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Chapter One
Somersetshire. Spring 1858
Apparently, there are some things a young woman shouldn’t say, especially if that woman is genteelly impoverished and must behave decorously at all times in order to maintain her teaching position at an exclusive young ladies’ finishing school in Bath.
So when Mrs. Parsons, the exacting headmistress of the Avon Academy for Young Ladies of Quality, summoned Miss Artemis Jones to her private study and then accused her of corrupting her charges’ minds by exposing them to an entirely frivolous, some might even saydangerousnovel, Artemis really shouldn’t have muttered “Beelzebub’s ballocks” beneath her breath.
“I beg your pardon.” Behind her wire-rimmed spectacles, Mrs. Parsons’s pale eyes narrowed with dislike and suspicion. “What did you say, Miss Jones?”
Artemis attempted a look of innocence while she inwardly cursed her ill-advised slip of the tongue. “I said, ‘Of course, Mrs. Parsons.’ I do see your point.Sense and Sensibilityis entirely frivolous. It teaches young women nothing at all about the value of exercising good judgment or that possessing an overly romantic nature can lead one into trouble. Or that it would be wise for women to develop the skills, and therefore the means, to support themselves considering the protection of a male—whether husband, or father, or another form of guardian—cannot always be relied upon in this life. I could go on, but heaven forfend, I fear that I might inadvertently corrupt your mind too.”
Mrs. Parsons bristled like a cat set out in the rain. “Sarcasm does not become you.” Raising her bony hand, she then held her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “You are skating this close to dismissal. Do I make myself clear?”
Artemis tried to look contrite, which was no mean feat considering she didn’t think much of the headmistress or the curriculum of her finishing school. But needs must when the devil drives, so Artemis bowed her head. “Perfectly. Although, it was only one student who read—”
Mrs. Parsons slapped the leather blotter on her desk. “And that is one student too many,” she snapped. “You know as well as I that these young girls have impressionable minds. Aside from that, I shouldn’t need to remind you that reading novels for pleasure isnotpart of our curriculum. Parents and guardians do not pay me good money to have their daughters’ time wasted or, worse, have their heads filled with utter nonsense. These girls need to acquire solid accomplishments. Aside from displaying good manners, excellent deportment, and impeccable grooming at all times, they should be adept musically and artistically and be able to dance with grace, speak French moderately well, and be skilled at needlework and balancing domestic accounts. They should also have mastered the art of maintaining polite conversation and to have a thorough understanding of etiquette.”
“And a thorough knowledge of geography, literature, and history.” Artemis felt compelled to remind her employer about the subjectsshetaught the school’s pupils. If she were ever fortunate enough to realize her own dream of starting an academic college for women, there wouldn’t be a dancing master or an etiquette manual in sight.
Mrs. Parsons sniffed, her manner as prickly as the black woolen gown she wore. “Our girls only need to know the rudiments. Just enough to enable them to converse without making fools of themselves. It wouldn’t do for our young women to graduate here withmoreknowledge than the men who will court them.” She shuddered dramatically. “No gentleman wishes to wed a woman with a masculine level of intelligence. It’s entirely unnatural.”
Artemis pressed her lips together to quell a derisive huff. Oh, the things she could say to counter that. Instead, she uttered the sort of unpalatable tripe Mrs. Parsons wished to hear. “Yes, you’re quite right. As if a woman’s intellect could ever match that of a man’s. After all, we are the weaker sex.”
The headmistress nodded her approval. “Exactly, Miss Jones. A woman must know her place in the world. And that is what the Avon Academy excels at. Showing each young woman that herrightfulplace is at her husband’s side, managing his domestic affairs, bearing his children, keeping him entertained, and being an indispensable helpmeet.” One talon-like finger tapped the cover of Volume I ofSense and Sensibility. “She won’t learn any of those things in ridiculous novels like these.”
“No, of course not,” agreed Artemis. “I don’t know what I was thinking lending an impressionable student such a terrible, perhaps even subversive book. It won’t happen again.”
“No. It won’t.” Mrs. Parsons lifted her chin. “Because I’ve confiscated the whole set. And indeed all the other novels in your private quarters.”
“I beg your pardon?” Artemis couldn’t hide the outrage in her voice. It shook with the force of it and momentarily masked her fear that the headmistress could have unearthed something even more damning than her treasured collection of novels by Jane Austen. For instance, the latest Gothic romance manuscript her alter ego, Lydia Lovelace, was presently penning. “You…you went through my belongings?”
“I did.” Mrs. Parsons rose to her feet and, eyes flashing, looked down her beak of a nose at Artemis. “You’ve proven yourself to be untrustworthy, Miss Jones. And you shan’t have your dreadful novels back until you leave this establishment. Which might be sooner rather than later. One more black mark against your name, and you’ll be dismissed, do you understand? And do stop gaping at me like a landed carp. The look does not become you.”
Sometime during the course of the headmistress’s admonitory speech, it seemed Artemis’s jaw had indeed become unhinged. She shut her mouth with a snap and somehow swallowed her pride along with her burning anger. “Yes, Mrs. Parsons. I understand.”
Dropping her gaze lest it further betray the depth of her ire, she then dipped into a respectful curtsy, something she rarely did. As much as she loathed the Avon Academy—indeed how she’d endured working here for three years quite amazed her—she couldn’t afford to lose this position. Because if she did, she’d end up living with her fearsome aunt Roberta, Lady Wagstaff, who would parade her like a prize heifer for sale through London’s ballrooms. Her aunt’s unrelenting but ultimately fruitless quest was to marry both Artemis and her younger sister, Phoebe, off to “gentlemen of means.” That eventuality didn’t bear thinking about. Phoebe was dying to marry, but at nine-and-twenty, Artemis was firmly on the spinster’s shelf and there she meant to stay.
Artemis was about to take her leave—it was only four o’clock in the afternoon, and she still had mountains of work to do before she could retire to her room to alternately fume and lick her wounds in private—when Mrs. Parsons pushed an envelope across the desk. “Some correspondence for you, Miss Jones. See that you read it in your own time.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.” Artemis picked up the letter, and after she’d ascertained the sender was her dear friend, Lucy Bertram, she slid it into the pocket of her cambric pinafore. “I shan’t look at it until after supper and prayers when the girls are all settled for the night,” she added for good measure, even though that was a lie.
Indeed, as soon as Artemis gained the corridor, she ducked into a nearby music room that was currently vacant. Lucy, a baronet’s daughter and her oldest friend from childhood—they’d both grown up in the hamlet of Heathwick Green near Hampstead Heath—was only a year younger than Artemis and equally happy with her lot in life as a spinster. She did write, but not all that often, so it was decidedly odd that she’d sentanotherletter on the heels of her last one, which had arrived but a fortnight ago.
A peculiar mixture of anticipation, curiosity, and concern buzzed about inside Artemis as she cracked the envelope’s seal, unfolded the parchment, and started to read.
Dearest Artemis…
Lucy began in her beautifully flowing handwriting.
I hope this letter finds you well. I’m afraid I’m not particularly “in the pink” at the present moment, even though I stated that I was so in my last letter. And no doubt you’re wondering why…
Actually, to be perfectly honest, I’m all at sixes and sevens. In fact, my hand is quite literally shaking as I write these words, so please do forgive my poor penmanship and what might seem like my sudden, entirely out-of-character penchant for hyperbole. I do not mean to cause alarm. But you see, the news I’m about to impart is quite disconcerting, if not altogether terrifying—to me at least.
My papa has decreed that I should have a Season and absolutelymustwed by summer’s end. And I… Frankly, I can think of nothing worse. At all. I’m not sure what terrifies me the most: the thought of marriage to some man who doesn’t give a jot about me or my ambitions in life, or the idea of actually having to venture into society to begin with. And the idea of courting… I’d rather eat nothing but chalk and charcoal for a year and a day than set foot in one of London’s ballrooms.
What? Artemis’s jaw dropped open for the second time that afternoon, and she sank onto the piano stool behind her. Her knees suddenly felt as insubstantial as a freshly unmolded flummery.
Poor sweet Lucy. Just like Artemis, her dear friend had no love for London with its crowded, noisy streets and hectic pace. Or its members of high society. Gatherings any larger than a small, intimate dinner party or an afternoon tea with close acquaintances were anathema to her. Indeed, on countless occasions, Artemis had witnessed how Lucy’s tongue would tie itself into hopeless knots when trying to summon a response to the simplest of questions from a stranger, and how she would blush redder than a platter of roasted beets when even a smattering of attention was directed her way.
