Phrenology.
How she despised it.
Her mother and maternal grandfather had at one time both been passionate about studying the new theory coming from Austria, but over time its flaws and improper application became too obvious to ignore. Her mother had denounced the theory shortly before her death, but then the pamphlet was published.
And everything changed.
A week did not go by that Ella did not encounter the repercussions of the outlandish fallacy in one fashion or another, and now it had been thrust once again to the forefront of their lives. She detested living under the shadow of such rumors and was more determined than ever to prove them false.
Her father’s tone softened to a gentler timbre, just as it did whenever he’d speak of Leonora. “How you continually remind me of yourmother. Like you, she’d embrace an idea and refuse to let it go. I understand why you are opposed to this, but remember, nothing was more important to your mother—or your grandfather—than this school. For that reason I refuse to allow anger to affect my judgment.”
Ella’s gaze drifted to the large watercolor portrait of her mother hanging above the mantel. She took in the sharp mahogany eyes and an abundance of unruly raven hair that consistently resisted even the simplest chignon’s hold.
Her father’s words snapped her back to the conversation. “My only concern now is the school’s future and what will become of it when I am gone, which also, I might add, greatly affects you.”
The study’s heavy atmosphere shifted as tangibly as if a cloud had eclipsed the sun, and guilt descended as the conversation took a turn she hadn’t anticipated.
Father pushed unsteadily against the carved arms of his chair and stood. The white sunlight streaked through the dust-caked west window, highlighting his nose’s high bridge and intensifying the shadowing of his cheek’s hollow. With a hefty sigh he straightened his checked bottle-green waistcoat as he stepped to the window and looked out over the forecourt.
“I’ll admit, daughter, that I failed you. I permitted—nay, encouraged—you to become engaged to Mr. Rawlston. I believed him to be a man of integrity. I was wrong, and you’re forced to bear the brunt of his deception. I’m sorry for my oversight.”
Ella’s muscles tensed as the recollection surfaced. Her engagement to Mr. Rawlston had not been a love match, but his abrupt decision to sever the arrangement still stung like betrayal. “He made his own choice. It was not your fault.”
“Yes, but a father’s duty is to protect and provide. I should have been more thorough in my scrutiny.”
The expectation for her had always been clear—and monumental. For Keatley Hall to stay in the family, Ella simply needed to be married when her father died. Then, as a part of her dowry, the school would pass to her husband, who ideally would assume the role of headmaster. If she was not married, however, Keatley Hall, the school, and all its holdings would pass to a distant cousin, thereby dissolving any right she had to her beloved home.
Mere weeks ago, the future had seemed so secure. Mr. Rawlston had been supportive of her goal of opening a school for girls, and work had even commenced to convert a vacant cottage on the property to a smaller school in the coming year. But after he unexpectedly broke off the engagement, every plan—every dream—screeched to a halt. Her dowry might consist of the legendary Keatley House and school, but it came with the heavy contingency of maintaining the relationship with the Society, and that responsibility ruled out many men.
“Speaking of an uncertain future.” Her father’s forced brightness did little to alleviate the mounting tension. “I’ve devised a solution to this predicament that should both satisfy the Society’s need to support our plans for the next generation of students and put our minds to rest. I’ve been in contact with Abraham Abernathy on this very subject.”
Abraham Abernathy.
The blood in her veins cooled.
The ticking of the mantel clock intensified. The air breezing through the window warmed. She could protest Mr. Bauer. She could challenge perceptions and misconceptions, but there was no abating this one.
“Father, I—”
Her father’s arched brow and intense stare silenced her. “Abernathy’s been at the school for years. He’s proven himself loyal timeand time again, and he knows the inner workings as well as you and I. I believe him to be genuine, even-tempered, and reasonable. What’s more, he’s amenable to helping this situation.”
This situation—as if she were a problem to be solved—an offending stone in an otherwise smooth path.
The certainty in his tone evoked alarm, yet Ella refused to give in to emotion. “Let’s discuss this first. I think—”
“Discuss what, Ella? Time for all such discussion has passed. You’re three and twenty, and I shudder at the thought of what would happen should my heart have another episode. I’m ill. Anyone may see it, and if not already, everyone will be aware of it at the symposium. This life of mine has been gratifying and full of accomplishments, but if I die knowing that my only daughter’s future is not secure, what is the point? You, my dearest Eleanor, owe it to your family’s legacy to continue this work that generations have poured into, not pursue dusty journals filled with random musings and argue against a phrenologist who will be here one day and gone the next. Do you understand?”
A thousand sharp retorts lined up like vigilant soldiers standing at attention in her mind, ready to defend her. Yet her throat felt dry. The words would not form.
This resolute manner was unusual for her father. His normal attentions were on the philosophical or scientific . . . rarely on practical matters. When he did ultimately speak on them, it was not until he was determined.
For he was right.
If he died, she would have nothing: No family. Very little money. And no options to speak of.
She looked at the journals she’d dropped on his desk, almost embarrassed at the plucky sanguinity that had accompanied herinto the chamber. The confidence that her father would be persuaded by them was as deflated as her optimism for her future now that Abraham Abernathy had been named as a contender—if not theonlycontender—for her hand.
“Those are exactly what I am talking about,” he blurted, as if noting her shift of attention and pointing toward the dusty tomes. “You must trust me on this matter and cease this foolhardy obsession with proving Mr. Bauer’s incompetence. Do not give anyone ammunition against you. Given enough room, Mr. Bauer will dig his own grave. Men like that always do.”
