The Education of Portia (18 page)

"You do so much for everyone, and so little for yourself. You have every confidence in
your abilities, and none at all in your personal attractions. Portia, you are a handsome woman,
perhaps not beautiful in the manner you believe you should be, but you have more lasting
qualities than simple prettiness."

Portia was horrified by the turn of the conversation. He seemed to know too well her
insecurities and her concerns. She tried again to pull away and he responded by drawing her into
his arms.

"Portia, be still, and be told. You are an attractive woman. Why my compeers don't
appreciate that, I will never understand. They look for superficialities I suppose. You offer true
gold," he bent his head, and coaxing her with a questing finger under her chin, pressed his lips to
hers.

Portia had been kissed once or twice, and assumed she had been found wanting as the
experiments had never been repeated. She had tried so hard. This time she did not try at all, but
followed her senses in appreciating his hard, yet tender mouth, and all the sensations it conjured
within her.

When he ended the kiss, his breath came quickly, and Portia stared at him, overcome by
a wash of desire and a surge of love. No, surely not love... Lust perhaps. She had known so little
of these emotions, how could she tell one from the other? She closed her eyes to will away her
confusion. "I should like to return to the drawing room, my lord."

"I should not," he said. "I should like to remain here and explore the interesting
possibilities we have just discovered."

That brought Portia to her senses and a quick flare of annoyance. "It was a kiss, my lord.
Nothing more or less, not a possibility at all."

"That's better. If we return to the drawing room with you all dreamy-eyed and
bruise-mouthed, everyone will know what we have been doing. The spark in those wide eyes will
convince them we have been at odds discussing gardening, nothing more."

To her horror, Portia began to laugh helplessly and continued to laugh as he led back
into the beguiling library and up the broad stairs.

"You are utterly without judgement and conscience, my lord," she accused when at last
she could command her voice to calm and quiet. She did not really believe her harsh words.
"You take your pleasures wherever you wish."

"And you take yours not at all," he said, ushering her with a flourish back into the
drawing room and into the conversations burgeoning there.

* * * *

On the sixth day of the new year, Portia with Caldwell and Helene at her side, welcomed
their pupils back to the Mansion House Establishment. The girls came in ones and twos at first,
and then in a flurry together, until the entryway was awash with portmanteaux and bandboxes.
Servants scurried back and forth, and among them were housekeeper Mrs. Yaxham and matron
Mrs. Shap directing, chivvying and organizing.

Into the mayhem another knock at the door heralded the arrival of Lord Stadbroke,
dressed in a caped greatcoat and a scarlet muffler, and his three daughters bundled in warm
cloaks with velvet bonnets and fur-lined velvet muffs. The girls hurried to Portia, all talking at
once, their young voices high with excitement. She responded as best she could with her
attention demanded a dozen different ways by parents, servants and students. Gradually they
wandered away greeting their particular friends, chattering, exchanging holiday stories. Only
then did the viscount stroll up to bow over Portia's hand, shake her brother's and incline his
handsome head to Mme Montlucon.

Portia had not seen him since his dinner party and the fatal kiss. She had had time to
consider and reconsider all that had taken place and all that had been said, and she had come to
the conclusion that the entire matter had been foolish in the extreme, unworthy of further
consideration. She did not allow herself to dwell on the delectable qualities of that kiss or the
tenderness, and possibly the emotion, that it described. Instead of considering the intimacy of
that moment, she had decided that the viscount should be met with particular formality and
unbending punctiliousness.

She greeted him politely, with a distinct lack of warmth, even as his well-shaped lips
attracted her gaze. She shook herself mentally. "You had a pleasant holiday, I hope, my lord?"
Her tone, which hoped nothing of the sort, was at variance with her words.

His lazy grin indicated he was all too aware of her turmoil and the reasons for her icy
decorum. "I think my daughters enjoyed themselves, and that was the intent of the exercise. The
twelve days of Christmas went too quickly, and it is Twelfth Night, Miss Crossmichael. I see you
do not follow tradition and remove your decorations on the twelfth." He waved an indolent hand
at the fir boughs, holly and ribands that still adorned the mantel, the door frames and the
pictures.

"The young ladies appreciate the colour and warmth, I think," she replied aware of the
stiffness of her response. "It makes their return less formidable, more comfortable. They will
help us remove them later in the week."

He nodded indifferently. "Had you a refreshing break?" he asked suddenly.

"I?" Portia, taken aback, pretended to consider deeply. "It was quiet, my lord." She
looked about her, seeking some reason for escaping his company. None immediately offered
itself. The young ladies all had put off their cloaks and redingotes and were instructing servants
about their trunks and baggage and bidding farewell to parents.

"I have your first term invoice prepared, Lord Stadbroke, if you will wait for a moment."
She made for her study to fetch the accounts.

His laugh and his reply were interrupted by another knock at the door. It resonated
through a sudden silence in the vestibule, like a knell of doom. Portia was overtaken with a
premonition of disaster. She looked over her shoulder. The viscount and all the young ladies
remaining in the entry had turned to the door. Caldwell and Heloise were frozen in quiet
conversation near the door of the dining room. Even the servants carrying trunks to the
dormitories seemed to halt their upward progress laden though they were.

Euston the porter opened the door and in the aperture stood Harold Dent.

Portia had never fainted in her life, but she wondered now if the odd sensations she was
experiencing were precursors of that event. A grey shade came over her gaze, a sinking sensation
clutched her stomach, and she put out a hand rather blindly.

It contacted the viscount's arm, and before she could withdraw it, he had placed his own
hand over it. She could not imagine how he had so quickly crossed to her side.

Her weakness passed, and she dared to flick a glance up to the viscount's face. He was
gazing with keen curiosity at the newcomer.

She transferred her own gaze reluctantly.

Portia would have known him anywhere. Caldwell's father had not changed overmuch.
Only, as Cal had said, he was older, heavier and more dissipated. Otherwise he looked like a
prosperous tradesman, with stout boots, a frieze greatcoat and a shallow-crowned beaver set
firmly on a round head upon a thick neck.

Caldwell's similarity to his father began and ended in their comparable height and
curling brown hair. The son's features had all the character and intelligence which the father's
lacked and where Caldwell's eyes were well-opened and frank, Harold Dent's were narrowed and
never met another's, but constantly shifted.

Portia saw the cold assessment in that wandering gaze. Harold Dent was noting the
opulence or simplicity of each fitment and piece of furniture in the entry. He was computing the
number of servants, the affluence of the students, calculating the cost of the carpet, the value of
the paintings. She was certain he had noted her hand on the viscount's sleeve, and his son's
proximity to Mme. Montlucon.

When little Penelope Perrington ran suddenly to cling to her father's leg, Portia would
have given anything to shield the child from that narrow, predacious gaze.

Portia took Penny's approach to her father as opportunity to free herself from the
viscount's grasp. Caldwell seemed frozen with dismay and she disciplined herself to get them out
of this appalling mess.

She stopped a maid who was passing. "Massey, please see Mr. Harold to my study." She
was pleased that even in her shocked state she had the sense not to use the name that would
identify his relationship to her brother. Now that she had moved, had spoken, she felt a ferocious
strength flood her. She felt like an Amazon, a Boudicca, and in that moment was utterly fearless
in her anger. She took a step toward the man that had blighted her youth, daring him to destroy
her before all the assembled company.

Dent seemed to wilt before the force of her personality, and he did not protest as the
maidservant led him away. Caldwell and Heloise were galvanized to action, though Heloise was
looking perplexed. Portia's staff--aware of their mistress' distress perhaps--threw themselves into
clearing the entry hall of people and paraphernalia. No one else seemed to notice anything amiss.
What seemed like eons of time to her had been the passage of mere seconds.

Parents took their leave and their daughters drifted up the stairs or into the parlour. The
last of the baggage disappeared to the dormitories, and the housekeeper and the matron removed
to their more usual apartments. Caldwell ushered Heloise, who was cross-questioning him in an
urgent undertone, up the stairs with Gavrielle trailing behind them.

Portia stood silent, watching the activity around her, automatically responding to
farewells and issuing instructions. She noted the Perrington girls embracing their father, heard
his assurances that he would call upon them within a se'enight. Melicent and Sabina headed
above-stairs and Penelope ran off with one of her cronies.

Portia spared a moment's concern for her brother, but was left alone with the viscount,
who had resolutely ignored all attempts to dismiss him.

"Who is Mr. Harold?" he asked bluntly.

She put her hands behind her back so that their shaking should not be evident.

"A...a tradesman." She crossed her fingers childishly against the lie.

"An uncommon nasty looking one. What does he purvey?"

"Ahh...meat." Portia momentarily thought she might shriek at him to go away. All her
power had left her, and she was weak and in an agony of worry. "He is a...a butcher, and I have
recently advised him that we no longer require his services. N-no doubt he wishes to argue the
point." Her voice strengthened as she spun the tale, and she could at least meet his gaze.

His own look was quizzical, kind and concerned. "You allow your tradesmen the front
entrance?" he asked. "No, never mind. You need not extend your powers of invention further.
But know this...since our second meeting I have been aware of some concern underlying your
every word and action. And I mean to get to the bottom of it before it harms my children, or
you."

As he stalked to the door, he drew out his purse. "Run along and fetch my reckoning. I
shall give you fifty pounds on account...in case the butcher should want paying."

He was pleased to be sardonic, Portia thought, but she found herself obeying. She
returned quickly and coloured with embarrassment as she handed him the folded statement.

After a brief glance, he exchanged it for several banknotes. "You shall have the
remainder on my next visit." He caught her hand. "I have demanded honesty of you before, and I
think I still am denied it. But things have changed, have they not? And you should know that if
you have need of me, I should be only too glad to be of service to you." He released her abruptly
and bowed.

He wheeled and the porter opened the door. It shut with a click upon the viscount's exit.
Portia sagged briefly, then straightened her shoulders and managed a wobbly smile for the
porter.

Now she had to deal with Harold Dent.

Caldwell came down the stairs, reluctance and discouragement in the slump of his
shoulders and the heedlessness of his steps.

"What did you tell Heloise?" she managed to ask, putting the viscount out of her
mind.

"That our visitor is my father, as she had immediately suspected. Nothing more. She
wants to meet him." He snorted. "As if I would permit it. I have told her she must settle the
children; that there will be another opportunity."

"You should have told her of his purpose. What use is secrecy? It will only separate
you." Portia felt her words made no impression on her brother. "What if he is come to expose us?
What if he wants more money? I thank God Stadbroke has given me this." She held out the notes
with a shaking hand, "But we have expenses. I can afford to give Dent next to nothing. Dare we
tell him to do his worst?"

"We cannot!" His face held the imagined horror of the scandal his father's falsehoods
would create. "It will be very bad."

"It will, and I have not the courage." Portia thought of Stadbroke's scorn and distaste.
"But I see no other solution."

"Not yet." Caldwell offered his arm. "Let us hear what he demands first."

Portia took her place by his side, and set her cold hand upon his arm. They crossed the
entry to the door of the study and, after exchanging a despairing glance, they entered.

Heloise joined Portia in her study at the end of classes on the verge of yet another cold
winter night. "So Caldwell's papa has visited the school at last,
m'amie
. He has a
common look. Is this why Caldwell has been so reluctant to introduce him? If so, he should
know I am not so proud."

She had allowed considerable time to elapse before mentioning Harold Dent, and even
now she did not come directly to the point. But she was nothing if not tenacious. Portia could see
no escape from her questioning. Cal, with his reticence, had put her in a difficult position, to be
sure, she thought with no little resentment.