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Chapter Three
“Do we wish our pupils to think?”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
There existed some days in a lone parent’s life that one dreaded.
This was one of those days.
Seth paced his bedchambers on the second floor, knowing his daughter would enter as the five evening clangs from the St James’s Church bells resounded their last.
On many occasions in the basement, he’d practised this little speech for Chloe and yet it never seemed easier to his mind – he’d blather on, bumble his way through and no doubt bugger it up.
She’d have…questions.
A strident knock and the door opened a crack.
“Are you decent, Pa?”
He peered down at himself.
Best silk dinner breeches and finest muslin shirt clad his frame. He would call that decent enough, yet earlier this morning, Miss Griffin had gazed upon similar and looked set to swoon from the impropriety.
For too long had he been surrounded by blustering company with no sensibilities whatsoever – and that was just Betty, let alone the boxing club patrons.
Tonight at dinner, he must rummage for his manners.
“Come in, petal, and we’ll discuss the day.”
A bundle of energy since birth, Chloe careered over and bounded onto the bed, creasing the covers and scattering the pillows.
For seven years, they’d repeated this ritual, ever since his wife had abandoned them both one warm Thursday night in June.
He’d trudged to their shabby old home in the dark of St Giles, exhausted and sore from training, to find his daughter hunched on the front step, alone and clutching a letter, tears washing her dirty cheeks.
A mere six years old.
Hell, he’d been so lost. Not knowing how to comfort her, how to halt the weeping…or tamp the tight curl of failure within his own belly.
So he’d brewed a pot of weak tea and chatted of his day, left the letter to one side and asked which waistcoat he should wear for their dinner.
The red, he remembered. Always the bright ones.
They’d not bothered with a stew that night but scoffed bread and butter instead, him nattering about boxing and the club that one day might be theirs.
Chloe’s tears had dried so he’d put her to bed, tied her hair in a messed-up, bungled plait and whispered she dream of princesses.
His daughter had replied that dragons were more exciting and promptly fallen asleep.
Then he’d read the letter, sitting alone at the kitchen table…
Now his nearly grown daughter was plonked cross-legged on the bed with dreams of pugilistic endeavour, rosy cheeks to her palms.
“So…” Seth arched one eyebrow.
Chloe arched one back. “Miss Griffin doesn’t use any short words, loathes yellow despite wearing it, can’t see for tuppence without her glasses and has absolutely no idea how to be a governess.”
