For half a second, Cordelia wondered how the schoolmarm knew who she was, but then, how many American countesses lived near the school?
“I am sorry to interrupt you, ma’am,” Cordelia said. “But I was wondering if you would like a piano for your school?”
The schoolmarm blinked behind her spectacles. “A piano?”
“Yes, for music lessons for your students,” Cordelia said. “Or perhaps a school choir. Music is an integral part of an education.”
The schoolmarm shook her head. “That is a generous suggestion, my lady, but I do not know how to play the piano, and neither do any of my students.”
“Oh, that is unfortunate.” Sometimes Cordelia forgot how privileged her life had been, despite all the difficulties. “Perhaps if you had a free half hour one morning in the week, I could come before school starts and give you a lesson. I could even stay and teach the children music, if that was agreeable with you.”
“You want to teach me how to play the piano?”
Cordelia smiled as she pretended to be offended. “I can assure you that I am most qualified to be a music teacher. I have been taught by a master, and I have practiced daily for nearly thirteen years.”
“But-but you are a countess.”
“I prefer being called Cordelia,” she said, offering her hand.
The schoolmarm extended hers. “Miss Agnes Walker.”
Cordelia smiled as she shook the woman’s hand. “I don’t wish to pressure you, Miss Walker, but if you would like to learn, I would be privileged to teach you. And your students too. Music is a gift that can be enjoyed forever.”
Miss Walker pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “I’ve always wanted to learn the piano, and my Friday mornings are open. Is 8:30 too early? School starts at nine o’clock.”
“I shall be there,” Cordelia said. “May I call you Agnes?”
The schoolmarm nodded vigorously.
“And you’ll call me Cordelia?”
“If that is what you wish.”
“It is indeed,” she said. “I shall have the piano delivered tomorrow and tuned before our first appointment on Friday.”
“Thank you, Cordelia.”
“Thankyou, Agnes.”
She had made her first friend in England.
18
Cordelia woke up shivering again. She pulled the coverlet close around her face, but her teeth still chattered. She could hardly wait for the central heating system to be completed. She could see her breath in the air. Were all old English estates this drafty? Or did she somehow end up with the worst one? Cordelia pulled her coverlet over her head and curled into a ball for warmth. She’d not known what cold was before coming to England. The New York winters had nothing on the chill of England that seemed to travel right through your skin and into the marrow of your bones.
Miss Vaughn brought in her breakfast a half hour later. Cordelia peeked her head out from her covers and opened the lid to her tray. There was a half a slice of burnt toast, almost completely black, and an egg that appeared to be made of rubber. The only thing that looked remotely edible was the cup of chocolate. She picked it up and sipped.
Gah!
She nearly spit it back out. The chocolate was not sweet at all but bitter. Almost like drinking brown mud.
“Miss Vaughn,” Cordelia said, placing the cup back on the tray. “Would you mind taking my breakfast back to the kitchen and bringing me something else? I’m not feeling quite like toast, eggs, or chocolate.”
Miss Vaughn tutted as she picked up the tray.
“I don’t mean to offend.”
“I’m not tutting at you, my lady,” Miss Vaughn said sternly. “I’m tutting at that rascal Cook, who should know better than to send up such rubbish. I doubt even a starving hog would eat it.”
