“Only five!” Henry said.
“Only five.” She laughed. “Still, it is Cambridge! What a miracle. There is no educator more diligent and strategic than Emily Davies.”
“I’m an Oxford man,” Henry said, “and I happen to know that some men are terrified women will make them look stupid if they let them into their universities.”
Violet laughed. “I think you may have a point. But I remain convinced that they only agreed to let our students sit for their local examinations in the hope we would fail miserably. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. Our movement has made great strides, to be sure. And each victory is a crucial step forward.” Her eyes scanned the room, and her lips curved into a smile. “If someone had told me, when I first arrived in London eight years ago clutching my carpetbag, that I’d be the proud owner and headmistress of one of the finest ladies’ colleges in England, I would have thought them mad.”
“Yet, here you stand,” Henry said.
“Correction, Lord Hudsyn, here we stand.” She placed the last inkwell in her hand on the desk before her. “I was so pleased when my brother told me you’d volunteered your services today.”
Henry forced a smile. He hadn’t so much as volunteered to help as he had been pushed to do so by Bastin, who’d surprised him with the news that he’d offered Henry’s services for the twice-weekly, free women’s classes.
“It will make Ottilie happy,”’Bastin had reminded him, which was enough to convince Henry. He owed his cousin his support and wanted her and her unborn babe to remain happy and healthy. Still, the prospect of spending the next two hours in a room with a group of female students unnerved him. He didn’t know the first thing about teaching, nor did he wish to spend his morning within the confines of a lecture hall when the ancient, cobbled streets of Canterbury beckoned. He’d happily spend all day perusing its gardens and shops if it meant another chance encounter with the delightful Mrs. Crawford.
“I’m afraid I may be more of a hindrance than a help. I don’t have any experience with adult students—particularly ladies.”
“You know more than you realize. After all, you’ve had plenty of experience in the classroom, as a student, that is, and our free classes aren’t geared toward higher learners like the rest of our classes. They are merely a service offered to working women who hope to improve their reading and writing skills—whatever those may be. All the students have different skill levels. So, the first thing I like to do is assign them the task of writing something about themselves—there are no rules. Each student writes whatever she wishes to share and however much she can manage. Some may not even know their letters yet.”
“Is it that bad?” Henry said more out of fear than ignorance.
“Unfortunately, school is not compulsory in this country. So many children, particularly girls, are kept at home to learn housework or to care for their younger siblings. And if their mamas cannot read, how can they prepare their daughters for a better future? Too many women and children are left vulnerable from a lack of education and opportunity. Thankfully there are those in power who understand the gravity of the situation and are working toward change. The National Education League wants Parliament to pass legislation to make education compulsory for all children.”
“You’re right.” Henry ran a hand through his hair. “I’m ashamed to say I’ve taken my education for granted.”
“No doubt. But now, you can use that education to do something meaningful for these women.”
Henry thought back to his school days. His Masters had always delivered corrections with the sting of their canes. He gripped his neck. The task of teaching an adult to read seemed utterly daunting. He doubted even his degree from Oxford would be of help.
“Don’t look so worried, Lord Hudsyn. As I said, the students vary in their abilities, and I will assign you to work with those who have the strongest skills. All you need to do is remember not to judge or make the students feel ashamed, lest they turn from education forever.”
“In that case, I must insist you refrain from using my title in front of the students. I don’t want my presence to intimidate them.”
“That’s a wise idea and very gracious of you.” She smiled. “I think my brother was right, you will make a fine teacher.”
Henry grimaced. He wasn’t so sure.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Violet moved toward the door. “Here they come,” she said. “I typically stand by the door and greet them as they enter the classroom. As I said, it’s most important that these vulnerable women feel this is a safe and comfortable learning environment.”
“What will you have me do?” Henry looked around the room, suddenly seized by an urge to busy himself.
“If you’d be so kind as to collect the composition books on my podium and distribute them to the ladies as they take their seats, that would be most helpful.”
“Certainly.” He turned and went to the podium, half grateful for the distraction and half feeling like he’d gone from Lord of the Manor to butler or valet and recalling Bastin’s words that he needed to humble himself if he hoped to change his mind set and improve his life.
That was all very well for Bastin to say now, but Henry remembered a time when their situations had been reversed, and his friend had almost let his anger and desire for revenge destroy him.
It fascinated him that the somber-minded Violet Thomas was Bastin’s elder sister. The dark-eyed Byronic novelist and the once-notorious rake was the opposite of the studious and diminutive headmistress who now greeted students in her black academic robe.
He took longer than necessary to gather the composition books, shuffling them needlessly while throwing furtive glances at the room. Three or four ladies were already seated at their desks and more filtered inside, but he didn’t want to step forward until Violet had returned to the front of the room and was ready to introduce him to the students. So, he pretended to busy himself with counting the composition books until he heard the door close and glanced up to see Violet making her way to the front of the room. Only then did he step forward with the composition books tucked under his arm. At that same moment, the classroom door opened again, and another young lady stepped inside.
His breath caught in his throat.
It was Mrs. Crawford.
Is my imagination playing tricks on me?He fixed his eyes on her, faintly aware that his lips had spread into a smile. The heaviness in his chest dissipated. As if awakening from a deep sleep, his nerves tingled to life.
Then he realized she wasn’t smiling. She glanced at him, and her face clouded. A look of—was it fear, or disgust—came into her eyes? And it made his heart still.
