Page 13 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“Perhaps we can have coffee together more often.” Madame Brun had never learned to share the English taste for tea.

“That would be delightful,” Gloriana said, meaning it. How lovely, and how perfectly restful, to be amongst people who knew her as she really was—no pretense, except for her name. She bade them all adieu and continued into the orphanage.

A boy, descending the stairs with a bundle of laundry, spied her and cried, “Miss Glow is here!”

Within seconds, a torrent of pupils, ranging from around five years old to fifteen, poured out of every room in the house and surrounded her. Tears burned behind her eyes. This, she realized for the first time, was genuine love.

Well, perhaps not on the part of the boys. They liked her well enough, and they appreciated the treats she brought, but on her part, this was love.

Perhaps it wasn’t so terrible that she’d broken her vow, because she’d had no true concept of love upon which to base it.

She greeted them all by name and was introduced to the latest addition, a scrawny, towheaded child. Mr. Alexander appeared and sent them back to their various tasks. All the boys contributed to the upkeep of the school, whether it was cleaning, helping in the kitchen, or making simple furniture for sale.

“I didn’t expect you back in London so soon,” he said, brushing chalk dust off his hands. He was a spare, untidy widower of about forty with a twinkle in his eye and an infectious grin. If he’d been a little younger, she might easily have fallen in love with him. He was definitely a better sort of person than the Marquis de Bellechasse would ever be.

Although he did have an eye for the ladies, which had got him into trouble with the Church. She suspected he had a lady friend on the side, but so what? She liked him. He got on well with the boys, who probably respected him all the more for not pretending to be a prim and proper schoolmaster.

“I’m thinking of spending more time at the school,” she said. “Do you suppose any of the boys might benefit from a class in sketching and drawing, or perhaps even watercolor painting?”

“You wish to teach them?”

“I want to do something useful,” she said. “Apart from putting money into the school, that is.”

“Speaking of money,” he said, “if we continue as we’re going, we’ll need more. I know of two more boys who would benefit from our schooling, but we’re full as is.”

She bit her lip at this. “I don’t think I can manage much more.” Her income was respectable, but it only went so far. She had her own house and servants to support, and . . .

“Might Mr. Bridge be willing?”

“He might,” she said dubiously. “More likely, he will urge me to find some other patrons or patronesses.”

“If we could rent a nearby house, we might be able to expand and breathe a little,” Mr. Alexander said.

He had suggested this before, and so far, she had always refused—because of Philippe, because she didn’t want to admit to him, or to the world at large, that he was right. Well, to the devil with that. She’d had enough being a hypocrite. No more putting on an act.

“Yes, I suppose I must. I can think of any number of people who might help.” If she could convince them the school’s purpose was worthwhile, that is. She would have to do a complete about-face, or so it would seem to society: from a die-hard supporter of the rigid class system her mother had upheld, to a firm believer in equality of opportunity, regardless of birth.

She would look quite the idiot, but what choice was there? The welfare of the orphans came first.

“I expect some of the boys would benefit from drawing and painting, as long as they don’t see it as a feminine sort of activity,” Mr. Alexander said. “They weren’t much interested in making paper flowers even after they realized there are willing buyers out there. They prefer to stick to furniture. They believe it is manlier.”

“They should be required to do both,” she said. “The flowers can be made much more quickly, thus contributing to their immediate upkeep.”

He grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

She sighed, knowing how stubborn the boys could be in their notions; in fact, they were as bad as adults. “Perhaps we could have someone in to introduce them to marquetry and inlay work. There are sure to be a few who wish to pursue it. And to produce their own designs, they will have to learn to draw.”

“An excellent notion. I know just the man, but that will cost money too.”

“I’ll find some.” It was time to show the world who she truly was. If Philippe found out and regretted his insults, so much the better.

Not that she cared what he thought.

“Could you teach a drawing class . . . twice a week, perhaps?” Mr. Alexander asked.

“Perfect. I’ll purchase sketchbooks and so on.” She spent a few hours going over the accounts and then returned to London for supplies. A fortnight passed, during which she spent two days a week at the school, rather than her usual once a month when she was in Town. Wisely, she related the drawing class to future lessons in marquetry and inlay, and the boys who possessed aptitude progressed quickly.

She reveled in being useful, and since London was thin of company, she saw little of Lord Hythwick and nothing, thank God, of Philippe. As she expected, Lord Hythwick treated her with his usual pompous civility. Relieved, she followed his lead. What friends she met were unsurprised that she and Hythwick were not to marry. A few even congratulated her on escaping a tedious fate.