The Education of Portia (3 page)

"Oh yeth." Penelope's lisp seemed quite uncontrollable, sometimes much in evidence,
sometimes unnoticeable. She hurried to the door without requesting permission.

"May we be excused?" Melicent was the only one to recall her manners.

"You may." Portia watched the girls hurry out. Sabina followed her younger sisters and
closed the door carefully behind them.

She had poured herself a second cup of tea when the door reopened. Penelope's small
dark-haired head appeared around the edge. "If we are nearby to Papa though, surely he must
come, do you not think?" she asked.

"I cannot imagine that he would stay away," Portia said, her reassurance genuine. She
would herself see that the viscount visited his delightful offspring, if she had to.

* * * *

When the Perrington girls had been with her three weeks, Portia began to wonder if
indeed she would have to summon the viscount to visit his daughters. She mentioned the matter
at the regular Friday afternoon meeting of her teaching staff attended by the dancing master, the
local rector who instructed in Latin and religious studies, the arithmetic and natural sciences'
mistress, the long time needlework and pianoforte mistress, the languages' mistress, and of
course Portia's brother. All the young ladies of the school were encouraged to undertake quiet
pursuits overseen by the matron and housekeeper while their teachers held their discussions in
Portia's study.

"Does anyone know if the daughters of Lord Stadbroke have received a communication
from their father?" Portia asked. She looked at the paper before her upon which she had been
making notes. At an earlier meeting with her housekeeping staff, she had approved the purchase
of two new sets of linen and had informed the cook that though the students' dislike of mutton
was indeed reprehensible, they must replace mutton stew with some other dish. Just moments
ago she had sanctioned a new course of advanced mathematics which Miss Gamston highly
recommended. Her tidy handwriting recorded the details, but she was not aware of them. Her
attention was upon the failings of Lord Stadbroke.

Her staff rustled their papers and shuffled their feet but Madame Heloise Montlucon, the
mistress of French and Italian, was the only one who volunteered any knowledge of the matter.
"One of them has received a letter each week in turn. I believe it means a great deal to them; they
huddle over the notes with such eagerness. Gavrielle has had snatches of the viscount's tidings
related to her."

Madame, a widow of some five years standing with a daughter of twelve, was also
Portia's very good friend. She was a small, pretty woman of some two and thirty years, with
curling hair, a neat figure, close acquaintanceship with the
ton
, and a penchant for
gossip. Although an émigré of a dozen years, she had still a pronounced accent
and a habit of sprinkling her native language throughout her conversation.

"He should have visited by now," Portia said. "How are his daughters dealing with their
class work?"

There was a general agreement among the teachers that the young ladies were the equal
of, if not superior to, the other students.

"Very well, I think that is all for today then," Portia dismissed her staff with a vague
feeling of dissatisfaction. She rose as they did, and became aware that her brother and Heloise
showed no signs of departing.

Miss Gosberton--Portia's own teacher when she had begun to study at the school--turned
back at the door from the small crowd of masters and mistresses. "Oh, Miss Crossmichael, the
pianoforte needs tuning."

"Thank you, Ada, I shall send a note to our excellent Fishling. We cannot teach the
young ladies proper pitch if we cannot trust our instruments." She bent to add to the notes on her
desk, then moved to shepherd the stragglers out of the door. A sigh of relief escaped her as she
turned back to the two remaining.

"This viscount has you agitated,
cheri,
" Heloise remarked with curiosity from
her seat near the fire. "I can sympathize; he is very attractive. I was delighted to tour him about
the day he first visited. My correspondents tell me he cuts a great dash in town. The
ton
is wild for him: his fine house, his handsome horses, his charm, his dancing. He was from
society for years, immured in Lincolnshire, and is only recently returned. Shall we seek to
impress him?" She raised her dark brows in a distinctly continental inquiry.

From where he stood at the terrace doors, Caldwell Dent snorted inelegantly.

"We shall seek only to give Lord Stadbroke nothing of which to complain," Portia said,
with a snap. "It seems to me that he would have no hesitation in doing so. While I would
complain of him: his style of life, and his neglect of his children." She gathered her papers
together and tapped them to a tidy pile upon her desk.

"Neglect is a harsh word." Dent crumpled his own papers in his hand and crossed the
room to pause by Madame Montlucon's chair. "Madame M. is the only parent I know who sees
her child every day and that is because Gavrielle is right here in the school, her mother's place of
employment."

The French mistress rose and rapped his arm with a roll of documents she carried. "You,
sir, are impertinent! But correct. You know it is so, Portia. The children of England's aristocrats
and even its gentry do not regularly encounter their parents. And how should they? Those adults
are busy with all that is in the
beau monde
. You were part of that world,
cherie
,
do you not recall it?"

"I scarcely knew it, Heloise. I was hardly a part of it; I stalked its fringes. My uncle was
a Scottish peer; I only accompanied my cousin, his daughter, through her London season on
sufferance. She took, I did not. I suppose it is an enchanted world, but now I see those who suffer
for it. The Perrington girls long to see their father. He should be aware of it, but he is just another
arrogant aristocrat."

"Such venom,
cherie
. You sound like the revolutionaries I heard in my
childhood," Heloise said. "Did you meet the viscount during your season?"

Portia was appalled at her loss of composure. Now she had revealed to her astute friend
her disproportionate interest in Stadbroke and his children.

Caldwell gave her a moment's respite. He was struggling with laughter. "Portia, a
revolutionary? You know better than that, Madame M." He continued more seriously, "I can say
nothing against Stadbroke. He seemed a good enough sort when I met him on the steps."

"You met him?" Portia turned on her brother in astonishment.

"I did. Did I not mention it? We enjoyed a brief exchange of views. He has been vetted
by both Madame and me, Port; he is no ogre." Caldwell wandered to the terrace doors again,
stared at the increasingly sere garden, and came back to perch on the corner of Portia's desk.

"Just neglectful. Yes, I did meet him once in my youth; he has no recollection of it. I
shall not mention it to him, but I will demand his attendance upon those poor children." Portia
clung stubbornly to her annoyance.

Heloise regarded her friend with lively curiosity and something of perplexity. "Do write
to him then, my dear. I certainly would not hesitate to communicate with the viscount had I a
reason. But I shall go now to Gavrielle, so that she may not also think herself neglected." Heloise
fluttered her fingers in farewell to both sister and brother, and whisked out the door.

Abandoning her desk, Portia crossed the chamber and seated herself on the Sheraton
sofa which she had bought for herself on the first month her school had turned a profit. It had
been an extravagance that never ceased to please her. From it, she regarded her brother. She
strove to regain the serenity on which she prided herself.

"Do you suppose she truly finds Stadbroke attractive? Would she really welcome the
opportunity to become further acquainted with him, do you think?" Caldwell, who had risen on
Madame's departure, flung himself down again this time in a winged chair by the fire.

"I don't know, Cal. I shouldn't suppose so. You know she is very attached to you." She
smiled at the young man with whom she shared so many memories. They were not all pleasant.
"I would not refine too much upon it. You know Heloise loves to tease you, and me. Now, have
you any concerns about the week just past, or the one to come? Have you enough time to devote
to the portrait of Lady Mottingham?"

"Of course I do. You are ridiculously generous with me, you know that."

Portia did know it, but it was her pleasure to be indulgent of her step-brother. His
widowed father had married her widowed mother when Portia was but ten and Caldwell only
four. She had delighted to have a sibling, even without the relationship of blood, and through the
vicissitudes of life with a weak mother and a venal father, they had formed a close and constant
bond.

Caldwell had early showed signs of artistic talent and now at four and twenty he was a
talented portraitist. Portia was determined to give him every opportunity to develop his skill and
advance his career. She was happy to provide him with a home in return for the lessons he taught
in drawing and watercolour and astronomy to her students.

"You deserve every benefit I can bestow upon you," she said.

"Well, the least I can do is see off this viscount if he gives you any trouble!"

They grinned at each other in mutual charity.

But Portia returned to worry at the matter of the Perringtons. "I am overstating my
concern, I know it. But the girls are charming and they deserve his consideration." She became
aware that her step-brother was not listening. "Enough of Stadbroke however. I have known you
these twenty years and I can tell when something is bothering you. What has happened, my
dear?"

Caldwell sobered immediately, got to his feet and stalked again to the window that
overlooked the gardens. He stared again at the last bedraggled flowers and was silent for a long
moment. Then he turned and said, "I have had word, a letter, from my father."

Whatever she had expected, it had not been that. Portia goggled inelegantly at him.
"Step-father? But it must be five or more years since we have heard from him. What does he
want? Why now?"

"I do not know. I cannot even guess how he came to have my direction. But he wants to
meet with me, as I am 'his only son and therefore dearer to him than anyone on this earth'."
Caldwell paced the India carpet, his agitation evident in every tense muscle.

"That rings true of his hypocrisy. When?"

"He says he will write again. I can only hope he will not do so. I have no inclination to
attend him." Caldwell paused by the fire.

Portia was briefly silent, thinking anxiously. "I think you must if you receive another
communication, Cal," she said at last. "He might be ill, or in some difficulty. Despite his faults
he is still your father."

"His faults included unkindness to you, and your mother, and a near run thing with
dishonour for us all, if you will remember. I have little inclination to meet him."

She remembered it all too well, the slights and insults, the unhappy school vacations,
and the humiliation of Dent's slaps. Her attempts at protection of her mother and her step-brother
had failed miserably. "Still, I think you must. But you will do of course as you wish. You will
know what is proper and possible."

He cast her a quick smile that banished the frown lines on his forehead and made him
appear even younger. "You taught me what is 'proper and possible', Port. You are always so
equitable, and so wise. You have made good for all of those you employ, sister dear, and we are
as always your devoted slaves. You'll impress this viscount if you do not frighten him to death.
How odd that you have met him before."

"I wish you will forget that. I do not want to impress Stadbroke, except with his duty to
his children. And I cannot think that he will frighten easily," Portia said. "Why do fathers cause
their children so much misery?"

"I don't know, Port, but I shan't if Heloise will only consent to marry me. I shall be the
best of stepfathers to Gavrielle, and the most attentive of fathers to my offspring should Madame
present me with
un petit paquet
."

"You are so nonsensical, my dear! And you run ahead of yourself; best not let Heloise
hear you speak so."

"Life requires a certain levity, Port. You worry too much," Caldwell suggested as he
bent to pat her cheek before leaving her.

Portia, left alone, supposed that she did. But she was determined that Lord Stadbroke
would attend upon his daughters.

Ingram Perrington--Lord Stadbroke--was reflecting upon the same matter. He had
strolled into White's in a fit of abstraction, nodded to those of his acquaintance with distracted
courtesy, ordered himself a brandy, and sunk into a leather chair isolated near a fireplace that
remained unlit due to the recurrence of fine September weather.

What was he to do about his daughters? Now that they were installed close to London in
that damned school, he would have to visit them more frequently than he had had to last
winter.

Not that he minded. He loved his children. He could take them to Astley's and the
menagerie and the Panoramas and the wax works. Penelope and Melicent would enjoy those
activities, he was certain of it. But Sabina...Sabina was within weeks of her fifteenth birthday,
and the older his daughters grew, the less he knew what to do with them, how to talk with
them.

In truth, he wished that female children had not to become young women. He rolled a
mouthful of brandy over his tongue, and stared unseeingly at the uncertain oil painting of some
hunt that hung on the dark paper of the far wall. When his girls had all been under twelve he had
gloried in their company. They'd fished and ridden, laughed and talked, played at spillikins and
silver loo, solved puzzles and conundrums, and created tableaux and dramas. Then they had
gotten older, more like--at least in appearance--the women he knew. The manipulative, silly,
frivolous ladies who were his mother, his mother-in-law and his late wife.