The Education of Portia (4 page)

He did not know how to prevent his daughters becoming images of those foolish
women. And he had had no intention of submitting to any more feminine persuasion. So he'd
come to London. He had bought a town house, furnished it to his own taste, and staffed it to his
own liking. He had accepted invitations, made himself agreeable to the
beau monde
, and
entertained himself as he wished. He had recaptured the youth he had missed through his
marriage at twenty and fatherhood at one and twenty. The past thirty months had been an escape,
a revelation and an education; he had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Now the girls' presence threatened his style of life. Oh, they were not close enough to
London to watch his movements from Watier's and White's to Manton's, Tatt's and Jackson's.
They were not in society so they would not know of his flirtations or his liaisons or his
apparently irresistible appeal to various ladies of the ton. Nor would they ever know of the
mistress he kept discreetly in a narrow house near Covent Garden.

But still they were close, too close to London. Their proximity discomfited him, caused
him to consider his actions. He felt guilty.

He wrote to them each week, addressing his letter to a different daughter each time, but
it wasn't apparently enough. Their letters were full of requests for his company. And he wanted
to see them...

Just not too often.

As well, they seemed to need his reassurance that he would not dismiss Miss Thripton.
Had Miss Crossmichael had anything to do with the girls' sudden worries? He had wondered
when it would occur to them that he might terminate the governess' employment. He would do it
too, if he was not so very certain that they would tire of the school and miss the Place. He'd sent
Miss Thripton back to Lincolnshire, but he'd made certain a generous retainer kept her in his
employ.

"Stadbroke?" The speaker's tone indicated that it was not the first time he had tried to
attract the viscount's attention. He was gentleman of medium height with fair good looks and a
pleasant, dependable air about him.

Ingram looked up from his contemplation of his brandy, to see his one trusted London
friend before him. "Lanark!" he exclaimed, "Good to see you. Will you sit down? Join me in a
drink?"

"Are you certain you wish my company? You looked miles away, and not just because
you chose this isolated corner of the club."

"No, no, I'm always glad to see a friend." Ingram's pleasure was sincere. Most of the
men he had come to know in London had remained acquaintances, their company enjoyed while
engaged in a variety of masculine pursuits. Only this one fellow had become a true friend, in the
way that his neighbours in Lincolnshire were his friends. He had met Lord Francis Lanark at
Manton's in the first week of his taking up residence in Hill Street and they had quickly formed a
bond that Stadbroke ventured to hope was lifelong.

He gestured to the waiter to bring another brandy.

Lanark drew over a leather-clad armchair to join him. "What's to do? You were certainly
lost in thought."

"M'daughters. They've come to school, in Hornsey." The words came out more doleful
than Ingram intended.

"Ah, Miss Crossmichael's establishment..." Lanark took his brandy from the waiter's
tray and leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh.

"Good God, how did you know?" Ingram's astonishment was genuine.

"Every parent of daughters knows of the Mansion House Establishment for Young
Ladies. It's a byword. If you want your daughters educated in more than mere accomplishments,
you send them to Mansion House. Dorothea's already considering when Genevra should attend,
and she's only seven."

"I'd never heard of the place, until my daughters started campaigning to attend
there."

"Oh but you haven't precisely spent your time in London talking about your children
with mothers and dowagers, have you? Opera dancers and gamesters tend to discuss...other
matters." Lanark's jest was without malice, but Ingram was stung to a quick response.

"I devoted fourteen years to my estate, my wife, and my children. I like discussing
other matters
." He knew his response to be defensive, and the fact irritated him.

"I had no intention of criticism," Lanark assured him. "You certainly missed out on all
the things most of us did in our salad days. You sowed no wild oats before you were wed. You
are entitled to sow some now, surely. I was merely pointing up the fact that you do not keep the
company that might have informed you of the elevated position that Mansion House School
holds in the opinions of the
ton
."

Ingram relaxed with a laugh. "That is certainly true. I just wish I knew why the girls
were so set upon attending the school. I'd rather they were safe in Lincolnshire, enjoying the
Place as I did in my youth."

"Do you wish them in Lincolnshire so that
they
are safe, or so that
you
are safe?" Lord Francis examined his brandy glass assiduously as he voiced the pointed
question.

Ingram acknowledged the hit with a wave of his left hand. He responded after only a
moment's thought. "Both, dear chap, both, I fear. What do you know of this Miss Crossmichael?
She seemed a calm, capable sort: not restrictive, I hope? I want my daughters to enjoy their
youth."

"Dorothea informs me that Miss Crossmichael is the personification of wisdom. The
young ladies which Mansion House turns out are paragons of every virtue, and well-educated.
And they regularly return to visit Miss Crossmichael because they adore her and have a
wonderful time in her establishment."

"Good God," Ingram blinked. "She seemed a cold stick, not the kind to inspire such hero
worship."

"Only seen the woman once, so I can't say. She has some sort of connection to the
ton
, attends the occasional
soiree
, though I've never spoken with her. But I trust
Dora's judgement. I think you may be comfortable about your girls. If she approves the woman,
it is good enough for me."

"Having met your Dora, I think I must agree. Her understanding is superior and I have
every faith in her discernment." A distant burst of laughter from the card room caught Ingram's
attention momentarily. He noticed his glass was empty and decided not to order another brandy.
He'd never been a heavy tippler.

"That is high praise from you. I have the impression that you do not hold women in high
esteem." Lanark seemed intent upon a serious discussion.

Ingram was loathe to consider his prejudices, but he could not deny his friend's
accusation. "I have found women to be manipulative, calculating and controlling. I spent years
being manoeuvred by tears, recriminations and reproach until I finally understood their methods.
When my wife died and then my mother, I determined never to submit again to petticoat tyranny.
I revel in my freedom."

"I thought so. There's a bet about the town that you are hanging out for a new wife."

Ingram snorted incredulously. "I hope you've put your blunt on the negative. Be damned
if I'll leg-shackle myself again. The girls are duty enough. They are in expectation of frequent
visits."

"A Sunday drive might be all that is required. They are kept busy, that I do know."
Lanark spoke with the confidence of a man whose progeny all were little more than infants.

"Possibly," Ingram said. Lanark did not know his children. Their demands were without
the subtlety of mature femininity but they were none the less determined. His girls were
straightforward and stubborn, and they wanted to have their way. "I wish you may be right."

Lanark seemed content to abandon his cross-questioning. "Are you attending at the
Castlereaghs' rout this evening? Do you fancy an amble over to Tatt's?"

"No, and no, I thank you." Ingram rose, anxious suddenly for more solitude. He softened
his abrupt departure with the promise of future meetings and made his way from the room with
the pretence of an important engagement. He gathered his beaver and his stick from the porter
and let himself out of the building.

Once standing on the doorstep of the exclusive club, he paused, however, and reflected
upon his destination. He had had it in mind to visit his mistress this afternoon, before he met a
few of his parliamentary colleagues to plan strategy for use when the House of Lords gathered
again in a little over a month.

The visit had seemed a good idea that morning. Clothilde was expecting him. Now with
his daughters crowding his mind, it seemed indefinably wrong to visit the woman he supported
in such style. Drat it, she was someone's daughter, someone's sister. And he didn't even know
what had driven or encouraged her to take up such a career; he had never asked. Had someone
neglected her, had her father abused or abandoned her?

He shook his head at his thoughts, and absently greeted acquaintances who pressed past
him to enter White's. He was an obstruction to the doorway, he finally realized, and set off down
the street. Clothilde was a Cyprian, he reminded himself, a high flyer; she had chosen her life.
But had she really
, his conscience whispered. He paused again, was buffeted by
passers-by, and withdrew to a shop wall to pull out his pocketbook and a small silver pencil. He jotted a
quick note excusing himself from Clothilde's company, and summoned a grubby urchin who
often hovered outside the clubs hoping for remunerative errands.

"Take this to King Street, Number 2." He pressed a coin into the grimy hand with the
note and manufactured a severe look. "I shall know if it is not received." The boy seemed
reliable, and he promised prompt delivery of the note. Ingram hoped the lad kept his promise, but
what did it matter after all? He was paying Clothilde to be available to him at his
convenience.

With his daughters in his thoughts, the arrangement did not seem as satisfactory as it had
the past two years.

* * * *

"I don't know how I shall be civil to the dratted man. He has not been near since he left
his daughters here nearly a month ago." Portia paced the length of her comfortable study,
pausing momentarily at the door to the terrace to watch the young ladies walking the labyrinth in
the weakening autumn sun. She scowled at the papers littering her well-polished desk. "Those
poor children confided that of the whole winter last year Lord Stadbroke spent no more than
three weeks with them at Christmas."

Her friend Heloise sipped her cup of tea. They had stolen a half of an hour between
classes to refresh themselves and prepare for their next lessons. She said, "That is more time than
most of the
ton
spends with their children. You know this, Portia, we spoke of it not so
long ago. Even if the children are in the same house, the parents rarely see them. A visit to the
nursery, a curtsy in the drawing room; if the child is very privileged, an hour before bedtime
perhaps a story. If the viscount did at Christmas as the children say, play with them, skate with
them, decorate the house and present them gifts, they are fortunate."

Portia misliked her friend's tolerant smile. "They have no mother, Heloise! And you
know there are parents who do things very differently: who think their children more than a
nuisance or mere continuance of a noble line." A frown creased Portia's wide brow.

"Why do you care so much about these children,
cherie
?"

"I care about all my girls." Portia plumped down in her chair, devoid of her customary
grace. Her equipage jangled as the keys clashed with her watch and
etui
. The skirt of her
dark blue dimity gown subsided in well-ordered folds about her long legs. She took up her own
tea cup.

"Of course you do," Mme. Montlucon soothed her friend. "But the viscount it seems,
scratches you the wrong way, despite you have seen him only twice."

"Rubs me the wrong way," Portia corrected. "Well, tell me I am wrong then to judge
him harshly. It is true I scarcely know the man. You must know more gossip of him; you know
tales of every member of the
ton
. Tell me what else you know of Lord Stadbroke and I
will know if I have misjudged him."

"Well...." Heloise made a great work of hesitation. "Only since you ask, mind." She
sipped her tea again thoughtfully. "He is very wealthy, our new client, with a fine estate in
Lincolnshire. A widower of some four years. The lady wife was a beautiful peagoose, though I
hesitate to speak ill of the dead." She crossed herself devoutly.

Portia snorted inelegantly. She knew her friend to be a stout Huguenot. "Someone of
your acquaintance had no such scruples!"

"True, true," Heloise nodded agreeably. "Your viscount never set a foot wrong, not to
his thirty-first year. He was a devoted son, a faithful husband, a doting father. He was rarely seen
in London, in fact. His estate is a showplace of modern agriculture and husbandry."

"Your sources of information spread their nets wide," Portia said, a sniff indicating her
superiority. She fiddled with her
etui
, opening the small case and removing and
replacing the scissors and the small pencil.

"And you benefit from it," her friend chided her. "Do you not? Or perhaps you wish to
hear no more?"

"Wretch, you know I do. I should like to believe that I listen so that I might better
understand my pupils. If I know their families, I will be aware of their challenges, surely."

"I think it may be of help,
cherie
. We shall believe it does. I know that you are
not simply interested in gossip of the viscount." Heloise grinned mischievously at her friend. She
finished her tea and set the delicate china on the polished surface of a nearby tripod table. "Three
years ago this Stadbroke visited London, bought a house in Hill Street. He left his daughters in
the care of devoted servants in Lincolnshire, and proceeded to become familiar with London.
Who knows what his goals are, but he is proficient in every sport, a sought after guest at any
gathering from a ball to a rout to a musicale. I told you this before. He is a friend of Scott and of
Constable, he may be seen frequently at libraries, booksellers and all the best exhibitions of art.
And he attends regularly in the House of Lords."