CHAPTER 2 #2
Some of them were squealing—perhaps over the sight of the carriage, which was admittedly rather splendid, or perhaps over the sight of his horse, which was not but was the best he could do under the circumstances and was at least not lame in any one of its four legs.
Or perhaps they squealed over him—arresting thought!
—though doubtless he was a few generations too ancient to send them into any grand transports of romantic delight.
A few others wept into their handkerchiefs alternately with throwing themselves upon the two who wore cloaks and bonnets and were apparently the travelers.
Another girl—or perhaps young lady would be a more accurate description since she must be three or four years older than any of the others—ineffectively exhorted the girls to stand in two orderly lines.
Joseph guessed that she must be a teacher.
The elderly, sour-faced porter, whose boots creaked just as he recalled they had done two days ago, set two valises out on the step and looked at John as if to say that it was his responsibility to see that they found the rest of their way to the carriage.
One of the travelers was chattering volubly to anyone who cared to listen—and to everyone who did not, for that matter. The other wept.
Joseph looked down upon the chaotic scene with avuncular good humor.
And then Miss Martin stepped out onto the pavement and there was a noticeable hush among the ranks, though the second traveler continued to sob. Another lady came out behind her and addressed them with far more authority than the young teacher had demonstrated.
“Girls,” she said, “did you overpower Miss Walton and drag her out here with you? You said your good-byes to Flora and Edna at breakfast, did you not? And should therefore now be in class?”
“We came to say good-bye to Miss Martin, miss,” one bold and quick-thinking girl said to the murmured agreement of a few others.
“That was extremely thoughtful of you all,” the teacher said, her eyes twinkling. “But Miss Martin would appreciate the gesture far more if you were to stand in two neat lines and conduct yourselves with the proper decorum.”
The girls promptly and cheerfully obeyed.
Miss Martin meanwhile was eyeing first the carriage, then Joseph’s horse, and then him.
“Good morning, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, her voice brisk.
She was dressed neatly and quite unappealingly in a gray cloak and bonnet—probably a sensible choice on a day that was cloudy and dreary despite the fact that it was almost summer.
Behind her, the porter was lugging one sizable piece of baggage—no doubt hers—across the pavement and would have attempted to hoist it to the roof if John had not firmly intervened.
“Good morning, Miss Martin,” Joseph said, doffing his tall hat and inclining his head to her. “I see I have not arrived too early for you.”
“We are a school,” she reminded him, “and do not sleep until noon. Are you going to ride all the way to London?”
“Perhaps not all the way, ma’am,” he said. “But for much of the journey you and your pupils may enjoy having the carriage to yourselves.”
It was impossible to know for sure from the severity of her countenance if she was relieved, but he would wager a fortune she was. She turned her head.
“Edna?” she said. “Flora? We must not keep his lordship waiting. Climb into the carriage, please. The coachman is waiting to hand you in.”
She looked on without comment as the wailing started up again from the orderly lines of girls and the two travelers moved along them to hug each girl individually.
She gazed with pursed lips as, before each scrambled up the steps into the carriage, the teacher who had brought order out of chaos hugged them too and even kissed each girl on the cheek.
“Eleanor,” Miss Martin said then as she approached the carriage herself with firm strides, “you will not forget—”
But the other teacher cut her off. “I will not forget a single thing,” she said, her eyes still twinkling. “How could I when you had me write out a whole list last evening? There is not a thing for you to worry about, Claudia. Go and enjoy yourself.”
Claudia. An eminently suitable name—strong, uncompromising, suggestive of a woman who could look after herself.
Miss Claudia Martin turned to the lines of girls.
“I will expect to hear good things of my senior girls when Miss Thompson writes to me,” she said. “At the very least I will expect to hear that you have prevented any of the younger girls from burning the school to the ground or rioting through the streets of Bath.”
The girls laughed, though some were teary-eyed.
“We will, miss,” one of them said.
“And thank you,” Miss Martin said, “for coming out here for the sole purpose of saying good-bye to me. I am deeply touched. You will go inside with Miss Walton and work extra hard to make up for the minutes you have missed of this class—after you have waved me on my way. Perhaps at the same time you would care to wave to Edna and Flora too.”
She was capable of humor, then, even if only of a dry sort, Joseph thought as she set her hand in John’s, lifted one side of her cloak and dress, and followed the two girls inside the carriage.
John climbed up onto the box and Joseph gave him the nod to proceed.
And so the small cavalcade began its progress to London, sent on its way by the waving handkerchiefs of a dozen schoolgirls, some of whom were sniveling again while others called farewells to their fellow pupils who would never return but would proceed into the harsh world of employment—or so Susanna had informed Joseph.
They were charity girls, among a sizable group that Miss Martin insisted upon taking in every year.
He was half amused, half affected by what he had seen. It was like a glimpse into an alien world, one from which his birth and fortune had firmly insulated him all his life.
Children without the security of a family and fortune behind them.
By the time they stopped for the night at the Lamb and Flag Inn in Marlborough, where she had reserved two adjoining rooms, one for herself and one to be shared by Edna and Flora, Claudia was wondering if she could possibly have felt stiffer in the joints or more numb in certain nether parts of her anatomy if they had come by hired coach, as originally planned.
But she knew from past experience that she could indeed. The Marquess of Attingsborough’s carriage was clean and well sprung and had luxuriously padded upholstery. It was the sad condition of the road and the long hours of almost incessant travel that were responsible for her physical condition.
One blessing at least was that they had had the carriage to themselves all day, she and her two charges.
The marquess had ridden the whole way, changing mounts when the carriage horses had been changed.
Claudia had seen him only in fleeting glimpses through the window and at the various posting inns where they had made brief stops.
He cut a remarkably fine figure on horseback, of course, she had noticed with annoyance each time it had happened.
He was impeccably dressed for riding and looked perfectly at ease in the saddle—even after he had been riding for hours.
Doubtless he considered himself God’s gift to the human race, particularly the female half—which was a totally unfair judgment, she conceded in the privacy of her own thoughts, though she made no great effort to amend her opinion of him.
Of course it had been kind of him to offer his carriage for her convenience, but by his own admission he had done so in order to impress his family and friends.
She was half relieved, half indignant at the prompt, meticulous service they had received everywhere they stopped.
She knew it would have been far otherwise had she come in the hired coach.
She and the girls were even served refreshments in the carriage instead of having to step inside the various bustling inns to be jostled by other travelers and to wait in line for their purchases.
It had been a long and tedious day nonetheless, and there had been little conversation inside the carriage.
The girls had been visibly depressed for the first hour or so and not at all inclined to talk or even look appreciatively at the passing scenery.
And even when they had brightened after the first stop and the first round of refreshments, they had both been on their very best behavior in the company of their headmistress with the result that they scarcely spoke at all unless she directed specific questions at them.
Flora had been at the school for almost five years.
She had spent all of her childhood at an orphanage in London but had been turned out to fend for herself at the age of thirteen.
Edna had been orphaned at the age of eleven, when her parents had been murdered while defending their humble shop from thieves, though as it had turned out there had been precious little to defend.
There had been nothing with which to provide for their only daughter.
Fortunately, Mr. Hatchard had found her, as he had Flora, and sent her to Bath.
When Claudia stepped inside the Lamb and Flag, she was forced to wait while the landlord finished conducting a leisurely chat with another customer on the fascinating topic of fishing and two other men—not to be dignified by the term gentlemen—ogled Flora and Edna and desisted with insolent smirks only when Claudia glared at them.
She then looked pointedly at the landlord, who was pretending not to notice her. If another minute passed, she decided, she would certainly speak up.