Barbara Metzger (2 page)

“By Jupiter, man, this isn’t a horse race,” the harried physician finally declared. “But you won’t even make it to the starting line without the surgery. With it, at least you’re in the running. I’m sorry, lad, but all of life is a gamble.”

The war hero turned back to the aged, dissipated nobleman. “Do you have anything left to lose, my lord?”

“My London property,” Harwood bleated, scribbling furiously. “It’s worth plenty. No heir, no entailment. It’ll bring me luck, I know it will.”

It didn’t.

Some forty-five minutes later Captain Chase stood up again. He looked across the table at his opponent, who was staring vacantly ahead through red-rimmed, damp eyes, a string of drool trailing from his open mouth. “Take me home, Perry. I find I don’t wish this”—the smoke and stains, the raddled nobility—“to be my last sight of England after all.”

“I do wish I’d gotten to go home first, seen my mother.” The two friends were at last at Perry’s bachelor rooms at the Albany, Chase’s temporary “home,” but Adler understood.

“Staffordshire’s too far,” he told Chase, “and the roads are in deplorable condition this time of year, in the middle of the thaws. You’ll get there soon.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” the captain answered.

They were relaxed in worn old leather armchairs near the fire, waiting for dawn. Kenley held a glass; Perry’d stopped drinking hours ago, lest his sick friend have to tend to
him.
He couldn’t understand what was keeping Chase awake, much less alert, unless it was his unpleasant thoughts.

“Do you know how many times I’ve faced death?” Chase asked, more to himself than to Perry, who merely went “hmm.” Chase rambled on: “I’d rather face a hundred battles than this…this…”

“Not to worry, you’ll be back at the helm of some warship soon enough. The Admiralty couldn’t get on without you hero types.”

“No, I’ve decided to sell out, either way.” Kenley snorted. “Can you imagine a blind sea captain? If, on the other hand, things go well, I’ll have to take my brother’s place in Staffordshire, for all that I know about husbandry. It’s amazing how fate gets so quirky, isn’t it? My brother was born to the land. He knew every inch of that estate and all the tenants. I swear he knew the name of every pig. And
he
drowns in a sailing accident. On a blasted lake!”

Chase reached over to the cluttered table between them to refill his glass. His eye caught the mound of currency and notes scattered there.

“All of my, ah, affairs are in order, Perry, but if anything…you know. You keep this. Send the property back to that old curmudgeon, but keep the money.”

“Dash it, man, I don’t need your blunt.”

“Of course you don’t, but old Harwood would only gamble it away again anyway. Have a party. Yes, I’d like that. A bright, noisy party with champagne and pretty girls.” Chase reached for the decanter again. After he’d filled his glass, he picked up another bottle, but this one was mounted on its side, with a replica of the ship
Invicta
encased within. “At least I won’t face this day sober,” he said, as the glass slipped from his limp fingers to the floor. The ship-in-a-bottle, however, stayed tenderly cradled in his lap.

Charles Swann, Baron Harwood, went home, too. He closeted himself in his library with his books, bills, and bank statements. Then he blew his brains out, choosing not to face the coming day at all.

Chapter Two

Miss Meadow believed in treating the young ladies at her select academy with all the care and consideration due their ranks and future social standings. She also, unfortunately, believed in treating the instructors at her fashionable boarding school according to the same standards. This evening, for example, Miss Meadow entertained three of the upper-class students for coffee and dessert in her office/sitting room, designed to accustom them to the polite world they would soon be joining. Correspondingly, Miss Cristabel Swann, the music teacher, sat demurely outside Miss Meadow’s office in the hard chair reserved for those girls awaiting one of the headmistress’s mottoes and precepts lectures.

One of Miss Meadow’s favorite moral lessons was Moderation. She constantly reminded her young ladies not of Aristotle, but to think small: small steps, small bites, small displays of emotion. A little spirit was acceptable, lest the girls be considered milk-and-water misses. Any wider displays of feeling, loud laughter, distempered outbursts, were as unacceptable as tying one’s garters in public.

If Moderation was Miss Meadow’s rule for the future duchesses and marchionesses, Less was the motto for their teachers: less time, less money, less privacy, and much less spirit. The girls inside the office wore lace collars on their trim uniforms and colorful ribbons in their hair. Miss Swann wore unrelieved brown bombazine hanging on her five-foot-eight-inch too-thin frame, with her streaky blond hair scraped back into a tight, unbecoming bun. She sat with her hands folded meekly in her lap, her blue eyes downcast, a quiet, obedient, colorless female.

If the debutantes-in-training were invited to lavish afternoon teas, preparing them for society, the teachers were expected to spend that time with their books, preparing for the next day’s lessons. The pupils had two hours of free time after dinner to practice their womanly arts, such as gossiping and discussing the newest fashion magazines. The instructors needed those hours to practice housekeeping, for no maid was assigned to see to their clothes or accommodations. This was also the only time of day for Miss Swann to practice her own music, to maintain her own skills.

The young ladies in the upper classes, those soon to make fashionable marriages, it was assumed—nay, devoutly prayed—were given rooms of their own. The lucky instructors shared rooms; the younger, less favored had curtained alcoves in the smaller girls’ dormitories. This was why Miss Swann, at twenty-four the youngest teacher at the academy, carried her precious letter in her pocket, rather than let the eight twelve-year-olds whose room she shared also share her personal business.

And if, finally, those pampered darlings of the
ton—
this was
not
a charity school; there were no scholarship students here—received the plump Miss Meadow’s chirps and cheery head-bobs, earning her the nickname Meadowlark, the teachers received cold, short shrift. That kindly, smiling appearance hid a fact which Miss Swann knew well: inside Miss Meadow’s dumpling of a body beat a heart so coal-black it could stoke the fires of hell a good long while. Which was why she sat up even straighter, her back not touching the chair, and nervously tucked an errant lock back into its bun as two girls left Miss Meadow’s office giggling and chatting. Only one of the girls gave Miss Swann the merest nod of recognition, and that likely because the music teacher’s knock and request for an interview had occasioned another of Miss Meadow’s favorite teaching methods, the Precept. To instill the proper attitude in her students, Miss Meadow constantly held up examples. Last year’s graduate who had snapped up the heir to a dukedom in her very first season was held as the ideal model of proper behavior. Contrariwise, a bad example was the well-dowered debutante who, some years after her graduation, had cast aside all of Miss Meadow’s teachings and her parents’ orders, to marry an Ineligible man. A half-pay officer, he had left her as soon as her money was spent. The story was often embellished by titters and whispers after lights-out, to tales no proper young lady should know, but all did.

Tonight’s Precept had been Miss Cristabel Swann, or what not to become. Miss Swann’s mother had married a—deep breath—Second Son. Now their daughter, gently bred, properly educated, was fallen on hard times. Like most of the teachers at Miss Meadow’s Select Academy, she was a lady without prospects, a spinster of twenty-four who had not and never would make a good marriage. Was this what the girls wanted for themselves or their daughters? Heaven forbid! The last girl out gave Miss Swann a look that mingled pity with the superior knowledge that
she
would never make the same mistake, as she told Miss Swann that she could go in now.

“Well, what is it?” growled little Miss Meadow from behind her cherrywood desk. She did not ask Miss Swann to sit or offer her refreshment, although the tea tray was right in front of her.

Trying not to feel enormously tall and gawky, looking down at the headmistress, and trying particularly not to let her stomach rumble at the almond tarts in their silver dish, Miss Swann replied: “I have received a letter from my uncle’s solicitor in London. He—”

Miss Meadow had her pudgy little hand out. Cristabel did not even think to refuse. She drew the letter from her pocket and handed it over, continuing despite the interruption, while the other woman smoothed out the rumpled, slightly soiled document. “He wishes to consult with me as soon as possible, he writes, concerning the estate of my Uncle Charles.”

“Baron Harwood, eh?” Miss Meadow gabbled to herself. “There’s no heir to the title, so the Crown will recall the entailed holdings.” (She knew her Debrett’s better than her Bible. No, Debrett’s
was
her Bible. The gossip columns were her hymnal.) “He was a ne’er-do-well anyway, a gamester. There won’t be anything left,” she mumbled, holding the page right under her nose to see better, or to sniff out any advantage to herself in it. There wasn’t any, so she lost interest and handed the letter back. “Too bad.”

“Too bad” seemed a fairly cold remark to offer someone whose uncle has passed on to his final and just reward, but Cristabel herself was not precisely grief-stricken, so she merely accepted it as a comment on the late baron’s luck, or lack of it. “Thank you,” she said, adding, “the lawyer did speak of an estate, however.”

“Nothing of value, you can be sure. No, if there were a vast fortune, the solicitor would certainly have come in person. If there were even a modest inheritance, he would have sent a carriage. At the very least, if there were anything at all, he would have enclosed coach fare. That’s the way these men of business think. No, he just wants your permission to dispose of some gimcrack family stuff. You’ll write back telling him to sell the lot and send you a check.”

Cristabel twisted the letter in her long, thin hands. “Perhaps there is a portrait of my father I would like to have, or an heirloom I might wish to keep.”

“Would you?” Miss Meadow considered. “Yes, I suppose you would.” The fact that Miss Meadow harbored no such mawkish sentiments was evident in her tone. “In that case, you must request a list of the items for your perusal. Really, Miss Swann, you could have figured this out for yourself. My teachers cannot be so featherheaded as that. Now, I am quite busy.” Her beady eyes flicked to the almond tarts. “Will that be all?”

Miss Swann licked her lips and took a deep breath. “I…I thought I might go to London.”

Miss Meadow sighed. This was really getting quite tedious. “The summer break shall be upon us in a few months. I had thought you might be more useful here with the day students, but perhaps you could escort one of the girls home for her vacation and fit a few days in London into your return schedule. Though why anyone would want to visit the metropolis in the heat of July is beyond me. Still, it might be educational for you, something to pass on to your students. Yes, we might consider it.” Miss Meadow selected a paper from her desk—on the other side from the tea things—and started to read. Her forehead puckered as if in concentration.

Miss Swann had accompanied one of her more favorite students to the girl’s parents’ estate some Christmases past, and she was not about to do so again. Invited to stay, Cristabel was housed with the servants; requested to play the pianoforte, she was hidden behind a screen of potted ferns to entertain the family’s house guests. Nor was she anxious to remain at the school all summer, giving remedial music lessons to those young ladies whose families were in Bath for July or August, away from that same London heat. The girls resented lessons in the summer; Miss Swann resented that the other teachers were permitted to visit their own families during the long break, even though she had no one to visit. That was nothing to do with today’s issue. Cristabel cleared her throat.

Miss Meadow stopped pretending to read. “Yes, Miss Swann, I
shall
consider your request.” She looked down. Then up. “Was there something else?”

“I thought I might go to London now. That is, as soon as possible. Miss Macklin could take my place with the younger girls, and the older girls could practice their repertoires for the week or so I’d be gone.”

The paper was slammed down on the desk, making the teapot and Miss Swann both jump. “Oh, you did, did you? Think you could just go jauntering off to town for a holiday? Of all the maggoty notions! I would expect such an idea from one of the younger pupils. Who did you think would take Miss Macklin’s place teaching voice? The drawing teacher—or perhaps the scullery maid? Miss Swann, I expected better of you, certainly more loyalty to the academy. Your idea is a total impossibility. Total, I am sure. I have said you may go on this fruitless quest during the summer, despite the inconvenience it shall cause in the class scheduling. I think that is very generous on my part, do not you?”

“Yes, Miss Meadow.” Cristabel did not say that the middle-aged proprietress could herself take part in the education of her pupils, or that the scullery maid could likely teach the young ladies something more important in life than the proper way to balance a teacup. She did not even comment on Miss Meadow’s generosity, which had never extended to giving Cristabel a share in the exorbitant fees charged for those private summer music lessons. The only thing she did say, on her way out, was “Yes, Miss Meadow.”

The headmistress made no answer as Cristabel closed the door behind her and fled. Not upstairs to “her” room, where those little imps-of-Satan would wheedle her upset and disappointment out of her. Instead she glided across the hall, slowly and gracefully even in her distress, to the music room where she would be undisturbed. Heavens knew, none of the girls ever practiced their music without being assigned.

It was here, with the pianoforte and the harp, that Miss Swann was used to escaping from the drudgery and petty nastiness. Here even the specter of Miss Meadow evaporated into the mist of music and daydreams. And Miss Swann
did
have dreams.

Her musings weren’t like the debutante dreams her students were forever weaving, all fancy gowns, grand balls, handsome lords. Cristabel’s were much more modest, like the vision she had of just one new dress. Muslin, she and Herr Bach picked out. Cornflower blue to match her eyes. Or maybe pink to give some color to her wan indoor complexion—anything but the brown, gray, black, or navy which were all she was permitted to wear. This was a possible dream, of course, one she might someday attain without touching her meager life savings. She could save the extra money by giving up her library subscription. The books she took out on her twice-monthly half days were mostly for the entertainment of her charges upstairs anyway, so they would lie abed quietly listening to her read, instead of raising a rumpus and Miss Meadow’s wrath.

Cristabel had another dream, this one not nearly so easy to translate into reality, with or without any amount of cheeseparing. Here, lost in her music, she saw herself in a tiny cottage with a kitchen garden out back with flowers, sweet peas, perhaps, on a trellis in the front—and a nice, quiet, smiling gentleman to love and cherish her. Maybe a young barrister or haberdasher’s assistant would spot her in her cornflower blue dress. He would fall in love and marry her, just for herself, despite her plain looks and lack of dowry. Maybe he would notice her at the lending library, unless, of course, she stopped using the library in order to save enough to buy the dress. If she went in her usual heavy, dark gowns, though, he would see only a washed-out, pinched-looking old maid. Ah well, so her dreams needed polishing. So did the new Mozart piece she was memorizing.

The problem, of course—with her dreams, not her music—was that Miss Swann hadn’t always lived a life of endless monotony and servility, with a future as bleak as a Bath winter. Once she’d had a loving, happy home, with no luxuries, to be sure, but no lacks, either. Her father was the well-respected vicar in a small village where his little family had all they wanted and enjoyed what they had. Reverend Swann had died when Cristabel was sixteen, forcing his wife and daughter to eke out a meager living as best two gently bred females could, living in rented rooms and giving music lessons. Still, they had each other, but just for a year. At her mother’s death, Cristabel considered herself fortunate to gain a position with Miss Meadow’s school, teaching the youngest girls their do-re-mi’s. Who knew what would have become of her else? Certainly her Uncle Charles hadn’t answered her plea for help. She was not precisely ungrateful to Miss Meadow, these seven years later, but she couldn’t help wishing that someday her life would change. She couldn’t help fearing, though, that sometimes someday never came.

That was before the letter. Now, if the letter had just arrived, and she’d gone straightaway into Miss Meadow’s office with it, then she would likely have done precisely as her employer advised. She would have written a polite reply to the solicitor. But she’d had the letter for two days. Last night one of her girls was sick, from too many candied cherries smuggled in somehow. And today was Patron Day at the school, when various of the Bath dowagers visited the establishment to have their sponsorship rewarded with an afternoon of musical renditions, poetry recitations, needlework and watercolor exhibits, and tea with Miss Meadow and some of the upper girls. The school benefited from the association with the
ton,
the girls learned more about the polite world, and the patronesses got to feel they were making an unselfish contribution to society, without having to touch their checkbooks or anything dirty. If they wished to feel particularly magnanimous, they could even invite one or two of the senior girls to their homes for an afternoon call, especially if they had an impecunious nephew on the lookout for a rich wife. Anyway, Miss Meadow had been much too busy with the grand visitors to bother about the concerns of her most junior instructress. So Miss Swann had had the extra time to commit the letter to memory and to dream.