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“Perhaps I could be of service,” Amelia blurted. What possessed her? It wasn’t like her. But she did like the walk, and she liked the girls, and she liked Mr. Roberts. “I’m an excellent writer, and in more than one language. I could make the list.”
Mr. Roberts looked confused. “But you’re Lord Iddesleigh’s guest.”
“For the entire summer. And I’ve really nothing to occupy me. Please, Mr. Roberts. I should like to help if I can.” She was surprised by how much she actually meant it.
“I’m telling Mr. Roberts!” a girl cried out.
Mr. Roberts suddenly lurched toward the desk. “I’m an old fool if I turn down any offer of help.” He picked up the letters. “If you could just go through these and tally how many girls are seeking admittance, and from what villages, and their names, of course, I would be most obliged.” He rummaged around and found paper, then a pencil.
“There we are. I have all that I need,” Amelia assured him. “Go to your students, Mr. Roberts.”
“Thank you, Miss Ivanosen. I am grateful.” He left her and returned to the classroom. She could hear him gently admonishing a student who’d apparently gotten out of her seat.
Amelia settled into the chair and picked up the stack of letters. The first two were simple requests for information about the school One of them wrote that while his daughter had been educated, her studies had been limited to domestic tasks, and he’d heard that the Iddesleigh School for Girls was teaching sciences to their charges. He wanted his daughter to have the opportunity to understand science.
This surprised Amelia. She’d received the same education as boys—science, languages, arithmetic, astronomy.
Another letter followed that one, all in the same vein. But then she stumbled onto a letter that she had to read twice—first with confusion. Then, with delight and fascination.
The sender, an anonymous resident, wrote to complain about the noise at the school. Amelia couldn’t help but laugh. It was indeed rather noisy. The tone of the letter reminded her very much of her Austrian grandmother who, until the time of her death, had never found anything to please her—everything was met with complaint. Her grandmother had been so contrary that Justine and Amelia used to amuse themselves by agreeing with everything the old woman said.Je,the servants were terrible.Je,the food was bland.Je,the troops marching by in formation were too loud.
Amazingly, it delighted their grandmother to be heard. “Do you see?” she’d say to her daughter, Amelia’s mother, poking her in the arm. “Theyaretoo loud.”
When Mr. Roberts popped in to check on her an hour or so later, Amelia had sorted the letters into piles. One was a stack of general correspondence. One was a stack of those requesting admittance with a neat list of names she’d made and left on top of the pile for him. As she fit her damp bonnet on her head, she said, “There is one more. It was a letter that arrived unsigned. It’s a complaint, I’m sorry to say.”
“Oh yes,” he said, nodding. “We receive those with regularity.” He pointed to a few letters stacked on a shelf behind her. “The author leaves them tacked to the door in the middle of the night.”
“Tacked to the door?” What odd behavior. “Who is it?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Amelia was now even more convinced it was an old crone living nearby. She tied the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin. “Shall I come round tomorrow and help more?”
Mr. Roberts looked eager, but he said, “I couldn’t possibly impose.”
“It’s not an imposition if I am volunteering. I could answer some of these letters if you like.”
“Wouldyou? I will shower you with gratitude, Miss Ivanosen. I appreciate very much your help. Thank you.”
And she appreciated very much an occupation.
It was settled then.
CHAPTER FIVE
JOSHUAHADAterrible habit of wandering the countryside late at night, following a moonlit path without any concern for his person. Why would he have any concern? Nothing ever happened here. He wouldn’t have thought of his lack of concern at all had not his solicitor, Mr. Darren, been so appalled when Joshua mentioned it. He said a duke walking alone at night was particularly vulnerable to thieves and murderers.
Hollyfield was too remote to interest any bad actors. It would be the height of inconvenience to come all this way, rob a man of his purse, and then ride all the way back to proper civilization. Perhaps they would prefer the gold fixtures at Hollyfield, which were heavy, and would likewise require hauling to some black market. He was convinced that good thieves would think through the orchestration and save their dastardly deeds for another part of the country.
More was the pity because Joshua wouldn’t mind an encounter with a thief or murderer. He could do with slamming his fist into a nose or two.
He was not so lucky to encounter a murderer or thief, but something interesting did happen during one of his moonlit strolls that week: he received a reply to one of his many anonymous letters written to the headmaster at the Iddesleigh School for Girls.
It was completely unexpected. He’d been tacking letters to the door of the school for a month without a single reply. He’d left his latest missive two nights past, and tonight, when he’d brought a follow-up, he’d been astounded to find a letter addressed to “A Resident of Devonshire, Concerned.”
It was an odd way to address it, but Joshua hadn’t hesitated to take it. He suspected there were more Residents of Devonshire, Concerned, just like him, but he felt confident they were not leaving letters in the exact location he was. He replaced the response with his written follow-up, and then quickly stalked home, lit a candle, and prepared himself to read.
He expected admonishment for his complaints to the school. He expected to be lectured with facts and encouraged to have patience with children in general. His last letter had complained that the girls were being taught botany out of doors and, specifically, in Mr. Puddlestone’s garden. It was very nearly a crime, as Mr. Puddlestone had won an award for his effort from the Devon Garden Council, a notoriously hard nut to crack. Joshua had written the headmaster that schoolbooks existed for this very reason, and he didn’t think there was any reason they ought to be outside, making flower wreaths for their hair, for God’s sake, at Mr. Puddlestone’s expense.
