Karen Harbaugh (3 page)

I looked at her steadily. “Make Sir Jeremy Swift marry Mama.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it and seemed to ponder. I still stared at her, my lips firm with determination. She gazed at me assessingly, and a faint smile trembled at the corners of her mouth; it seemed as if she were about to laugh. “My dear, that would be something to see if it could be done! Sir Jeremy has resisted all his relatives’ attempts to make him marry. But do you know . . .” Her smile grew wider. “I believe you could, if you set your mind to it. I really believe you could.” Miss Angstead put her hands flat on her desk. “And I shall help you,” she said.

I could have been knocked down with a feather— as Grimley, Mama’s abigail, would say—when Miss Angstead announced that she would instruct me in the art of being in a decline. I am afraid I did not do credit to my scholarly reputation. I stared at her, my jaws agape, hands clutching and wrinkling my skirts.

“For goodness’ sake, girl, close your mouth and sit up straight!” Miss Angstead said testily.

“B-but I, what is—I mean, I do
not
understand.”

“I believe I said I would help you go into a decline.” Miss Angstead smiled.

I wondered if the Headmistress had gone mad. I surveyed her carefully. She looked as she always did: somewhat untidy hair graying to white, large, intelligent brown eyes, a firm and competent mouth in a slim, lined face. She did not seem deranged in any way. However, I remembered that it is wholly possible for deranged persons to look quite normal.

“I do not want to be pert, ma’am,” I said cautiously, “but I wish you would explain to me what you mean.”

“I will let you go home,” she replied, and held up her hand as I blushed and opened my mouth. “Not in disgrace, though your actions certainly do warrant it! But your motives are laudable, and I have a desire to see Sir Jeremy Swift... reformed.” She clasped her hands together and looked at me in a satisfied manner.

“I still don’t understand, Miss Angstead. Do you know Sir Jeremy? And,” I reflected in some consternation, “if he needs to be reformed, I don’t know if I want him for Mama.”

Miss Angstead clicked her tongue. “My dear, all of us need to be reformed in some manner, some more or less than others. Yes, I am acquainted with him. We are somewhat related. It is the opinion of most of his family that he should end his bachelor ways—he is thirty-nine now, nearly forty.”

I nodded. “That
is
old, isn’t it?”

She raised her eyebrows at me but continued. “I think there would be little objection if he married a lady such as your mother.”

I bristled. “Excuse me, Miss Angstead, but I would like to know what you mean by that!”

“My dear, I did not mean offense, but I must be blunt if we are going to enter into a plan of action. I am aware it is rumored your mother has had . . . ah, associations. If she has, she has also been discreet, and there is nothing at which anyone can point a finger. But she has two disadvantages. First, she is a widow with no male protection. Second, and worse, she is remarkably pretty and popular with men. That she has no male relative to protect her would not even be a disadvantage if she were not pretty—people do believe worse about handsome widows than plain. A mark in her favor is that she is Mrs. Canning, the widow of the third son of the Viscount Canning.”

“She is a tradesman’s daughter,” I said, baring all.
“That
cannot be in her favor.”

“True, but if I recall, your grandmother was of genteel birth. Also, your mother had the good taste to marry and follow your father, who distinguished himself under Wellington before he sacrificed his life for his country.”

I had to admit that this last item was certainly a fine thing. But if Miss Angstead could be blunt, so could I. “But why my mother? There are probably more ... acceptable ... ladies, younger, too, who are available. Is there something wrong with him that other ladies do not like?”

The Headmistress smiled wryly. “Hardly. He has had caps set at him since he first came out on the town. As for more ‘acceptable’ ladies, as you put it, he has shown no lasting interest in any of them. His family has tried innumerable ways to draw certain eligible females to his attention—to no avail. But there is one tack no one has taken, and that is to encourage him to marry a lady in whom he is already interested.”

“But he must have been interested in many ladies already!”

“To be sure he has,” Miss Angstead said dryly, “but none so respectable as your mother.” I was not sure how to take this but let it pass. She rubbed her hands together. “So! I shall help you look as if you are going into a decline, you will go home, recover your health, and work to make Sir Jeremy marry your mother.”

All of a sudden I felt less confident of my plans. After all, what could I, at seventeen, do in the wide world? I looked down at my clasped hands. “How ... why do you think
I
can do this when you and his relatives cannot? I am not even sure I am equal to it.”

Miss Angstead looked at me with a serious expression. “For all your years, you are intelligent, can face facts—however unpleasant—and are remarkably ingenious at inventing ways to accomplish your aims. Further, you have already been successful at bringing mere inclinations to a head; in fact, I must congratulate you on your first matchmaking.” She smiled widely.

“Matchmaking? I haven’t done any matchmaking. ...” I thought of Miss Lauderdale’s words when she took care of me. I hadn’t bothered to puzzle over them then and had forgotten them since.

Miss Angstead seemed to read my thoughts. “Yes, Miss Lauderdale and the curate, Mr. Ainsley-Jones. It seems last Sunday brought him to a decision—”

“But I did not mean to bring them together!” I protested. “It was all an accident—I am very happy for them, to be sure—but I never had a thought to making Mr. Ainsley-Jones declare himself by giving up my dinner on Miss Standish!”

Miss Angstead tapped her foot impatiently.

I winced and murmured apologetically.

She continued. “You have a talent for bringing matters to a head, whether intentionally or not.” Miss Angstead sat back and looked out the window into the misty afternoon scene. “I have often thought that there are some people who are catalysts for Providence; a sort of Philosopher’s Stone of Fate. People whose very presence makes things happen. A situation may have all the elements for fortune or disaster, but nothing may occur until one such person enters the stage.”

“And you think I am one of these ... people?” I thought of the Wollstonecraft essays in the closet-library—which I understood by this time most people saw as radical—and reflected that perhaps Miss Angstead was more than a little eccentric. A perfect lady, of course, but not in the common way.

Miss Angstead returned her gaze to me and smiled. “You may not know this, but you are very good at making people reveal themselves. I realize this was not your intention last Sunday, but you showed clearly to me—and to Mr. Ainsley-Jones— the characters of Miss Lauderdale and Miss Standish.

“You were quite democratic in your illness, by the by. You became, er, ill on Miss Lauderdale as well. But Miss Lauderdale was in the line of fire, not inadvertently, but because she rushed to your aid. Meanwhile, Miss Standish shrieked her way into a fit of hysterics.” Miss Angstead waved a hand in a dismissing gesture. “She had to be taken away and put to bed. Miss Lauderdale, with great fortitude, continued to care for you—much to the admiration of Mr. Ainsley-Jones. Who better for a future vicar’s wife than a woman who could continue to care for others despite indignities to herself?” Miss Angstead gave a wry smile. “I am sure her calmness and self-possession in such a distasteful situation brought visions of Miss Lauderdale ministering to his future ailing parishioners.”

“But I did not intend for any of that to happen,” I protested again.

Miss Angstead stopped me with an upraised hand. “My dear, your actions were catalytic. Think of the things you have done so far and what has happened. You insist on being rain-drenched and constantly creep from the school grounds to steal apples. You do not think these are happy instances because you were punished for them. But for me, they were. They made me think that this school was becoming very unpleasant for you. I investigated the matter and became aware that gossip was rife in these halls—a condition I deplore. So you see, when you became ill I was not surprised. It simply fit the pattern. When I questioned you and you revealed your reasons, I found your mother was involved with Sir Jeremy.

“The result of your actions revealed to me the reliability of some of my schoolmistresses. You have also given me the opportunity to restore some measure of respectability to Sir Jeremy’s life. It does not matter that your actions were inadvertent. Your nature is such that you cannot help but bring situations to a head. I expect that whatever happens when you return home, whatever has been obscure will become clear. If Sir Jeremy has serious intentions toward your mother, you will see that. If he does not, you will see that, too, and I hope you will endeavor to show him your mother is worthy of marriage.”

I swallowed. I still did not see how she could have such confidence in me. But the important matter was that my mother be considered respectable again and that she not be gossiped about. I knew I would do all I could to bring that about.

Miss Angstead put her hands flat on the desk before her. “You will do it, if I help you, will you not?” she said with a sense of finality.

I looked straight into her wise eyes. “Yes, ma’am!” I said firmly, and then almost laughed, for I mentally snapped my fingers and thought:
That
for Mama’s scruples!

“Good! Now, I will give you a white powder to put on your face in the morning—I will put a touch of green powder in it to make you look especially anemic....”

A few days later I was carried gently to my carriage by a strong and handsome young footman. My schoolmates gathered at the gates of the Seminary to watch me leave. The younger girls gazed upon my interestingly pale visage and fainting form with awe, and the older ones eyed my conveyance to the coach with envy. I waved a handkerchief to all of them, gazing at them with what I hoped were sad eyes, and committed the sight of them to my mind. I savored the memory of their admiring and envious faces for the whole of the trip home.

Chapter Two

I arrived home, and Mama flew out of the house, hurried down the steps, and wrenched open the carriage door. “Georgia, my love! My poor dear!” she exclaimed, searching me with anxious eyes. She signaled the footman to carry me into the house. I was brought to my bedroom and laid on the bed. Mama hovered over me distractedly.

“Really, Mama, you needn’t fuss. I will be better in short order,” I said faintly. “It’s only anemia. Dr. Finchley said I was simply to have rest and eat well, and I will recover.” It was lucky I
had
stolen those apples and eaten them all; combined with my experience of ipecac, I had lost weight since last I had seen Mama, and it showed. To make it all the more impressive, Miss Angstead had shown me how to dab a tiny amount of charcoal beneath my eyes to make them look a bit sunken.

Mama continued wringing her hands. “Yes, Miss Angstead wrote to me about it—so kind of her!
She
is of the opinion you have been over-taxing yourself with studying. And those girls! I have no doubt they are the ones behind this. I have been wondering since I left you at the school if you would be driven to distraction despite your brave, brave words! Miss Angstead was so kind as to give Dr. Finchley’s remedy for this—red wine with each meal after breakfast, and I will order Cook to procure spinach, blackberries, and calf’s liver every day.”

Miss Angstead had not told me about the calf’s liver. I despised calf’s liver. But I could make do with the wine and blackberries and tolerate the spinach. I had a horrid thought then: What if, in the way of most remedies, these things were not taken separately but mixed together in some horrible potion? I believe I paled under my powder, for Mama exclaimed that she would leave me to rest after my tiring journey.

I faced my first meal at home with trepidation and quite lost my appetite: unpleasant but useful, for my picking at my food gave even more credence to my “illness.” But to my relief. Cook had made up the liver in a delicious pasty filled with vegetables and spices, and I scarcely tasted the liver at all. I did not eat all of it, however. One must keep up appearances, I told myself.

It is a very tedious thing to be ill. Mama insisted on midday naps and breakfast in bed, and if it were not for novels from our library, I would have gone mad from ennui. When I first came home, I conscientiously powdered my face with Miss Angstead’s pale green powder every day, but as soon as the boredom rose to an intolerable pitch, I judged it time to lessen the application. On days when I looked healthier, I ventured suggestions that a carriage ride might be beneficial. At first Mama was adamantly against it, but after a few days and upon a doctor’s approval, I was given leave to go out, as long as I was adequately protected from the cold.

I soon left off the powder altogether, though sometimes I still applied the charcoal beneath the eyes. I ate more heartily than before; this was easy, for Cook had been instructed to make the most delectable dishes she could think of that contained either blackberries, spinach, or liver. She did so magnificently.

By the time Mama judged I was ready to dine belowstairs, I had begun to plan what I would do when I met Sir Jeremy. A good officer first assesses the enemy before plunging into the thick of battle. While Sir Jeremy was not exactly an “enemy,” he was the object of my actions, and before I decided to do anything about him, I would see if he was worth it. I had not long to wait.

Mama had been too anxious about my health to host any parties at home, but as soon as she could see the blush of health return to my cheeks, she began to go to the opera and other events. I was glad of it; I suppose if I had been truly ill, I would have appreciated her efforts. Indeed, I was grateful for her concern, but because I was perfectly healthy, I had to endure being fussed over by both Mama and her abigail, Grimley, which made me irritable and snappish. To make it worse, when I growled at them, they would only look at each other and shake their heads as if to say “Georgia is so ill, poor little one! She is not her usual self because of it.”