The Education of Portia (5 page)

"An impressive catalogue of merits." Portia was non-committal. Somehow the
gentleman she had met did not quite match the information--complete as it was--that her friend
was detailing.

Heloise said, "Then there is the other side to his character. He games, though not to
excess, and may be seen at every club and hell. He likes the theatre, particularly the opera
dancers. And the rest of his activities must not be told to a maiden lady of your standing."

"Very well. I think I desire to know nothing else. The man is no more nor less than
others of his ilk." Portia knew that to display interest in Lord Stadbroke's less savoury exploits
would cause Heloise to teasingly withhold them. She rose to go about her business. There was a
sudden increase in activity out in the corridor bespeaking a change in classes.

Her friend likewise rose. "A little more, I think." Her eagerness to complete her tale was
obvious.

"More?"

"Oh, yes." Heloise made certain the door was closed and cast a glance at the glassed
door which led to the small terrace. It revealed only the young ladies leaving the labyrinth to
return to the house, and a day that had turned overcast. Her voice dropped in volume
nevertheless. "He is insatiable, my dear. Discriminating, but insatiable. He has had two
mistresses in three years, each of them deeply saddened to lose his 'company'. The ladies of the
ton are likewise enamoured of his boudoir skills."

Portia was suddenly appalled, at herself, at her friend and her friend's informants, and in
no small amount at the viscount--a paragon of every virtue--and devotee of every vice.
"Enough!" she said loudly enough to startle Heloise.

That lady stared at her in some surprise.

"Enough," said Portia more quietly. "I should not have asked and am well served. I now
know more than I could ever wish of the viscount. Those young ladies must certainly never
know all this. I charge you to keep your counsel."

Mme. Montlucon drew herself up to the utmost of her inconsiderable height and
assumed an air of dignity. "As if I should ever divulge such tales of a father to a daughter. I, the
mother of a daughter, and all too aware of the frailties and fears of girls. I will bid you good day,
Miss Crossmichael."

"Oh come down from your high ropes," Portia said. She hurried to pacify the friend she
had made ten years before. Heloise had already been living in the village with her
emigr&e#233;
husband and infant daughter when Portia had returned to the school to
teach after her disastrous season. They had forged a friendship that had supported them through
Portia's decision to purchase the school and the death of Heloise's husband. It had been Portia's
idea that Heloise should teach languages at the school when she had recovered from the first
sharp sting of grief. "You know precisely what I mean. Sometimes your correspondents are too
efficient, and I am gullible enough to listen. 'Tis the closest I will ever again come to the
ton
, and still I am shocked by their habits." She hastened to turn the topic. "You have
another class?"

"I do, as well you know. Gavrielle and her form await their Italian conjugations."

"Best to make them wait no longer. Twelve year olds can be unreasonable at the best of
times." Portia picked up her own notebook. Geography with the most senior of the girls awaited
her.

"As we have all too much opportunity to know." Heloise paused with her hand on the
door handle. "Ah, Portia, this is not what we planned when we met, is it? Who would have
thought...." She opened the door, nodded at Caldwell who had raised a hand to rap on its panels
and departed in a swirl of plum kerseymere.

Who would?
echoed Portia in her mind even as she turned to greet her
step-brother. "A geography class is awaiting me."

"I know, I know. But spare me five minutes." Caldwell Dent wore his smock, which told
Portia he was fresh come from his studio. He seldom wore it beyond the studio door, and that
alone informed her of his inner turmoil.

"You have heard from Mr. Dent again?" she asked.

"How did you know?" Caldwell said, as grimly as his good nature would allow. He
entered, closing the door on a hall full of young ladies making their way to their next
classes.

"Nothing else could bring such a frown to your face. What has he said?"

Caldwell withdrew a creased paper from the pocket of his smock and unfolded it. "You
may read it."

Portia carried the paper to the window where the light, though now obscured by mist,
was better. She read quickly. "Apologies for neglect, assurances of affection, and a proposal to
meet. All very right and proper." She tapped the paper on her slender palm, before turning to her
brother. "Why should we doubt his familial devotion?"

"You have to ask? With our history, knowing what you know of him?" Caldwell's
paint-stained hands clenched and unclenched convulsively.

Portia abandoned her joking manner. He was in no mood to appreciate her irony. "No,
no of course not. He will have some reason, some devious plan, afoot. Will you meet him?"

"I think so. Better the devil you know, and so on. I had rather understand what he is
plotting than wonder." Caldwell visibly set aside his concerns and added, "I have finished the
Mottingham portrait. Do you care to come and have a look before I wrap it?"

"I should be delighted; I'll just pop in on my class and set them an exercise." Portia
thrust away new worries and headed out the door. It was always pure pleasure to see one of her
brother's new works. He deserved every commission and every success that he could gain. They
had heard that even Mr. Turner had begun to recommend Caldwell Dent to those wishing to have
their portrait taken.

They paused at Portia's classroom on the first floor and Cal waited in the corridor while
she requested her students to study the atlas to find the maps of Asia Minor. Then they climbed
the stairs to Caldwell's studio. On their way, they passed the three Perrington sisters descending.
Portia checked the small gold watch that had earlier clashed with her suspended keys and other
necessities.

"Girls, you are aware that Sabina and Melicent have needlework in ten minutes? And
Penelope you should be on your way to your arithmetic prep." Portia's tone was grave but not
severe.

"Yes, Miss Crossmichael." Sabina's response was all that it should be: respectful and
dutiful.

But Portia noticed that the girl's gaze strayed with worshipful devotion to Caldwell
before she hurried down the stairs. She sighed; it seemed every senior girl had to suffer an
infatuation, at least briefly, for her brother.

The responses of the other two girls were polite and compliant.

"Yes, Miss."

"Yeth, Mith."

They exchanged nothing more than grins with Mr. Dent before following in their older
sister's wake down the polished stairs.

Portia wondered what the girls had been about. As they disappeared at the half landing
she said to her brother, "Yet another danger there, my dear, with young Sabina."

"I am aware," he said with an impatient shrug. "I am no coxcomb or Nonesuch, Port,
why must the older girls see me as desirable? They are children." He emphasized the last word
heavily.

"I am as always happy to hear you say it, Cal, but that is the problem. They are not
children. But the fact that they fancy themselves in love with you speaks more of them than of
you. Any presentable young man would garner the same attention. Just manage the matter with
your usual aloofness."

"I will!" He ushered her into his studio. "You may be certain, I will."

* * * *

It was a magnificent portrait for the sitter was favoured with a beauty that was
undeniable. Caldwell's talented brush had captured every nuance of character and loveliness.
Portia stood in silent awe for some minutes then congratulated him with sincere extravagance
before hurrying back down the stairs. Her thoughts lingered on the perfection of Lady
Mottingham's countenance. Her whole life she had wished for beauty, or even simple prettiness.
Why do I always long
, she wondered,
for that ephemeral attribute when I am
blessed with other, more lasting, qualities?

Despite that her class was waiting for her, she paused at the great window on the
landing. With conscious effort she ordered her thoughts and dwelt on the lovely view spread
before her. The window overlooked the front gates of the school and the viewer's eye followed
the trail of the lane until it disappeared in the distant woods. On the southerly horizon a smudge
of smoke told of the great city that lay there, but the nearer view was the more pleasant with the
trees' leaves beginning to turn their colour. The golden browns of harvested fields were
highlighted here and there by the dark green of evergreens, holly, fir and yew. And a flash of
peacock blue...

Portia looked more closely. There could be no reasonable explanation for that spot of
peacock blue in the middle distance. She paused to be refreshed by this view every day and had
for ten years. She had never before seen that particular colour infringe on her landscape.

She hesitated; something important was hovering at the edges of her awareness.
Someone--one of her girls--wore a cloak of that vivid blue. But who... Who? She gulped on the
remembrance and flew down the stairs.

Penelope Perrington--the smallest of the three sisters--it was she who had that blue
cloak. Portia had commented herself upon it the day the girls had arrived.

She poked her head into her classroom. "Please read pages twenty to thirty in Pauling's
Geography, and draw your own outline map of Asia Minor," she instructed the dozen surprised
young ladies who had been waiting for her. Without waiting for comments, she withdrew.

She continued down the stairs to the main floor and paused only for a moment in her
study to catch up her own sober cloak of dark green. Then with a nod to her porter, she let herself
out of the house.

Portia hurried down the path and through the wrought iron gates into the lane. With a
backward look at the house, she ascertained that there were no faces at the windows and that no
one was watching from the gardens. Confident she was unobserved, she picked up her skirts and
raced--with a turn of speed that surprised her--down the lane.

Her long legs soon caught up the very short ones of her quarry and she slowed to catch
her breath before speaking to the child. The little girl had not apparently heard her approach for
she did not look around. The mist was turning to rain and the wind was gathering strength; Portia
wondered why the child had not chosen a better day for her escape.

At length she spoke. "Penelope? Penny!"

The child halted immediately and looked back. "Mith Crothmichael? What are you
doing here?" There was surprise but no fear and nothing of guilt in the little girl's bright
face.

"More to the point dear, what are you doing?" Portia placed a hand on the child's
shoulder, wishing to make a physical connection with the miscreant.

"I am going to London to see Papa, and Ruff." Penelope evidently had no sense of
having done anything wrong. Her statement of purpose was entirely without guile.

"Who is Ruff?" Portia's question was a mixture of curiosity and cunning distraction.

"Our dog...Papa'th hound. We brought him to London with us. We knew Papa would
want to see him. We love him; he's a ferocious guard dog but not with uth. Hith real name is
Perrington's Ruffian. Papa says it is appropr'ate 'cause he has no manners."

"Ah." Portia had a vision of Lord Stadbroke coping with a country-trained beast in an
elegant London townhouse. He was well-served, she decided uncharitably. "Well, do let's discuss
your journey a little first. It is quite some little distance you know and the weather is not of the
best. "

Penelope hunched a shoulder that dismissed such considerations. "We came to Hornthey
to be close to Papa. And he has not visited. So I am determined upon visiting him."

Irritation with the viscount surged through Portia yet again. The embankment was steep
nearby and there was a sheltered hollow in the lee of the hedge still clinging to its leaves and full
of hips and haws. She drew the child to sit beside her there on a fortuitous stone.

"Now Penny, do you know that you are not supposed to leave the school?" Portia chose
her words carefully. The sturdy independence of the child must not be harmed, but a
consciousness of her responsibilities and her restrictions must be brought to bear.

"Yeth." The child's dark gaze was fastened unwaveringly upon her face.

"And you know that the rule is supposed to keep you safe?"

"Yeth."

"Do you think you would be safe, walking alone to London? This is not Lincolnshire,
my dear. Everyone here does not know you and respect you as Lord Stadbroke's daughter.
London is a great city and not always harmless."

The child studied her with an earnest gaze. "P'raps I should have thought a little more on
it. But now that you know where I mean to go, you can accompany me."

"Penny, that is not possible. Particularly not today. I am certain your papa will visit you
soon. In fact, I will engage to ensure it."

"Can you? We just had a council of war, my sisters and I. They also said he would come
soon. But they will say anything to keep me
biddable,
so I decided to see him today."
Her small face twisted in a ferocious frown.

"I am sure they have the right of it. They would not lie to you, nor will I. And I know for
a fact that Cook has made jam tarts."

"Very well, I'll come back." The child hopped to her feet and waited for Portia to rise
and shake out her skirts. Her keys, watch and
etui
collided and chimed.

"You always jingle, Mith. I like it. We always know where you are, becauthe we can
hear your tune. Why do you wear those things?"

Portia drew up her own hood to defend against the swirling rain, and she fastened
Penelope's cloak and hood against the weather as well. Illness would be the crowning seal of this
day's adventure; to be avoided at all cost. "I have my keys to open locks, my timepiece to watch
our schedule and my
etui
to hold my scissors and my pencil and my notepad. Madame
calls it my
chatelaine
; she says I am like the mistress of a great house."