“We are to attend the Ambleside Christmas Ball at Fitzwilliam’s.” She stalked back to him and leaned near – musky heliotrope causing the hair upon his bare nape to stand on end. “So don’t forget your starched cravat.” And after a pat on the arm, she stalked back to the door and closed it softly behind her.
He prowled to his desk, shoved himself to his chair and glared at the open ledger.
Began to count.
The inked digits darted like restless fruit flies on spoiled apples and he slammed the ledger shut.
Shoved his elbows to the leather inlay and thrust fingers through his hair.
“The Christmas Ball,” he growled. “A past best forgot.”
CHAPTER THREE
“No dramatic reading should be permitted till a certain age.”
PRIVATEEDUCATION:APRACTICALPLAN FOR THESTUDIES OFYOUNGLADIES.
ELIZABETHAPPLETON. 1815.
Ribbons trimmed with gold and sprays of holly with portly berries bedecked the corridor to the schoolroom and Charlotte halted her step, to breathe in the scent of greenery and Christmas.
Under the direction of Mrs Mossop and Dinah, the footmen had been kept most busy with the decorations – too busy to move the schoolroom to the upper floor of the manor. Indeed, Miss Dinah Lovecott appeared to hold the servants in the palm of her dainty hand. As Charlotte had partaken of breakfast in the kitchens not a half-hour past, the housekeeper had praised the girl’s cheerful nature, a sprig of a footman had blushed a fiery scarlet and a housemaid had told how the little Miss so enjoyed hearing about the daily life of a servant – likely the maid would find herself the heroine of a romantic tale one day.
This morning was to be their first lesson and as Christmas was fast approaching, Charlotte had decided to dispense with the more onerous subjects and begin with a lesson on poetry. A verse to engage the young girl’s vivid imagination.
She crossed to a corridor window that overlooked a bare garden of winter and flicked open her governess manual –Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Miss Appleton, the authoress of this rather hefty tome which had cost Charlotte a fortnight’s wages, could always be relied upon to put her in the appropriate mood for a first lesson.
The morn light from the window was meagre but she ran a finger down the page…
One reading lesson of poetry in the week is surely enough for children, but we must be careful in our choice of pieces…
Poetry, treating too often of love or satire, excites the most powerful feelings and should be selected with the utmost care. We should be ever on our guard against them if we do not wish to implant the seeds of romance in our pupils.
Charlotte pursed her lips – it might be too late for that.
She’d headed to the schoolroom early in order to assess its collection of books and, with the guidance of her governess manual, to choose an appropriate piece. But Miss Appleton’s list of suitable works was not extensive.
Tales of the Robin… An innocent and pretty work.
Ode on Solitude… Children are delighted to read.
Edwin and Angelina… A beautiful ballad, but there is too much of love in it.
Hmm.
Shoving the tome beneath her arm, Charlotte pushed open the schoolroom door, stepped forward and closed it behind her.
A comfortable room for a governess and her pupil, there was a lit fire, two oak desks sat opposite from one another and a long shelf bearing a row of pristine books. She wandered over to them. Arranged by height, they appeared untouched and–
The door flew open with such force that it toppled the weighted brass lion’s paw door stop.
“Miss Webster! I’m so glad you’re here!” Dinah brandished a leather-bound book aloft. “For I’ve discovered the most wonderful poem.”
“Good morning to you also, Dinah.”
“Oh. Yes. Good morning.” She closed the door and curtseyed, eyes rounding to blue marbles. “And I apologise for not knocking. At my old school, Miss Fanshawe said she’d never known anyone with such energy in the mornings. That it was…exhilarative.” She pouted. “Or some word like that.”
