advanced her. She struggled every evening with the accounts, paying
what she could to the most deserving or demanding of creditors, fearing for her future. When she
had purchased the school, it had taken all of her modest inheritance. The fees she received from
her pupils' parents covered the running expenses. Things were never precisely hand-to-mouth,
but her monetary affairs were always carefully balanced.

"Yes, I think Cal might be rather ashamed of his father." Portia tried to speak with calm,
to conceal rather than to lie in support of her step-brother. "He is so eager to impress you with
his suitability he is bound to err on the side of caution."

"He has little more persuading to do," Heloise admitted. Her pretty face was shy, but
glowing.

"Oh, my dear!" Portia was pleased to have good news amid her dreary thoughts and
complex planning.

"You must say nothing yet to him or anyone. I must believe Gavrielle well satisfied with
Caldwell as her
beau père
. Certainly, she was happy at Christmas with his
constant companionship of us. Her gift she liked very much, and I did not advise him on it, you
know. He seems content to be a father to my poor child, who is not so very young anymore. I
cannot like my Guy to be replaced in her life, but she has so few memories of him..."

"The decision has not been an easy one for you."

"It has not. Not least because the two of you are unhappy and have been since the
viscount and his family, and the senior Mr. Dent, entered our
milieu
. I have wondered
which arrival caused you more distress but I have come to no conclusion. There are many things
you are concealing from me."

"I am sorry, I truly am. Of the viscount, I will say nothing, c
e n'est pas
important
." Portia spread her hands helplessly. "For the other, yes, there is a problem. But it
is not mine alone to share. It does not alter the fact that Cal does love you, both of you. I know
he longs for a family circle of his own." Portia thrust away her own constant wish for a loving
family, and the increasing realisation that the Perringtons were the family she wished for.

"Then you should confide in me. And Caldwell should introduce us to Mr. Dent. What
is a family without the
grand-père
? No matter if he is humble."

"Cal must do things in his own time," Portia said, knowing her words were feeble.

"So he must," Madame rose. "And so must I..." On those enigmatic words, she gathered
up her books and, offering Portia a somewhat enigmatic smile, crossed the room to open the
door.

On its other side, hands raised to knock, were the Perrington sisters. They stood aside
for Madame Montlucon's exit, and then looked expectantly at Portia.

She sighed soundlessly, and bade them enter. While they did, she rose and lit a lamp or
two and the branch of candles on the mantel against the deepening gloom without. She had tried
to reason away her empathy for the charming Stadbroke family, had tried not to care more for
them than any of her pupils. She had not succeeded. They had become special, and she could no
longer deny it.

She loved these three girls with an unexpected warmth. Why, of all the girls that had
passed through the school, it should be this trio that caught in her heart she did not know. She
found herself wanting to watch Penny's artistic talent develop over the years, to guide Sabina
into her come-out, and to help Melicent to understand herself and deal with her formidable
intelligence.

That she could do none of these things, she was all too aware. If she dwelt upon the
matter, it would break her heart. Yet she could not suppress her emotions. She could, however,
still deny her feelings--whatever they were--for the viscount and she would, most fervently.

"What may I do for you, ladies?" she asked, her nervous fingers busy with her
chatelaine
.

Penelope was quick to the point even as she watched Portia's long fingers on the pretty
etui
. "Mith, will you come and see our portrait tomorrow, when Papa cometh for our
sitting?"

Portia forced her mind to equal agility. "I believe I have appointments with...with
tradesmen all the morning, my dears. It will not be possible. I have popped in to see the portrait's
progress, however; it is very fine." She could not tell them that she gloated over it; delighted in
each painted face, each nuance that her brother captured on the canvas. "Ruff looks amazingly
like, and Mr. Dent tells me he poses very well."

"He does," Penny was obviously eager to expand on the matter.

Melicent interrupted her. "But, Miss Crossmichael, you have not seen Papa since
Twelfth Night. He commented on it his last visit. Don't you like Papa, ma'am?" This was an
eloquent speech for Melicent, so reserved, so quiet.

Portia was confounded as to her response and she sought to avoid the question. "Sabina,
ring the bell for Massey to come make up the fire, will you, please? Melicent, draw the curtains,
the evening comes so early. And do sit down, girls."

She failed to distract her interlocutors. Penny and Melicent sat but she could see the
questions still in their youthful faces.

"You do like Papa, don't you, Miss?" Sabina crossed to the bell pull but did not touch
it.

"Of course I like your father. I like all the parents of my pupils. Everyone is pleasant,
conversable and kind." She tried for an authoritarian, remote tone.

"But our papa is special, Mith." Penelope melted her resolve with her innocent
earnestness.

"We should not object to a new mama, Miss Crossmichael." Sabina abandoned the bell
without exercising it.

Portia sought refuge in obtuseness. "Does your father have the intention to marry again?
How delightful for you all, I'm sure. Lady Mary perhaps?" She felt sickened by the thought.

Melicent eyed her with adolescent scorn. "My father would never marry a widgeon like
Lady Mary," she said. "And he has said nothing of his intentions. But we...we think he is
planning something. He asks ever such funny, offhand questions. Questions about the school,
about you. With such a look of--"

"Of intensity," Sabina supplied. "He is preoccupied, Miss Crossmichael, and quite
perplexing."

"Well, I think you should wait until he makes his wishes clear," Portia cautioned the
child. " It is inappropriate for you to speculate on his choices and decisions. I think we have
spoken of this before. You might be totally incorrect about the matter. And then how would you
look?"

A knock at the door gave Portia the release she needed. "Come," she called, trying not to
display her inordinate relief.

Caldwell opened the door, and she cast him a glance full of meaning. He raised his
brows at the sight of the young ladies, but said only, "Good evening. Cook is even now serving
up chicken with dumplings. I think you all should withdraw to the dining room."

The Perringtons made an orderly but concerted rush to the door and then to the
vestibule. Sabina closed the door on their farewells. There was a clatter in the hall that spoke of
the girls' dash to the dining room and their classmates' arrival from above-stairs.

"Thank you," Portia leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

"You looked in need of rescue, but you won't thank me when you hear why I have
come," her brother said grimly.

"More?"

"More," he confirmed. "I have just been in receipt of a note. He is staying at The Three
Compasses. And he wants fifty pounds."

"We shall have to refuse," Portia said. "You must tell Heloise the whole so she is
informed. I must tell the staff. Then we shall have to refuse to pay him further, and we must
suffer the consequences. This cannot go on."

"I cannot tell Heloise. I have reason to think she is smiling on my suit at last; the truth
could be the ruin of everything." Caldwell paced the room, his normally cheerful face drawn and
apprehensive.

"Better to build a relationship on lies? There is a happy thought. Stadbroke thinks me a
liar, Heloise might as well be gulled too." Portia thrust back her chair with such force that it
toppled.

They both stared at it. Portia was so seldom brought to abrupt actions that it discomfited
them both.

"What did the Perringtons want?" he asked after a moment of portentous silence.

Portia governed her sudden rush of wrath with stiff determination. "They wanted to
know if I fancied--at least I believe that is the vulgar phrase--their father. Oh, not in so many
words, but the intent was there. They think he means to marry again. How they can imagine that
he would ever find me attractive in any way, I do not know. Had they overheard some of our
conversations they would think differently." Almost she was talking to herself.

"I have myself wondered..." Caldwell was rash enough to say.

"Well, do not!" Portia rounded on him. "Your own liaison is confused enough. You need
not reflect on any non-existent relationship of mine. Lord Stadbroke remains one parent among
many, unremarkable, though irritating and over-bearing. I have no interest in him." Her voice
broke, to her shame. "Leave me be, let me think. Take my place in the dining room, and
go
away
!"

Caldwell seemed to take her at her word, starting for the door without hesitation. She
knew she had hurt and surprised, not to say horrified, him. Portia searched in vain for
conciliatory words. "This must end, Cal. Think on it. Think on telling Heloise, denying Harold,
and dealing with all the trouble that will ensue."

He opened the door to make his escape.

"Think on it!" she called as the door closed after him.

Portia raised up her chair and sank into it. With her elbows inelegantly upon her desk,
she sank her face into her hands and despaired.

* * * *

Ingram Perrington was very certain that Portia Crossmichael was avoiding him. All
three times he had visited the Mansion House Establishment in January the schoolmistress had
been notably invisible. His daughters had commented on it as though it might have escaped his
notice. They could not know that, after the fire and depth revealed by her kiss at Christmas,
Portia was far too often in his thoughts. She was, he worried, fast becoming an obsession with
him.

She and his daughters were not his only concerns at the Mansion House Establishment.
The mystery exposed on Twelfth Night by the arrival of Mr. Harold, the putative butcher also
kept his thoughts preoccupied. He did not for a moment suppose Harold to be butcher, or even
that he had been divulged the fellow's real name. There had been a scent of fear in the air upon
his arrival, quickly subdued by Portia's militancy. She had spirit, Ingram reflected, fortitude as
well as her other myriad attributes.

Even social events such as Lady Dartington's
salon
, at which he had just
arrived,
could not completely distract him. He did hope it would divert his thoughts.
Invitations to these
salons
had arrived each month in the past two years or so. From one
reason and another he had never before attended. But this evening, because he was without other
amusement and was unwilling to spend the evening musing unproductively on the people and the
activities at the Mansion House, he had determined to attend.

Ingram greeted his hostess and accepted her delight in his presence with appropriate
modesty. Gazing about the crowded drawing room, he spotted the reformer Jeremy Bentham and
the young scientist Michael Faraday, as well as several famous ladies among whom he
recognized Hannah More and, most unexpectedly, Sarah Siddons. Had he known Lady
Dartington could command such a diverse gathering, he would have attended upon her much
sooner. The room was like a buffet supper spread with interesting topics of discussion and
fascinating people to meet. And just as he approached a buffet, he wondered now where to
begin.

From the corner of his eye, as he surveyed the vast chamber, he spied a tall lady on the
opposite side of the room. He swung round the better to ascertain her identity. Yes, he was not
mistaken. Here, to his utter surprise, was the object of many of his waking thoughts and some of
his most interesting dreams.

He crossed the room as quickly as he could without making himself conspicuous, and
was bowing over her gloved hand before she herself was aware of his arrival.

"Miss Crossmichael, it is a pleasure to see you. I have inexplicably missed encountering
you on my visits to Mansion House, and here we meet unexpectedly." Ingram watched the play
of expressions cross her face. Her fine eyes revealed, in turn, dismay, consternation, regret and,
he thought, pleasure.

She belonged in such a setting, he realized even as he bowed over her hand. Her sharp
wit, her wide ranging opinions and well-educated intelligence could only add to such a gathering
of scholars,
litterateurs
, and intellectuals. He wondered how long she had been
attending Lady D's
soirees
, and again condemned his own dilatory participation. "Is all
well at the school?"

She visibly gathered her composure and with it an air of preoccupation. There were lines
of strain about her grey eyes, and her clear, pale skin held an ashen tinge, as though she had been
keeping late hours. But she said, "Oh, very well. Yes, indeed."

"Have you known Lady Dartington long?" He tried again to engage her attention. The
crowd surged about them in a mannerly fashion. Glasses of wine were being offered by discreet
footmen, and their hostess flitted about her guests, performing introductions, encouraging
discussions, and assessing the mood of the company. "She seems the perfect
cicerone
."