The Education of Portia (29 page)

Now she must learn to live with love unrequited. To live without them all.

* * * *

In the end, Stadbroke took his daughters back to London before they all departed for
Lincolnshire. They had need to send for Miss Thripton and arrange for the Hill Street house to be
closed for the present. He had business to attend to and Parliamentary matters to put in hand.
And one of his first duties was to speak with Francis Lanark.

Ingram ran him to earth at White's. At the sight of him, Lanark rose and said, "Where
have you been?"

"To hell and back," Stadbroke responded grimly. With a word to a hovering waiter, he
ordered a bottle of Madeira and urged Lanark to retake his seat. In a few succinct sentences he
outlined the horrors of the past week.

"Good God!" the other man exclaimed at the end of the recital. "I am so very relieved
your daughters are unharmed. Harold Dent was a nastier villain than we first suspected, eh? And
the magistrate agreed with you?"

"Reluctantly. I urged him for the girls' sake not to bring the matter to trial, or the
inevitable execution for kidnapping. Dent remains in custody of the court until he is transported,
unofficially." Ingram swirled the wine in his glass. A gentleman of their acquaintance made to
approach but was warned off by Stadbroke's curt nod.

"You have done Miss Crossmichael and Caldwell Dent a favour by not pursuing the
matter. The whole affair will scarcely make a ripple in the gossip stream and Mansion House
School will be untouched. How is Portia?"

"I am not interested in doing Portia Crossmichael a good turn. Is that all you can
ask--how is she? I have no interest in her, I do not care whether she is well or ill. She is the author of
all this." Ingram found it difficult to feel convinced of his own words.

"I disagree with you there, my friend. I'd say she's been buffeted pretty severely by the
winds of misfortune. She didn't plan for her step-father to attempt to ruin her business. She did
not look for one of her favourite pupils to be kidnapped. If it comes down to it, she did not ask
for your daughters to attend at her school. It was your actions that led them there."

Stadbroke was effectively silenced for several minutes. He disliked to hear his own
thoughts repeated aloud. Then he rallied. "She told me Dent was her brother. She told me
nothing was wrong."

"And why would she confide in you? She did not know you except as an indifferent
father looking to store his daughters somewhere out of his way."

Ingram's temper fired. He set aside his glass and rose. "You and Dora have been Portia's
champion from the beginning. I'll listen to no more of it. I merely thought to keep you informed
and now I'll be off. We will return to Stadley Court so soon as I can put my affairs in order."

His friend turned conciliatory. "Let's not part in anger. It is true we have supported
Portia Crossmichael unreservedly. But Ingram, she's a good woman, and I think you care for her.
Don't allow pride to turn you from a future that you and your daughters richly deserve."

Stadbroke rose. "I cannot think that a delusion of intimacy and a hint of rapport are the
basis for a future relationship. No. My daughters and I will return to Lincolnshire. We would be
happy to entertain you there anytime you care to visit us." With only a few more words, he took
an affable leave of his friend, vowing privately to avoid society and concentrate on business
matters for the remainder of his stay in London.

His affairs took him three weeks to organize.

His daughters recovered their spirits in that time. Miss Thripton arrived and took them
in charge, but he spent part of every day in their company. They talked, incessantly it seemed to
him, of their time at the Mansion House Establishment, but they seemed to feel no lingering
shadow from their experiences. Even Penelope, sleeping for the time being with Melicent, had
no excess of disquiet or unease.

She poured out the full story of her adventure to them all as she sat on her father's knee
in the drawing room of the Hill Street house one evening. The windows overlooking the street
stood open, admitting all the noise of a Mayfair evening, but also a spring wind. The rain and
chill of March had given way to the soft air of April and the scents of chestnut trees, wisteria and
lilac in bud vied with the less savoury scents of the city.

"We were playing at fox hunt, my friends and I," Penelope said, bouncing on her father's
knee. "I was the fox. I ran into the hawthorn wood, and they would not follow. They hated the
thorns. I told them if you are rethpectful of them, they do you no harm. They did not come, but
Mr. Dent did. Mr. Harold, that ith. I recognized him from Twelfth Night. And he said he had a
kitten that he wished me to have."

Ingram closed his eyes, speechless with remembered terror of the horrors that might
have been.

Unconscious of his anguish, the child continued, "I walked with him for a little, but then
I decided I wanted to go home to Miss Crothmichael. And he would not allow me. And then I
thcreamed and kicked him, and bit him too." She paused relishing the memory. "Only hith wrist
was dirty." She stuck out her small pink tongue in remembered disgust.

Sabina and Melicent giggled, but meeting Miss Thripton's sympathetic gaze, Ingram had
no inclination to laugh.

"He put a blanket over my head then, and next thing I knew we wath at the hut. I was
hungry so I had bread and cheeth, ever such tasty cheeth. And Mr. Dent said I should go to sleep,
next the fire." She leaned her curly head against her father's shoulder and he tightened his arms
about her.

"I thought I might escape, but I went to thleep, and next morning I saw a latch on the
door, ever tho high up. And then we played at
vingt et un
and picquet. Papa, he does not
play even tho well as I. And Melicent says I am rubbish at games of chance." She stuck her pink
tongue out at her sister.

Melicent, leaning against Sabina's shoulder, did not retaliate.

"And then you came, Papa, and Ruff, and Mr. Dent. I thought Mr. Harold would fight
or, or, fuss, but he just theemed to fold up, rather. I was every so glad to see you, Papa, and Ruff,
and Miss Crossmichael, and Mel and Sabby." Her piping voice trailed off.

Ingram realized she was very near to sleep and that his older daughters were heavy-eyed
as well. They were content then to be sent, in Miss Thripton's care, to retire in their fine new
bedchambers.

He remained in the drawing room, pouring himself out a glass of wine, and moving to
the window to stare into the street below. He would be glad to leave London, he realized. It had
lost its charm for him; its delights were nothing compared to the joy of his children's company
and the thought of home, of Stadley Court.

The recent events gave him, he decided, more sleepless nights than they gave his
daughters. Those events, combined with Lanark's words, caused him to consider with exhaustive
attention and meticulous consideration all that had passed in the last four months. His
conclusions were not altogether happy. Since the acrimonious parting with Portia, he had been
conscious of a heaviness of spirit that all the logic of his temperament and all the righteous
nature of his bitterness could not assuage.

Lanark said he cared for her. That was nonsense of course. He would admit to lusting
after her, but he had been mistaken about any deeper affection.

He did miss their fraught encounters, and he had now come to realize that she had never
lied to him. Nevertheless any relationship between them had been doomed. The circumstances of
their acquaintance had been tainted by the unnatural events caused by Harold Dent. Whatever
they had in common, whatever they might have enjoyed together would never be enlarged. His
feelings were hampered by his disappointment, his regret. He could not doubt that she had done
her best to protect his daughters. But it had not been enough, and they had been in danger
because of her and her school. His unruly emotions told him that he must hold that against
her.

Setting aside his wine, he took himself off to bed.

The next morning when he entered the breakfast room, very little rested, he surprised his
daughters in the midst of writing a letter. They looked up at him with varying expressions of
guilt.

He seated himself at the head of the table and surveyed the tempting dishes laid out with
little interest. "Why the apprehension, my dears?" he asked, a weak attempt at
light-heartedness.

"We are writing to Miss Crossmichael," Melicent said with a touch of defiance.

"I see." Ingram could think of nothing else to say.

"To thay good-bye," Penelope added.

"And to thank her, for all her guidance and kindness, and her affection." Sabina dipped
her pen in the inkwell, and continued to write. "It was not her fault, Papa, none of it. She owed
her loyalty to Mr. Caldwell Dent; she could scarcely order his papa--her step-father--from her
premises. And when things went terribly awry, she tried so hard to repair them. The school is all
she has; she was right to try and protect it."

"Not at your expense," Ingram growled, aware that he no longer believed in his own
indignation.

"She would never have endangered us, or any pupil," Melicent idly picked at the neatly
hemmed edge of the white damask cloth covering the table. "She never thought that Mr. Dent's
father could be so very bad. She never thought ill of anyone, really."

"And Mithter Harold Dent was not so very bad--except at games of chance. He
apologized for stealing me and assured me he would not hurt me. He only wanted to frighten
Mith Crothmichael."

"Well, he frightened me." Ingram tried to summon his outrage to bolster his stern
demeanour before his children, and failed.

"Do you forbid us to write to Miss Crossmichael, sir?" Sabina asked.

"No... No of course not." Ingram thought that he should like to write to her himself. But
what could he say that would put right the remarks he had flung at her at their last meeting? No,
better to leave well enough alone.

"Oh Papa, Mr. Dent--Mr. Caldwell Dent--still has our portrait!" At Melicent's
exclamation, three gazes fastened on him. "May we stop for it on our journey? Please? Does not
the North Road go closely by Hornsey?"

"He may not have finished it," he prevaricated, gulping a mouthful of hot coffee.

"He has. He said he had finished the very day Penny was..." Sabina clearly chose not to
speak of her sister's disappearance. "Oh please, Papa, we must have our portrait."

"It might upset Penny to return there," he said.

"No, Papa, it won't. But it would upthet me not to have our picture," Penelope assured
him.

Ingram could not hold firm against the pleading in all three pairs of eyes. "Oh, very
well," he said. "We will stop briefly on our way from the city, day after tomorrow. I shall be out
this afternoon but I will be home for dinner." He rose without eating anything and caught an
exchange of conspiratorial glances between his daughters.

"Mind Miss Thripton, and finish your packing," he admonished. "No nonsense."

"Yes, Papa," the young ladies chorused.

* * * *

Portia couldn't forget Ingram Perrington... Couldn't forget his strong arms holding her
close, and his warm mouth coaxing hers to life. The memory of their tart exchanges of opinion
and their tentative affections would never leave her. He had given her a glimpse of pleasure, of
partnership, of passion and of family. She hoped he had learned how precious was this last, how
priceless were his lovely daughters and how valueless life in society was compared to them.

She rose from her desk and shook herself.

For herself, she could not afford the time to remember. She had work, plenty of it, to do
and it was a good thing. She would be too busy to think.

With a view to the future, Caldwell and Heloise had set a date for their wedding and the
banns were to be posted that very Sunday. Portia suspected they had meant to distract from the
Perringtons' absence, but their happiness really only pointed up her own losses. There was no
doubt the changes caused by their marriage would mean a good deal of work.

There remained still the repair of the school's fractured reputation to complete. That
seemed, however, to be mending more readily than she had supposed possible. There were those
of course who--whether from indolence or ignorance of the rumours--had not concerned
themselves with their daughters' possible contamination. And there were those few who had
stoutly supported her and rejected all suggestions of impropriety. And now that Caldwell was to
be wed and removed from her sphere, there were those willing to say it had all been a tempest in
a teapot...something and nothing.

Whatever the reason, her enrolment was full again, the school was running smoothly
with the stalwart assistance of her staff. She should have been returned to content and
satisfaction.

That she was not she put down to Lord Stadbroke, and she condemned him for it. She
had had a letter from the girls telling of their departure for home, their delight in their return to
Lincolnshire, and their joy that their father was going with them. They had expressed a sadness
at parting from her.

Well
, she thought,
they will soon forget me
. The school had been a
brief interlude in their young lives, not altogether happy and best forgot.

She could not dismiss them so lightly. Never before had she become so attached to any
of her pupils. She could not decide whether it was their intelligence, their bright and lively
spirits, or their loving natures that had bound her to them, but there it was. As well as dismissing
their father from her heart and mind, she had also to forget those three delightful youngsters.

Again and again s was drawn to Caldwell's studio to survey the portrait that stood
finished on his easel. He, with his usual skill, had captured the viscount and his daughters to the
very life. Ingram and Melicent stared out challengingly with their so-similar dark eyes. Sabina
was thoughtful, her pretty head cocked a little in reflection. Penelope--darling Penny--was
laughing a little, her small face merry.