CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“The young girls are growing into women; they must depend upon themselves for subsistence.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Idon’t suppose you’ve seen any lemons lying around, Miss Jones?”
Amelia peered up from marking a mathematics test while her charge was at the modiste. She was endeavouring to complete all her governess duties by noon as tonight, she and Hugh would attempt to confront Lady Twyford at the theatre.
“Lemons, Mrs Dawkins?”
“Aye, lemons.” And the housekeeper placed a mid-morning tray laden with tea, crumpets and scones upon the schoolroom desk. “There’s no lemon for your tea as they’ve all disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Aye, like the maid Lucy’s virtue. There one moment, gone the next.”
Amelia’s lips twitched. “Well, I am quite content without, Mrs Dawkins, but do you think them stolen?”
The housekeeper pursed her lips. “I trust all my girls, I do, and Cruikshank runs a tight ship with the lads.” She tapped her foot. “Do you reckon I should ask Mr Cadwalader? Perhaps he’s lightening his hair with the juice.”
Amelia’s lips more than twitched. “Worth a try.”
With an assured nod, Mrs Dawkins departed, and so sipping her lemon-less tea, Amelia finished marking Phoebe’s test. All correct, and she stared to the timepiece held on a chain at her waist. Phoebe was due back from Madame Devy’s at any moment but there might be time to assess her essay on Mary Wollstonecraft’s treatise.
She seized the paper and–
It was blank.
She turned the paper over. Still blank.
Frowning, she sifted through the other sheets; no essay anywhere so–
“Oh, Miss Jones!” And Phoebe rushed in, eyes bright and cheeks pink. “Never have I seen so many glorious shades of black – charcoal and ebony and raven. Sable, ink and dusk, although I’d call that one dark grey.” Then she clasped hands to her head. “Madame Devy tried to dress me inwhite! Can you believe it? But Lady Kemble agreed that I can wear what colour I like until my Season. And I have no intention of having a Season.”
Amelia blinked. “I’m glad you had a pleasant time.”
“Yes, indeed.” And she plopped down on the chaise. “And it’s all thanks to you.”
“Oh, Phoebe, I merely showed you some pictures of different styles.”
The young girl leaned forward. “But you did it in a way that didn’t seek to change…me.For black is a part of me now. And it seems so many people have to change their true aspect forothers: whether it be a debutante suffering white for Almack’s or a modiste pretending to be French for theTon, as I’m sure Madame Devy is from Essex. But you don’t mind me how I am.”
Amelia smiled. “Then thank you and I am glad you are content.” And she hoped that Miss Phoebe Thornton would always stay true to herself – unlike so many people who felt obliged to suppress or hide their true selves in order to please or conform, herself included. “Although…” She waved the blank paper but kept her lips curved. “It seems someone has not been writing their essays.”
Phoebe’s eyes glinted, her expression as sly as that of a fox loitering aside a henhouse. “But I did, Miss Jones. I wrote two whole pages.”
“If that is so, then…”
Amelia paused.
Disappearing lemons?The little rascal!
So, with a narrowed eye at her charge, Amelia stood and marched to her carpetbag, rummaged around and… Ah ha, her tinderbox.
On occasion, this procedure could cause a dash of smoke, so she opened the window to allow a cool spring breeze into the schoolroom.
