Chapter 3
Miss Mallory’s School for Ladies followed, in a modified form, the educational precepts of Emma Mallory’s idol, Mary Wollstonecraft.
The girls were taught a wide range of subjects, including Latin and science; they were encouraged to take vigorous daily exercise; and they were obliged to keep informed as to the affairs of the day.
No trouble these days holding the girls’ attention with the daily reading of the newspaper.
Napoleon Bonaparte had been the scourge of Europe all their lives and now, when they had thought him a matter only for the history books, he was back.
Many of the girls had fathers or brothers in the army, or recently sold out.
The older girls, at least, understood the implications.
The events were discussed with all the enthusiasm a teacher could desire.
At first they had thought Napoleon’s return to France the act of an utter madman, but the news worsened day by day.
Haughty, extravagant King Louis VIII had made himself unpopular and the ex-emperor was being greeted with enthusiasm by the French people.
The armies sent to oppose him were instead pledging allegiance at such a rate that Napoleon was reputed to have sent the Bourbon king a note saying, “My Good Brother, there is no need to send any more troops. I already have enough.”
King Louis had fled the country and Napoleon was once more in power.
When, one Tuesday morning, Beth was summoned away from her class of little ones to Miss Mallory’s yellow parlor, she could only think of international disasters. Invasion, even.
A good schoolmistress never shows alarm before her pupils.
She took time to rearrange the embroidery in Susan Digby’s hands for the twentieth time and to reassure sweet little Deborah Crawley-Foster that her papa would not mind a few bloodstains on the first handkerchief she had monogrammed for him.
She remembered with a pang that Deborah’s father was Colonel Crawley-Foster; Bonaparte’s return might mean more than a few spots of blood.
Consumed with impatience she left Clarissa Greystone, the senior girl who had brought the message, to cope with further problems and walked briskly through the school.
It was almost unheard of for Aunt Emma to call her from a class, but Beth began to think she was foolish to imagine political emergencies.
Even if Bonaparte were marching on London there was nothing Beth Armitage could do to prevent it.
It was more likely some problem with a pupil, perhaps an anxious parent.
The only pupil she thought might have a problem, however, was Clarissa Greystone, who had been unusually subdued of late.
Of course the girl had hoped to leave school this year and go to London for the Season.
Clarissa had been very unhappy when it became clear that the family fortunes were straitened and her debut would have to be postponed.
The tears occasioned by that news had been months ago, however, and it was only in the past fortnight that the girl had seemed withdrawn, ever since a parental visit.
Beth was puzzling over this matter when she arrived at the front hall. This was elegantly appointed with a rich carpet runner on the polished oak floor and gleaming modern furnishings. It was, after all, the first impression given to the parent of a prospective pupil.
Beth stopped before the large mirror hanging over a mahogany half-table and straightened her formal cap, tucking a stray brown curl back under it. To hold her position in the school in which she had recently been a pupil she found it useful to adopt severity.
She stepped back to make sure her gray wool round gown hung smoothly from the high waistband and that no grubby or bloody fingers had marred it. Satisfied that Aunt Emma would have no cause to blush for her, she stepped over to scratch at the parlor door.
When she entered she decided it was a parental matter, though she did not know the man who had risen upon her entrance.
He was, she supposed, middle-aged, but had none of the vagueness of that description.
He was tall, slim, and elegant, with thinning, well-cut hair touched with silver at the sides, and very regular features.
He was, however, studying her with more attention than was polite. Beth raised her chin slightly.
“Your Grace,” said Miss Mallory in an odd voice, “allow me to present Miss Elizabeth Armitage. Miss Armitage, this is the Duke of Belcraven who wishes to speak with you.”
Beth dropped a curtsy but did not attempt to conceal her astonishment. She had never heard of the Duke of Belcraven and was sure there had been no daughters of that house in the school in her time.
The duke was still inclined to stare and with something of a disapproving frown in it. Beth returned the look. She did not believe in kowtowing to the aristocracy, particularly if they were not parents of Miss Mallory’s pupils.
The man turned to the older woman. “I wish to speak to Miss Armitage alone, Miss Mallory.”
“That would be most improper, Your Grace,” said that lady with immense dignity. She, too, was not one to grovel before the idle rich.
“I have no designs on Miss Armitage’s virtue, ma’am,” he said dryly. “I merely wish to discuss some private matters. Whether she shares them with you afterwards will be at her discretion.” The tone was mild, but it was clear the duke was not used to having his wishes questioned.
Miss Mallory gave in. Despite her egalitarian principles, she was a businesswoman, and it was no light matter to offend a duke. “I will leave the decision to Miss Armitage, then,” she said at last.
Under two pairs of eyes, Beth was not about to admit to any qualms about being alone with a quite elderly gentleman.
Her principles were based on the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft—author of The Rights of Man and The Rights of Woman.
She did not allow her behavior to be circumscribed by useless restrictions on the freedom of women.
“I have no objection,” she said calmly, and waited as her “aunt” left the room.
“Please sit down,” said the duke as he resumed his own seat. “What I have to say to you, Miss Armitage, will seem incredible and perhaps alarming. I hope you will restrain any tendency to become emotional.”
Visions of a Napoleonic invasion flashed into Beth’s mind again, for she could imagine nothing else which would be so distressing.
But that was to be ridiculous. He was doubtless the sort to think that a woman will throw fits over every little thing.
As she sat down—back straight, head high, hands in lap—Beth met his eyes, determined to prove otherwise.
“I always restrain any tendency to become emotional,” she said clearly.
“Do you?” asked the duke with what appeared to be genuine, if uneasy, fascination.
“Yes, Your Grace. Excessive emotions are tiresome for all concerned, and in a school for young ladies they are all too common.”
For some reason this very reasonable point of view seemed to take the duke aback, and he started frowning at her again.
“You did say, Your Grace, that you did not want emotionalism?” Beth queried, not above needling a little.
“Not exactly, my dear,” he said mildly. “I requested you to restrain your emotions, but I did not wish you without them altogether.”
This conversation seemed to Beth to be a waste of her valuable time. “Well then, Your Grace,” she said tartly, “consider them restrained. You are not likely to know the difference.”
A smile twitched his lips and to her astonishment he said, “I like you, my dear. More than my … my other daughters.”
Beth frowned in puzzlement. “Other daughters? You have a daughter here, Your Grace? I was not aware of it.”
“You are my daughter.”
The words created their own tribute of silence.
After a few heartbeats so noticeable she could have counted them, Beth straightened to look directly at him. She had wondered whether this moment would ever occur. Her tone was icy when she responded. “You do not, I hope, expect me to greet you with filial delight.”
He paled. “I never knew of your existence until a few weeks ago, my dear.”
Despite her earlier comments, Beth found herself in danger of excessive emotion. Fierce anger was stirring in her, but she struggled to remain cool. “I would prefer that you not use any familiarity or endearment with me, Your Grace.”
Beth knew nothing of her mother except that Miss Mallory had once been her friend, but she had firm opinions on men who were careless with their progeny.
“So, you are not prepared to like me,” said the duke coolly, relaxing back into his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “As you wish. Do you question the relationship?”
“I must,” said Beth equally coolly, though she was rather put out by his acceptance of her hostility.
She had expected more attempts at fondness, attempts she would have taken pleasure in spurning.
“Though, as you do not seem to be in search of a devoted daughter to minister to your old age, it is difficult to imagine what could make you lay such a claim without cause.”
“Precisely,” said the duke. “It is a pleasure to deal with a rational woman.” His words, which would normally have pleased her, irritated Beth almost beyond bearing.
“If you will read this letter,” he continued, “it will provide some evidence. You may then wish to seek further confirmation as to your mother’s identity from Miss Mallory.”
Beth took the letter reluctantly. She had thought she had long ago come to terms with her irregular origins and accepted the absence of parents. This sudden eruption of them was proving painful.