His Wayward Bride (Romance of the Turf Book 3) Read online

  At the end of the day, Irene could stand it no more. “I’m going to scrub myself clean,” she announced to the household, “and then I’m going to bed, and in the morning I’m going back to the academy.”

  If Jonah appeared surprised or disappointed, she didn’t know. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t want to concern herself with his feelings just now. He’d not concerned himself with Irene’s when he’d brought her mother into this house.

  She departed early on Monday morning, before the sun had fully risen. Before Susanna was up and about, preparing for the first time for a landau to take her to the mantua-maker’s shop where she worked.

  London was never completely quiet and still, even in a tonnish street, even at this hour. Lamplighters with their long poles were dousing streetlamps as the sky turned from orange to pink to purple-blue. Servants bearing baskets exited their employers’ houses, ready to shop for the day’s needs at a market. A bit of green broke the stony wall of homes, a damson plum tree growing in the shade of an oak. Nearby was a bakery, the smell of warm bread a seduction to which Irene’s stomach growled a response.

  Her walk to the academy was not long, yet with each passing minute there were more people about, more carriages. A chestnut horse pulled a hackney, clip-clopping over cobbles and depositing a massive dropping in the street. All part of life in London. Even Jonah, working on the Chandler stud farm, surely did not encounter as many droppings as the average Londoner.

  A small boy darted past Irene, wielding a broom taller than himself. “Clear the street for you, ma’am?”

  She hadn’t planned to cross here, but why not? She felt for her purse, for the money remaining from the sale of the ring—but there was nothing. Not even a pocket. She patted frantically at her side, then remembered: She wasn’t wearing her usual gown. She was wearing the clean, dry one she’d borrowed from Susanna, who had squirreled away a wealth of customer castoffs with her hoard of scraps. Rather than her sensible dark blue, Irene was garbed in a scoop-necked gown the rich shade of ripe cherries. Which had no pockets. And in her haste and fatigue, she’d left her purse behind in Queen Anne Street.

  “Sorry, no. I haven’t a coin for you.” She wished she did. He looked no more than six years old, too small to be darting around horses. He was thin too, with a drawn face under a thick shock of black hair. He’d have done well to pilfer a meat pie, as Mouse had.

  “Have you any parents?” she asked. Maybe she could speak to them. Have some pies delivered to their rooms later.

  “Not since Christmas.” The boy shrugged. “When they were sick an’ got dead.”

  “And now you look after yourself?” She pushed back the brim of her hat to get a better look at the street sweeper. To her surprise, he didn’t turn away in search of likelier employment. He gaped, letting his broom fall, and stepped closer.

  “Ma’am,” he breathed, reaching up with a grimy hand. “Your skin. It’s a brown color.”

  Annoyed, she shook off his hand. “Some people have brown skin. It’s perfectly usual.”

  His eyes went wide. “Ma’am. I know it is. My mum had just that color of skin. When she was alive, I mean.”

  She softened at once. The boy was light enough to sunburn all across his face, so she hadn’t guessed he had a black mother—but she certainly couldn’t walk away from him now. So often, Irene was the only person in sight whose skin was darker than clotted cream.

  The clotted-cream people never thought about this, because there were so many of them. They were never the only one.

  So she asked the child, “How do you hold body and soul together if your parents are dead?”

  “A man gave me this broom. I pay him what I make, an’ he gives me food an’ a place to sleep.”

  And probably the boy didn’t get enough of either. His wrists were knobby, sticking out of the sleeves of a too-small jacket, and there were shadows under his deep-set brown eyes.

  She bit her lip. Jonah had already taken in her mother, her brother, and a deerhound. What would he think if she sent him a boy to care for too? Was Irene just as heedless of boundaries as her mother, stretching the household with more and more?

  No, surely not. This street sweeper was a person, not a chaotic hoard of paper and cloth scraps. And every household could use an errand boy.

  She crouched to the boy’s level. “Do you like the work with the broom? Or would you like a different sort of job, where you get to keep what you earn?”

  The boy laughed. When Irene didn’t, he went instantly sober. “You mean it?”

  “I mean it. What’s your name?”

  He paused. “You can call me Eli, ma’am.”

  And you can call me Mrs. Chalmers, she thought. She knew a false name when she heard one. Well, why should the boy trust her without evidence?

  She gave him the address of the house on Queen Anne Street. “At the servants’ entrance, tell them Mrs. Jonah Chandler sent you and that they should give you either a job or a shilling. One to keep, just for you.”

  “A shilling!” He laughed again. “They’ll never.”

  “If they won’t, ask for Mr. Jonah, and he’ll see it done.”

  Looking doubtful, Eli agreed, then at last turned away toward a new pile of droppings. A new potential customer.

  Maybe he’d take the leap, and maybe he wouldn’t. Irene shouldn’t care too much about one orphan. One broom. One possible coin. Even if Eli came to work for Jonah’s family, another desperate boy would take his place with the broom.

  But she did care; she always did. If one could help, one should…right? God made street sweepers and princes with the same sort of soul.

  The sun was fully risen now, and Irene would have to hurry to be in time for breakfast at the academy. She glanced back over her shoulder at the busily sweeping Eli, then continued on.

  One more corner to turn, and then she was on Manchester Street, where Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies beckoned from behind its neat iron railing.

  The school featured unusual security. Every door was guarded by sturdy footmen, and all communications to staff from the outside were investigated if they didn’t include a certain symbol or phrase, changed monthly. It was for the protection of the teachers, some of whom had ample reason to disappear or hide—and for whom this woman-run girls’ school was a haven.

  For the first time, the protective measures struck Irene as other than a good thing. It was a bit of a tragedy that some of her fellow teachers had been chased from their former lives. And she, Irene, was fortunate to be here by choice.

  The students were gathering in the refectory for breakfast, neat rows of blue-gowned girls. All of the students boarded at the academy, even the daughters of Londoners. Mrs. Brodie wanted to create no separation between those who paid their own way and those attending on scholarship—her phrase for charity students.

  Tuition was more than double that of other area boarding schools, with a ten-guinea entrance fee. However, perhaps one-third of the girls paid nothing. They had been plucked from impoverished settings by Mrs. Brodie or one of her teachers, recognized as promising learners. Students studied literature, history and geography, maths, French, and the like—as well as more…unusual subjects. Parents were informed they must give the school a free hand.

  An annual dinner and exhibition of skills—the conventional ones, not the sub-rosa ones discussed only within the school’s bounds—brought in donations and added to the long waiting list for admission. The enrolled daughters of nobility, both English and foreign, were additional proof of the school’s worth to those aspiring to high fashion. Once in Mrs. Brodie’s environment, rare was the parent who left without agreeing to the exorbitant tuition. The headmistress, it was widely agreed, was a saint on earth.

  Irene wasn’t so sure about that. A saint wouldn’t look so knowing, or be acquainted with so many forgers, smugglers, and pickpockets. But there was no denying Mrs. Brodie had been a benefactress to Laurie Baird.

  Irene s
nagged a bun from the table to serve as her own meal. Sidling up the back stairs, she soft-footed it to her chamber. With a quick knock, she pressed the door open. Her chamber-mate, Rebecca Carpenter, was sitting before their shared vanity and poking a final pin into her orange-red hair.

  “M-morning, Irene.” Rebecca grinned. “I wrote out those answers for your brother. He’s awfully interested in geometry lately, isn’t he?”

  As tall and broad-shouldered as she was friendly, Rebecca taught mathematics, geometry, and physical defense. After years of practice, her stutter was slight, though Irene remembered Rebecca’s student years, when the rangy girl had hardly been able to present her brilliant mathematics calculations. Becoming a teacher had done wonders for her confidence.

  “Is he? I didn’t know.” Irene took the papers from Rebecca, flipping through them just slowly enough to be able to tell that the correspondence was beyond her comprehension. “Thanks for helping him, Becks. Every time I see him, he hands me another list of questions. Sometimes a book he wants me to grab from the library.”

  “Oh, he asked for that t-too. Wanted to know if M-Mrs. Brodie had any books on woodworking.”

  “Woodworking.” Irene rolled her eyes. “Why would she? None of our girls study that.”

  “But they m-might want to. And so she does.” Rebecca handed over a flat volume Irene had taken for a ledger. “He gets t-two weeks with this book, then he can have another.”

  “Only two weeks? I won’t see him again until Saturday at the earliest.” If she could force herself to go back to the newly chaotic Queen Anne Street house.

  Rebecca shrugged. “That’s what M-Mrs. Brodie said.”

  “All right, I’ll sort something out.” Irene dropped the papers onto her bed. “Is that the time? Drat. I’ve got five minutes before my first class. What have you got first? Maths for the little ones?”

  “Yes, then a full day of lessons. T-tomorrow evening, we’ll have the next physical defense class for t-teachers.”

  “I’ll be there,” Irene promised. “I tossed James the footman over my head last week, and he said this week he’d let me dislocate his elbow.”

  “Please don’t.” Rebecca looked pained. “M-Mrs. Brodie was no end of annoyed when Silas sprained his ankle last m-month. He’s still not back on guard duty.”

  Irene raised her right hand. “I solemnly swear I will not injure the footmen. Not on purpose, anyway.” And with that, she left Mrs. Chandler and Irene behind and gathered her supplies to begin the day as Mrs. Chalmers.

  Chapter Five

  Irene stowed the boxes of dissected maps puzzled together by her youngest students, then set out practice exams for her oldest.

  As they filed into the classroom, Irene greeted each girl by name. Ages sixteen to twenty, they’d been at the academy for years. They had soaked up knowledge of subjects typical and unusual. They’d learned the lay of the city and the country and the world. They’d learned to defend themselves intellectually and, if that failed, with fists.

  Not for the first time, Irene wished she’d been able to attend a school like this one. Her own education had been patchwork and piecemeal as her parents had moved about England, always slightly ahead of the destruction of her father’s latest scheme.

  But she’d done all right for herself, hadn’t she? She had a good post and a good husband and good students. It was all she’d ever wanted.

  Almost.

  Each classroom was similarly appointed, with shelves for storage, a large desk for the teacher, and a dozen smaller desks. The furnishings were easily rearranged to become obstacles during pickpocketing lessons. On the whitewashed walls, Irene had hung antique maps and woodcut portraits of historical figures. In winter, the space was cozy with a fire on the hearth. Today the window sashes were thrown open to quest vainly for a summer breeze.

  It was a space entirely her own, to run as she wished. And she loved it.

  “Good morning.” Irene sat at her desk facing the students. “At your place, you’ll see a blank map of England with county boundaries to guide you. Please label all counties and major cities from memory. You will have”—Irene glanced at the clock that sat on the mantel—“until half past the hour. I’ll alert you when five minutes remain.”

  Arabella Chook, the brightest girl in the class, raised a hand. Mrs. Brodie had plucked the girl from an Irish orphanage and allowed her to attend the academy on scholarship. The girl learned with a hunger that justified the headmistress’s faith.

  “Miss Chook,” Irene acknowledged her.

  “What counts as a major city?”

  “Any with a population greater than ten thousand souls.” Though millions lived in England, few cities boasted a population above ten thousand. Alas, Newmarket was not one of them. Irene would have liked to see Newmarket on the maps, looking as if it were only inches from London, the distance between her life and Jonah’s easily spanned.

  Arabella nodded, and the students dipped their quills and set to work. While they labeled their maps, Irene began to mark the history essays her twelve-year-olds had submitted the day before. She disliked grading, but knew it was necessary to ensure her students were learning.

  When the time came, she gave the five-minute warning, then collected papers. “You’ve one final assignment for term,” she told the class. “Due next Wednesday, a study of the Acts of Union that created Great Britain in the early eighteenth century, contrasted with the Acts of Union that created the United Kingdom in 1801.”

  Geography and history and composition. She was rather pleased with the assignment. Oh, her students looked less so, but what girl in her teens was eager to research political history?

  Once the students had dutifully transcribed the assignment, they looked up at Irene with smiling eagerness. She grinned back. “Yes, we have time for What Would You Like to Know. Who has an idea?”

  They’d begun this weekly game at the beginning of term, filling the last few minutes of a lesson that had gone more swiftly than expected. Depending on the week, students might test Irene’s knowledge of minutiae or reveal heartbreakingly intimate worries. That first week, Elsie Potter had asked, “How do you know if your parents love you?”

  Irene had turned the question over to the other students, who answered the downcast Elsie with confident answers, then ridiculous replies. By the end of class, all dozen students were laughing like bosom friends, and a tradition had been born.

  Elsie was the first to raise her hand today. “What should we do when the term is over?”

  “The answer will be different for each of you. Have any of you set a plan yet?” Irene looked from student to student. “If you’re not certain, you can return to school. For those of you ready for occupation, Mrs. Brodie will find a post for you.”

  Seraphina James, daughter of a baron, looked worried. “My parents said I cannot come back after this term, because I must begin mixing in polite society.”

  The phrase polite society made Irene want to roll her eyes. It had nothing to do with true politeness; sometimes it meant quite the opposite.

  She considered several different replies. You can decide for yourself who to spend time with? Not if the girl was financially dependent on her father. You can return here if you don’t agree? Not before she was of age; until then, she belonged to her parents.

  So Irene asked a question of the room as a whole. “What determines polite society?”

  “How much money you have,” piped up Celeste St. Aubyn, wiry and cheerful.

  “That can’t be right,” said Mary Williams, black-haired and sulky. “My father owns a cloth factory and has pots of money, but he hasn’t been able to get me a voucher to Almack’s.”

  Arabella wrinkled her nose, thinking. “Is it to do with how long your family’s had influence? Because some nobles are poor as paupers, but they’re still part of polite society.”

  “What do you all think of that explanation?” Irene asked the students.

  “I think it’s correct, bu
t it’s not fair,” said Mary. “No one can help who they were born to.” Other girls nodded.

  “If we don’t rely on traditions of birth or wealth,” Irene asked, “how should we decide which people get power and influence?”

  “We don’t,” scoffed another girl. “Men do. They make the laws.”

  “Being male is another accident of birth that grants privilege,” Irene said. “Unfortunately, many men mistake this for true superiority. But influence need have nothing to do with law. Do you think Mrs. Brodie lacks influence?”

  This was so ludicrous as to invite laughter—and then silence fell as the girls thought.

  Irene gave them more food for contemplation. “What you learn here will help you achieve influence and maybe even power. Over your own person, we hope, and your own fate.”

  Academy courses prepared a woman to serve as a head of household, a paid companion, an amanuensis. Skills to keep her safe on the streets or easeful in a palace. A woman could easily be left without resources; she must stash them when given the opportunity, shutting them inside her head for safekeeping.

  “Pitt the Elder was a commoner,” Arabella ventured, “and he became prime minister. So it must be possible for anyone.”

  “Yes, but his family was rich!” Mary folded her arms, mutinous. “And he went to Oxford, dinnee, and met important people there.”

  The sort of education Irene had long wanted for Laurie. “An excellent historical example.”

  Seraphina raised a tentative hand. “Mrs. Chalmers? What sort of family do you come from?”

  “I’m a Londoner by birth, like many of you.”

  “But what of your people?” Seraphina looked worried again. “Did you become a teacher because you wanted to, or because you had to earn money, or because you couldn’t get any other work, or—”