Petticoat Rebellion

When Miss Slatkin summoned one of her schoolmistresses to her office, the victim went trembling. Now, as Abbie Fairchild walked down the dim corridor to answer such a summons, she ransacked her mind, trying to discover how she might have displeased her employer. There had been an altercation regarding the quantity of paper used, but Slats, as her charges called Miss Slatkin behind her back, had already reprimanded her for that. Abbie was only a day mistress, teaching art to the young ladies at the academy five days a week. She consoled herself that if she were to be turned off, at least she had a home to go to.

Each morning at a quarter to nine, she left home and was accompanied the three blocks to the academy through the dangerous thoroughfares of residential Maidstone by a footman. At four o’clock, he was waiting to accompany her home. The income from her work, while negligible, gave her a modicum of independence. Of equal importance, it allowed her to escape for a few hours the stifling atmosphere of her uncle’s house.

Colonel Fairchild’s heart was in the right place, but his interests occupied an extremely narrow channel. And his interest was the battle of Mysore.

He knew it intimately, the way a clock maker knows the
workings of a watch. Abbie had relived that battle on the undulating Deccan plateau in southern India with her uncle so many times that she knew all the ins and outs of it. Countless times she’d been told how, while the English had been losing the American colonies, Warren Hastings—and Colonel Fairchild, of course—had kept the Indian empire intact for the crown. She was familiar with the limitations of the Treaty of Mangalore, which had eventually terminated the battle. And she knew as much about the cause of the strife, the wily Hyder Ali, as she knew about her hero, Leonardo da Vinci—in fact, a good deal more.

Half an hour after she entered Miss Slatkin’s lair, she emerged with an expression caught between a frown and a thrill of anticipation. The frown was due to her uncle’s habitual reluctance to part with her; the thrill was the prospect of a week at Penfel Hall. It would be a week in paradise! She had toured the great house three times with her uncle.

Her particular goal on the first visit had been the fabulous art gallery that held, among its myriad treasures, a painting of a fifteenth-century lady reputed to be an early da Vinci. It was on that visit that a chance remark of the guide told her of the da Vinci cartoons, which were, unfortunately, not on view to the public. These were preliminary sketches in pastel or charcoal on paper, some of which had eventually resulted in paintings, some of which had gone no further than the sketch.

She had written to Lord Penfel, asking for permission to view the cartoons. A month later his secretary, Mr. Singleton, had answered that his lordship regretted he could not oblige her, because the cartoons were too fragile to be handled by the public. A second request, written on stationery from Miss Slatkin’s Academy and signed “Miss Abigail Fairchild, Art Teacher,”
had been answered more promptly, but no more helpfully. His lordship was not at home, but the policy at Penfel Hall was that only serious artists were invited to view the fragile artworks. Although Mr. Singleton did not say so, she read between the lines that only gentlemen were serious artists. She would have claimed to be Thomas Lawrence if she were a man. As she was only a lady, she had regretfully given up applying, but she had not given up hoping.

And now her hopes were answered. She was to be at Penfel Hall for a week as a guest, and she would finally see those treasures—even if she had to steal the key and knock a guard on the head with a poker to achieve it.

Her uncle seldom surprised her, but on that fateful afternoon, he absolutely astonished her.

“Excellent!”
he cried, when she told him. “A week at Penfel Hall, you will enjoy that, Abbie. And it will just suit me. Major Thomas, my old army friend from India—we fought at Mysore together—has invited me to visit him in London.”
He gave her a warm smile and said foolishly, “You would be bored in London.”
Bored! How often had she urged him? But the thirty-five-mile trip in a well-sprung carriage only to see the great masterpieces of painting at Somerset House and the British Museum was not to be thought of. Nothing less than a resurrection of Mysore could accomplish it.

“It seems old Thomas is writing a book about the Mysore campaign and wants me to give him a hand,”
the colonel continued. “Thomas was not on the front line. There are a good many stories I can tell him. Oh, my, yes. I will never forget when Hyder Ali landed the first rocket in on us. It was like fire falling from heaven. I remember ...”

While Colonel Fairchild remembered his glory days, Abbie nodded and smiled and said “Oh, my!”
in all the correct places, and thought her own thoughts.

Miss Slatkin had explained that the visit was due to the annual spring holiday, when most of the girls would be returning home for a week. Lady Susan Anthrop’s family, however, were not at their ducal home, Wycliffe. They were visiting Dugal Castle, one of their other estates in Scotland. Miss Slatkin had naturally offered to allow Lady Susan to remain at the academy, but the duchess had other ideas. Her cousin, the dowager Lady Penfel, had invited Lady Susan along with “a few friends”
to stay with her at nearby Penfel Hall. Of course, one of their mistresses must accompany the young ladies. Miss Slatkin immediately chose Miss Fairchild as the most socially acceptable of her mistresses, and the likeliest to have suitable clothes.

“Her Grace perhaps hopes to forward a match between Lady Susan and Lord Penfel, but her timing is off,”
Miss Slatkin confided. “I read in the social column that Lord Penfel is on the verge of offering for Lord Peevey’s daughter. He is visiting her at Lewes. Just as well,”
she added, with a knowing nod. “I would dislike to see three of my girls pitched into that gentleman’s house if he were in residence. Quite a way with the ladies, one hears, and his mama, you know, is a widgeon. One could not count on Lady Penfel to keep him under control, and he is so handsome I make no doubt Kate and Annabelle would fall under his spell.”

Miss Slatkin kept close track of all the noble bachelors. It was a point of pride when one of her graduates landed a title, but it was not such rascals as the dashing Lord Penfel with whom she wished her ladies to be associated. Abigail had never seen Lord Penfel, though she had heard rumors of him from the older girls. She was happy to learn he would not be at the Hall to make access to the cartoons difficult.

Lady Susan had chosen Kate Fenshaw and Annabelle Kirby to accompany her. Kate was a lively girl who had made herself a great favorite with all the students. Annabelle’s papa was a wealthy brewer, second only to Samuel Whitbread in importance. As Whitbread was to porter, so Kirby was to light ale.

Lady Susan had five brothers. She often told Annabelle how much she would like the youngest, Lord Sylvester. It was generally assumed that Lord Sylvester would also like Annabelle’s fat dowry. Even a duke must hustle to see five sons profitably settled.

“What arrangements have been made for the trip, Abbie?”
her uncle asked.

“We will be leaving in Miss Slatkin’s carriage on Monday morning. Penfel Hall is only twenty-five miles away. We shall be there for lunch. Miss Spadger will be following on the public coach to help take care of the girls’
toilettes and so on. I shall chaperon them for outings, with Lady Penfel in charge. As Penfel Hall has such a famous collection, Miss Slatkin suggested I might give them some instruction on art appreciation while we are there.”

“It will be a nice little holiday for you.”
He reached for his well-thumbed diaries. “Meanwhile, I shall be giving old Tom a hand with his book. I have just been looking up my notes on Mysore. Tom would know nothing of the Treaty of Mangalore. He was only a lieutenant in those days. I see here I have the temperatures recorded. Eighty-nine degrees. Imagine fighting in such a cauldron as that! The perspiration was dripping down our faces and backs as if we were in a Turkish bath.”

Abbie mentally packed her trunk while he thumbed through his diaries, mentioning hellish temperatures, abominable food, illness, and the constant racket of gunfire and rockets.

The weekend was busy preparing for her uncle’s trip and her own. There was the laundering and packing to see to, along with the usual last-minute purchases of stockings, ribbons, and gloves. One did not visit Penfel Hall in soiled gloves. As well as her clothing, her art supplies had to be assembled. Her aim was not only to study the da Vinci cartoons but also to make copies of them. Only by attempting to copy did one learn the tricks of the masters. There was also a Chardin painting,
Girl with Rose,
she hoped to copy, if time allowed. Chardin portrayed a girl of perhaps twelve years sitting in profile, holding a rose. It was Abbie’s hope to become a famous portrait painter. Being a lady and living in a small town in Kent made the necessary contacts difficult, but if she could get a commission from Lady Penfel, she would be on her way to becoming a serious artist.

Her uncle’s carriage left home at eight o’clock in the morning. The discipline of rising early, practiced during his many years in the army, had stayed with him in his retirement. At nine o’clock, Miss Slatkin’s plain black traveling carriage with three trunks strapped on top drew up to Abbie’s front door. The coachman and one footman had difficulty finding a spot for Miss Fairchild’s trunk, but eventually got it stowed in the basket at the rear. Miss Slatkin, a famous skint, had not put herself to the expense of hiring four horses for the trip, and
she had made it plain to the coachman that he was to keep to a sedate pace so there would be no need to stop to change nags along the way.

The trip of twenty-five miles took three hours. It was spring. Fortunately, the weather was fine and the scenery beautiful. The green meadows were dappled gold with cowslips. Sleek brown cows, placid as statues, grazed in pastures, and sheep dotted the hillsides like gray boulders. As April ended, the orchards of Kent were coming into full blossom. It was enough to make Abbie wish she could paint scenery. The orchards flaunted their frothy white petals, delicately tinted with pink. Birds rioted in the branches, filling the air with birdsong.

“Isn’t it beautiful!”
Kate Fenshaw cried, leaning her head out the window. She had removed her bonnet to allow her black curls to wanton in the wind. Her dark eyes glowed with health and youth. “It looks as if the trees were hung with cotton batting.”

“It has been a late spring, and so the harvest will be late this year,”
Lady Susan informed them. Her elegant bonnet had not left her head, nor would it until she was inside Penfel Hall. Beneath the small brim, her haughty face wore its habitual expression of dutiful daughter, which consisted of resignation tinged with ennui. Her eyes were a pale blue; her hair blond, her features regular.

“At Wycliffe we have one hundred and fifty acres in apples,”
she announced. “I trust Beaton has had the smudge pots out to keep the buds from being nipped with frost at night.”

“I hate apples,”
said Kate, whose papa also had a large orchard. His wealth, however, accrued from his coal mine. She yawned into her fist, then brightened when she observed an inn some distance ahead. “Could we stop for some tea, Miss Fairchild?”
she asked. “I am starving.”

Lady Susan gave a damping frown. “Certainly not! Ladies are never starving. You may feel peckish, but never hungry. Young ladies in an inn unaccompanied! It would be improper.”

“We are not unaccompanied. We have Miss Fairchild.”

“Ladies do not enter a public inn without a gentleman’s escort.”

“Perhaps the coachman could come with us, or the footman,”
Annabelle suggested.

“They are not gentlemen, Belle,”
Lady Susan explained.

“Miss Slatkin said we should not stop en route,”
Abbie said, “but she has packed a bottle of lemonade, if you are thirsty, Miss Fenshaw.”

Four small glasses of weak lemonade were poured and consumed.

A few miles later, Kate stretched out her legs and wiggled her toes. “My bottom is
falling asleep. I want to get out and move. I shall ask John Groom to stop and let me walk beside the carriage. I wager he is not moving above two or three miles an hour.”

“We have gone sixteen miles in two hours,”
said Lady Susan, consulting her map. “We are going eight miles an hour.”

“We’ll never get there!”
Kate complained.

“We shall be there in slightly over one hour, barring accidents,”
Lady Susan informed her.

“Why don’t we sing, or play a game to pass the time?”
Annabelle suggested.

“Let us recite our lessons,”
Lady Susan said. Kate groaned. “We shall recite the kings and queens of England, beginning with the Norman invasion. In 1066, King William I, died 1087. From 1087 to 1100, William II. Then 1100, Henry I, died 1135. You continue, Kate.”