Wilful Impropriety (19 page)

“Yes, girl, what is it?” asked the Colonel, his voice weary and his face seeming to have aged by ten years. His desk, usually neat, was strewn with papers. “We are rather busy, as you can see.”

“Yes sir, I realize that. I just wondered if—well, if it were pos sible for me to see Miss Constance. I’m that worried about her, and it couldn’t do any harm, if someone else were there with us.”

“Out of the question.” The Colonel rose and went to stand in front of the fire, which he gazed at unseeingly. “My daughter must be made to realize her folly. It will not be long now before the entire matter is settled.” Mary tried not to look startled, and hoped that Mr. Somers had not noticed. “I am arranging it so that she cannot marry before she is twenty-one without Mr. Pemberton regretting the day he met her,” he continued, and Mary allowed herself a small sigh of relief. “A few more days should see it done. Until then, my daughter is to have no visitors.”

“Please, sir,” cried Mary, moving to where he stood, and clasping him impulsively by the arm. “Please, let me go to her. If you could hear her crying, as I have—it would melt a heart of stone, it would. You can’t deny her the small comfort of a friendly face and voice, surely, sir?”

The Colonel was clearly moved by her appeal, and patted her on the shoulder. “There, there, Mary,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re a good girl, of that I’m sure, and I know that you mean well. But my mind is made up. My daughter is to have no vis itors. I am sorry.”

Mary nodded. As if realizing the liberty she had taken, she let go of the Colonel’s arm and moved back.

“If that’s your final word, sir, then I can’t change your mind. Forgive me for asking, but I only wanted to do what I thought best.”

“I know that, and it does you credit. My daughter does not deserve a friend such as you. However, I must ask you to leave us now. Mr. Somers and I have more work to do, and it is getting late.”

Mary bobbed her head. “Yes, sir,” she said meekly. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I had to try.” She glanced at Walter, trying to read his face, but it was impassive. “Goodnight then, sirs,” she said quietly, and took her leave. When the heavy door closed behind her, she took a deep breath. Then she squared her shoulders, said, “Well, that’s that, then,” under her breath, and made her way to her room.

•   •   •

The clock had struck twelve, and darkness and silence had fallen over the house, when the door of Mary’s room opened. She took one last look behind her, then took a firm grasp of the small valise she was holding and crept through the shadows to the door of Constance’s room.

“Is that you, Mary?” asked a voice from the other side, before Mary could tap. “Do you have the key?”

“Yes, miss, I do.” Mary fumbled in her pocket, and drew out the brass key which she had abstracted from the Colonel’s pocket only a few hours earlier. She fitted it into the lock and turned it, and the door opened to reveal Constance on the other side. She was dressed soberly in warm traveling clothes, and was holding a small case. Mary glanced at it. “Is that all you’re taking with you, Miss Constance? It doesn’t seem a lot.”

“It will be enough, Mary. More than enough, if Mr. Pemberton is not there. But he will be. I know he will.” She spotted the valise in Mary’s hand. “Have you decided, then?”

“Yes, miss. I can’t stay on here, whatever happens. So I’ll throw in my lot with you and Mr. Pemberton, if you’ll have me.”

Constance grasped Mary by one hand. “Of course we will, dear friend. There is nothing I—Good heavens! Mr. Somers!”

Mary turned, and saw the secretary standing beside her. Even in the faint light emanating from Constance’s room, she could tell that his face was pale and set. He looked from one girl to the other before fixing his gaze on Mary.

“It was very cleverly done,” he said slowly. “No wonder you never got caught, Mary. I was watching closely, and even so I almost missed it.”

“You knew?”

“I suspected.”

“Have you—have you said anything to the Colonel?”

Walter sighed. “No,” he said at last. “I have not.”

“And—will you say anything?” It was Constance speaking, but it was Mary the answer was directed to.

“I do not know, yet. Is this what you want?”

Mary met his gaze frankly. “It is what Miss Constance wants. We are going now, to meet Mr. Pemberton.”

“And thence to Gretna Green, I suppose, and from there—what are your plans then?”

“Mr. Pemberton has money of his own, and business interests in Canada. We will book passage on a ship from Liverpool and sail as soon as we can. The Colonel will surely set folk in search of us, but he mayn’t think to look there, and we’ll be gone before they can find us.”

Mr. Somers shook his head. “It is a risky step and a bold venture, but then I am sure you both know this. And I know you both well enough to realize that these facts are unlikely to stop you.”

Mary seized his arm. “You will not raise the alarm then, Mr. Somers? You will let us go?”

He gazed down at her in something like sadness for a moment, then gave a small smile. “Yes, I will let you go, and the Colonel will be none the wiser—for a few more hours, at least.” His smile faded. “I wish you the best, Miss Constance, you and Mr. Pemberton. You are both very brave. I only hope, to misquote Mr. Dryden slightly, that the world is well lost for love. And you, Mary.” He took his hand in hers and held it a moment. “I am glad to have known you, Mary Daniels. Miss Constance is a very fortunate girl indeed, to have so true a friend. I hope that, whatever happens, you will let me know of your fate, and where I may write to you. You came very suddenly into my life, and I would hate to lose you in so dramatic a fashion. No, say nothing. You have not much time, and the longer you stay here, the more chance there is of discovery.”

“Thank you, Mr. Somers,” said Mary, suddenly close to tears. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. I won’t forget.”

“No, we won’t forget,” said Constance. “Come, Mary, we must go. Mr. Pemberton will be waiting.” She picked up her bag, and the two girls stole along the hallway. Mary paused at the turning, to look back; then, with a small wave, she was gone, and silence settled over the house once more.

“Will he be waiting? I wonder,” mused Walter to himself. Then, with a shake of his head, he pulled Constance’s door shut. “We shall all know soon enough. Either way, it will be an—interesting time ahead, to be certain.
Very
interesting.”

•   •   •

From a letter written by Miss Beatrice Wardour to her friend Miss Evelina Lancaster

Vancouver, British Columbia

August 1887

My dearest Friend,

I alluded, in my last letter, to the difficulties the school was facing. This place, which was scarce more than a village but a few short years ago, is now a bustling city. Alas, the growth in population has put a huge strain on the school, which has not been able to keep up sufficiently to accommodate the large number of students who wish to enroll. As Principal I have been agitating, for some time, for an increase in funding to allow us to expand, yet my pleas were falling on deaf ears, for our elected officials have many pressing affairs to which to attend. Just when all seemed bleakest, however, an angel—or rather, angels—stepped forward in the form of Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton. They are fairly recent arrivals, even by the standards of this place, having been here for less than six months, but he has already amassed a quite sizable fortune, having speculated wisely in property, the value of which is increasing almost daily. He has endowed the school with a fund sufficient to meet its expansion needs, with the promise of more to follow should it be needed. His wife, who is considerably younger than him, came with him to see the school, and commented on their future need for the facilities the school provides—a reference, I take it, to the forthcoming increase in their family number. They have also, most providently, supplied me with a new teacher, a Miss Daniels, a good, quiet, sober woman whom Mrs. Pemberton called a dear friend of long standing. I am sure she will prove an asset to the school when lessons resume, with much of value to teach the students.

From Miss Wardour to Miss Lancaster

Vancouver, British Columbia
April, 1888

Miss Daniels has settled in so well, and is such a favorite with the pupils, that I do not well know how I would replace her, which is why I was pleased when she informed me that her forthcoming marriage will not in any way impede her in the carrying-out of her duties at the school. It was only very recently that she informed me of her engagement—perhaps she was worried that it would mean the curtailment of her employment, as is the custom in some establishments when a woman moves from the single to the married state. Her fiancé came with her to the school the other day, so that we could be introduced. He seems a very decent young man, Mr. Summers (I believe it is) by name, only recently arrived from England. He is to work for Mr. Pemberton, whose mind is much occupied by the new addition to his family, or so Miss Daniels tells me. Who would have thought that someone so placid and quiet should harbor such a secret as a fiancé! There is apparently much truth in the old adage about still waters running deep.

With her father’s giant orrery turning over her head, Hannah sat in a chair and watched the clockmaker make his adjustments. The great brass and enamel model of the heavens swept through its rotation with little ticks from within its base. Etched in gold and silver, the signs of the zodiac wrapped in a band so that, even in daylight, an astrologer could see where the planets lay. Lit by the sun streaming in through the large glass windows of Sir Phillip’s study, the planets rotated like women dancing in scarlet, cerulean, and primrose ballgowns.

Mr. Whitaker peered through the brass door in the side of the mechanism and frowned. His neat starched collar contrasted beautifully against the dark skin of his throat and made his jaw appear even firmer than it was. Rumor had it that his mother had been a Rajah’s daughter, but he denied that. Whatever the truth, the result was a man who caused the fashionable young ladies of London to swoon whenever he walked into a room. Hannah was not immune to his charms. Not at all.

Mr. Whitaker picked up a wrench and reached inside the orrery’s base. His movement checked almost immediately as his coat snagged on a gear. Yanking his arm free, he glanced at her father before turning to her. “Miss Miller . . . I need to remove my coat in order to reach inside. I apologize, but, it is very snug.”

Hannah masked a smile. He hardly needed to apologize for that, except Papa was in the room. “By all means. I shan’t be shocked. My father often works in his shirtsleeves, don’t you Papa?”

“Eh?” Sir Phillip looked up from the star chart he was working on. He was not normally in his study at this time of day, but Lady Richardson was due for an astrological reading. It was most inconvenient, but she tried not to let it show.

“Do you not work in your shirtsleeves sometimes?”

“Oh, yes. Quite.” He had an ink stain on his index finger from dipping his pen with too much haste. Sir Phillip peered over his glasses at Mr. Whitaker. “Will it be ready for the Crystal Exhibition?”

“Certainly. Only . . . I need to make an adjustment to the interior mechanism and my coat is in the way, I am afraid.”

“Ah . . . yes. Well, carry on.” He went back to the charts, nibbling on the end of his pen.

“You see.” She smoothed the folds of her hoop skirt and smiled. In truth, she had hoped Mr. Whitaker would need to remove his coat. He was widely reckoned as a prodigy with clockworks, and at the tender age of eight-and-twenty had been engaged by the Prince Albert himself for his automatons. That he was also tall, slender, and had waves of dark hair did nothing to diminish Hannah’s interest in his work. “Do let me know if there is anything I can do.”

He hesitated only a moment longer, then pulled off his frock coat and hung it over the chair next to her. Leaning down, he whispered, “How much did you slow it this time?”

“A quarter turn,” she whispered back.

Rolling up his shirtsleeve to expose a muscled arm, he again picked up his wrench and reached inside the machine. He stared at the far wall, but appeared to see something deep within the machine instead.

“Papa . . .” Hannah looked around as if just thinking of it. “Is it time for Lady Richardson?”

He pulled out his pocket watch. “Dear me. It is.” He bundled up his papers and hurried out of the study, leaving her quite alone with Mr. Whitaker.

Only when the door had shut did Hannah dare think of Mr. Whitaker as Gideon.

She came to the side of the machine and leaned against it, watching her love work. His dark hair curled around his brow. His eyes, narrowed in concentration, stared at nothing as he worked by feel. He glanced up at her, with an imitation scowl imperfectly masking a smile. “You make me regret teaching you how to make the adjustments. Your arms are more slender than mine.”