“She won’t be coming back?” Henry couldn’t believe it. What had he done?
“I’m afraid she’s not ready to share her experiences. She seemed perturbed by your presence in the classroom. Don’t take it to heart. Some women are uncomfortable with a gentleman reading and perhaps judging their thoughts and ideas.”
“But I would never—”
“Of course not, but she doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know you. And we don’t know her situation. I find her behavior more typical of women who have controlling fathers or husbands.”
“Right.” Henry forced a smile, knowing full well it was personal. Mrs. Crawford had looked at him with such distrust—as though she was afraid of him. But that was absurd. He’d never do anything untoward. Unless it was Mr. Trawler she feared.
I must talk to her. I must find out if she needs help. If she’ll only just explain what happened yesterday to change everything today.
Are you coming back to the house for some well-earned tea? Your cousin and my brother will be waiting for us, and I am sure they are excited to hear about your first experience with teaching.” Violet picked the composition books Henry had collected and placed on her podium while she was outside.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid I forgot all about tea, and I have a few errands to run in Canterbury. Will you let Ottilie know that I’ll be back in time to dine with them tonight? I’ll tell them all about my day then.”
“Mr. Thomas and the twins will be disappointed not to see you. Perhaps next Saturday?”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Henry said.
They exited the classroom and made their way down the stone hallway. When they reached the exit, Henry stepped ahead of Violet and pushed open the arched wooden door, holding it open as she stepped outside. “How do your students manage this thing?” Henry asked, looking at the heavy door. “It’s positively medieval.”
“Well, it does date from the Middle Ages,” Violet said with a laugh. “We thought about replacing it when we first opened the school, but I changed my mind when I started to think of it in symbolic terms—as the barrier women must overcome to access higher education and the strength they need against that barrier. Every day, the students wrestle with this door as a reminder of the daily struggle women in higher education face.”
Henry stood back and observed the wooden door above which the Latin phrase:Luctor et Emergo was engraved.
“I struggle and overcome,” he translated aloud, then turned to the headmistress. “I never noticed that before.”
She smiled in response and said, “You did an outstanding job today. The other students seemed very comfortable with you.”
“I enjoyed the experience very much.”
“I’m so glad. Does that mean we will see again on Wednesday evening?” she asked.
“Yes, I’d like that very much.”
She bid him goodbye and turned in the direction of the east wing. Because Byron Thomas had converted the rambling stone mansion of his childhood home into a ladies’ college, the Thomas family lived on the premises, unlike Jack and Ottilie whose residence was at least a half-hour carriage drive away.
Henry turned and hurried to the stables where Bastin’s coachman awaited him. His own man was back at Greyson Manor tending to a broken wheel on his brougham, so Henry had borrowed one of his cousin’s carriages, and he was glad he’d opted to do so instead of taking a cab. He had to set things right with Mrs. Crawford, especially if he was going to continue helping at the ladies’ college, but more so because he couldn’t bear the thought that she’d turned her mind against him.
“Where to, my Lord?” The coachman sprang to attention as soon as he caught sight of Henry.
“Canterbury,” Henry instructed, his nerves already singing in anticipation of his next encounter with Mrs. Crawford.
Henry fixed his eyes on the window as the carriage rolled down the rural road toward Canterbury, his heart lifting each time he spotted a female pedestrian and then falling upon seeing it was not Mrs. Crawford.
Perhaps Mr. Trawler had been waiting outside for her to take her home in his cart. He may have grown possessive after seeing her with Henry. In that case, he’d have to seek her out at the seamstress’s shop. But how would she react? He didn’t want to frighten her with his unwanted attention. He thought of the curiosity and ease with which she’d chatted to him the previous afternoon—and the way her green eyes sparkled with life and of the freckles that spread across the bridge of her nose each time she’d wrinkled it in laughter. She’d been perfectly comfortable in his company. And he in hers. What had changed? He had to find out.
*
Annabel slammed herbook shut, wondering why she’d doggedly persisted in finishing this novel that upset her so much. It was an awful story,Clarissa, that both scared and angered her. But she suspected the author had striven to do just that.
At first, she’d liked the fact that the author had taken the time to write a story about an independent-minded young lady, like herself. But it was obvious—at least to her—that the terrible consequences his heroine was made to suffer had been contrived to scare young women into compliance.
Why else would Mr. Richardson create a heroine bold enough to defy her parents and refuse a marriage of convenience, yet weak enough to be duped by a rake like Lovelace? Mr. Richardson punished his heroine for this disobedience in the worst possible way. A punishment so foul—Annabel shuddered—that he was left with no choice but to murder her by her own hand!
She stood up and smoothed her skirt. After leaving the college, deflated, she’d stopped to sit on a grassy knoll and read the final chapters of her novel, hoping it would distract her thoughts. But she’d picked the wrong book for that purpose.
“Mrs. Crawford!”
