The Education of Portia

By Lesley-Anne McLeod

Portia Crossmichael is content with her life. She owns her own school close to London, and finds pleasure and satisfaction in educating the young ladies whom she is employed to teach. The companionship of her artist step-brother and her friends--some of whom she employs as teachers--enlivens her quiet days. Nothing, it seems, will disrupt the quiet tenor of her life.

She has reckoned without the advent of Ingram Perrington, Lord Stadbroke, and his three daughters. He, freed in the past five years by the deaths of a domineering mother and an unreasonable wife, has been enjoying the delights of the metropolis. The viscount has a low opinion of women, and does not know how to deal with his girls as they mature. Portia finds herself becoming deeply attached to his daughters--and to him--knowing familiarity can only lead to heart-break.

Her equanimity is further strained by the advent of her step-father Harold Dent. He demands money and threatens to destroy the school--their livelihood--with scurrilous lies if they do not pay him for his silence.

Torn between truth and blackmail, growing affection for Stadbroke's daughters and an escalating interest in the viscount himself, Portia faces the loss of all her dreams. What lessons must she learn? And will they be happy ones? This title is published by Uncial Press and is distributed worldwide by Untreed Reads.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Nov 14, 2008
• ISBN: 9781601740618

Book preview

THE EDUCATION OF PORTIA

By

Lesley-Anne McLeod

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon

2008

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-061-8

ISBN 10: 1-60174-061-1

Copyright © 2008 by Lesley-Anne McLeod

Cover art and design

Copyright © 2008 by Cait Shakoriel Bens

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Published by Uncial Press,

an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

CHAPTER ONE

Portia could not like him. Whether it was his aristocratic arrogance, his overpowering masculine energy, his clipped, assured speech or his confidence in his ability to have his own way, she did not know. But she did not like the Viscount Stadbroke.

Unwillingly, she would have to admit herself impressed by his fine figure. To his imposing height he added broad shoulders enveloped in an expertly cut tobacco brown riding coat, a fine calf encased in gleaming topboots and the muscular legs of an active man displayed in leather breeches. His dark brown curling hair was brushed ruthlessly back from a broad brow. He was not precisely handsome, but his sharp features were strongly boned and his dark eyes well opened and disconcertingly acute. Added all in all, he looked vaguely, inexplicably familiar. Nevertheless, she found him dislikeable.

Portia Crossmichael rarely took an immediate aversion to anyone. She prided herself on her rational and reasonable approach to people. In general, she gave new acquaintances time to reveal their dispositions and their temperaments...time to prove themselves. In her position as school proprietress and schoolmistress, she could not afford to judge too harshly. And certainly she could not display her feelings about the characters of her patrons. It was her lot to be conciliatory, to be diplomatic and to coax the best of their natures from her lady pupils, and their parents.

I have only two openings at present, Lord Stadbroke. You have three daughters. I think we cannot solve this conundrum of numbers. She picked up a pale quill from her ormolu inkstand, and ran her fingers over the firm yet soft feather. She had already learned that the viscount was widowed--his children motherless for the past four years--and that the family seat was in Lincolnshire. Stadbroke had imparted the details reluctantly, in response to her inexorable inquiries.

You cannot wish to turn away business, ma'am, he said, his abrasive tone at odds with the precision of his diction. You seem not to desire my custom.

Portia's habitually calm façade stood her in good stead even in the face of the viscount's frown. I do not regard my pupils as 'business', my lord, nor am I in trade. I do not accept or reject custom. I am a teacher. My students are children and must be carefully guided and educated. If I accept too many students, they will all suffer from lack of attention and insufficient guidance.

Driven to agitation by the viscount's attitude, Portia rose. Her height was not inconsiderable and she had a presence born of dignity and gravity. She did not hope to impress Stadbroke however, but only to indicate that the interview was coming to its close.

He rose politely as well, but showed no inclination to depart. He ignored her discourse on her occupation. You said you have two places available among the older girls. His tone softened, a coaxing note infiltrating his words. Surely one more small girl only eight years of age, Miss Crossmichael, cannot cause much difficulty. My daughters will not be separated, I fear, and they have their hearts set on attending your school.

Portia wondered why, but she refused to ask their father. Even if I could admit all three, my lord, they still would be separated. The older two, at almost twelve and fifteen, would join the senior girls in the west dormitory and the younger would need to reside with her peers in the north dormitory. Before she had finished speaking, Portia knew she had made an error. The viscount was taking her explanation to be equivocation and thought that he had her wavering.

He was tapping his booted foot impatiently, as though inactivity was anathema to him. That separation would cause no difficulty. Penelope is a sturdy, independent child; she would not be intimidated by that degree of disunion. The point is they all three wish to attend here.

Portia half turned from him to stare from the open door to the garden while she considered. Some of the older girls were reading in the shade of a massive chestnut tree; their muslin gowns reflecting the colours of the China asters and phloxes in a nearby flower bed. Beyond the glasshouse, a lively group of younger students, under the guidance of a mistress, was heading for the hawthorn wood. A gentle breeze wafted the summer scents into her study, with snatches of conversation and laughter. Her school showed to advantage in the sunny late August day.

She pressed a long finger to her temple and suppressed a sigh. Despite her dislike of the gentleman, Lord Stadbroke was correct. One small child more or less would not disturb her organization or disarrange any of the school's routines. She had only to order one more cot set up in the north dormitory. And it would be useful to have the two places in the senior class filled.

Besides, she wanted the viscount gone from her premises and her agreement would assure his departure. Her study--her cool, well-ordered, book-lined sanctuary--was violated by his presence. Portia found Stadbroke oddly disturbing. He was too aggressively male, and too demanding for her comfort. Her schedule as well had suffered with his visit. She had paper work to tend, a class to teach within the hour and the cook's problems to sort.

She fingered the equipage--keys, watch, and kit of tiny useful tools--that was suspended on chains from the band at the high waist of her gown, and found the familiar shape of the mother-of-pearl panelled etui that held the tools. Gripping it, she took her decision with customary resolution. Very well, my lord. You have convinced me. We will welcome your daughters, and endeavour to teach them each of our subjects to the best of our, and their, ability. They will be returned to you young ladies of accomplishment, learning, and modest behaviour.

Excellent! The viscount did nothing to conceal his satisfaction. He slapped the gloves he carried into the palm of his left hand.

Portia was hard put to maintain her civility. When shall we expect the young ladies?

This day three weeks? He smiled in great good humour, with confident charm.

Portia despised him for his self-satisfaction and his vanity. He had been very certain he would achieve his aim. She regretted that she could not--would not--deny him his object. But he would never know it.

Her façade of calm serenity did not falter. We shall look forward to it, Lord Stadbroke. Your daughters will have their own bed each, but will each share a press with one other girl. We pride ourselves on the quality of our meals, and we have a matron that sees to the little needs of children away from the comfort of their families and their homes. She opened the top drawer of her handsome desk and withdrew a sheet of paper. Here is a list of items that the young ladies may bring with them if they desire, and it includes the style and quantity of clothing we recommend. My invoice for the first term will be presented on the second of January, forty guineas per child. Have you any further questions, my lord?

The viscount looked momentarily annoyed by her swift and concise completion of their transaction. He took the paper she handed him and gave it only a careless glance before folding it twice and jamming it in a small pocket in his riding coat. None, he said. I should warn you that I do not expect my daughters to remain long with you. I cannot think why they have undertaken this start. They have an excellent governess whom they appear to revere. I am keeping her in my employ with a view to the girls' quick return. He offered his hand, apparently unaware of the insult implicit in his words.

Portia could not ignore that slight. He thought his daughters would shortly wish for escape, did he? Well, he would learn that they would enjoy their time at Mansion House; all her girls did. They would not wish to soon leave.

Nevertheless, the girls' motive in attending at all was a mystery, one that she looked forward to solving. Could it be that the governess was less to their taste than they had admitted to their father? Or was Lincolnshire just too far away from London where their father seemed to reside? And how had they heard of the Mansion House Establishment for Young Ladies?

A cough from the viscount drew her attention. He was still holding out his hand. She eyed his strong, hard fingers with some distaste. She much preferred to shake gloved hands when they belonged to strangers. There was no help for it however, and she released her etui and gave him her own slender hand. He shook it briefly, his clasp as cool and dry as her own. Their contact was brief, no longer than polite, and yet it was rife with awareness. She snatched her fingers out of his clasp with a momentary loss of control, then pinned a smile to her lips. She avoided his eyes; she had no wish to discover if he too had experienced that consciousness.

We will expect your daughters on the tenth of September then, my lord. She pulled the bell to summon her elderly porter. Good day.

Viscount Stadbroke found himself on the stone doorstep, well-satisfied with his visit despite his summary dismissal. He sauntered down the well-scrubbed steps of the substantial villa that was the Mansion House Establishment for Young Ladies, Hornsey. After some stout disputation, and several organized arguments on the part of Miss Crossmichael, he had carried the day. He had not expected her opposition, but had welcomed the opportunity to cross swords with her. She was a worthy opponent though the sort of female he could not admire: she was plain, officious and clever.

Miss Portia Crossmichael, he decided, could have been nothing other than a teacher. From her long, straight nose to her undoubtedly blue-stockinged toes shod in neat half-boots, she proclaimed her chosen profession. Her grey-striped muslin gown, though it was subtly fashionable, had been made high to the neck and long sleeved despite the summer warmth. A modestly ruffled cap had framed a rather long oval face that was without strong bone structure. The cap had also very nearly concealed undeniably sandy hair. Darker brows and long lashes surrounded a pair of fine grey eyes that some might have called handsome.

Whatever the deficiencies of her appearance, it was Miss Crossmichael's character that concerned him most. Her nature, by his judgement, was serene but verged on cold and detached. And she could not have more than thirty years in her dish.

There had been, he thought, a momentary interruption in her reserve when they had shaken hands. He had been very aware himself of the delicacy of her bones and the tenderness of her skin. He shook his head at the rank foolishness of his thoughts. He was imputing attractiveness to a long-meg of a schoolmistress? No, she was surely a starched up prig. The girls would not find her so kind as middle-aged Miss Thripton, or as willing to join in their games and plays.

She would do however, and she offered a substantial curriculum. The noisy occupants of the several classrooms he had seen appeared happy and those abroad in the gardens looked contented. And he could not fault Miss Crossmichael on the fabric of her institution. The building was impeccably maintained, the gardens well kept. The corridors and chambers through which he had been quickly toured by the so-charming French mistress on his arrival were spotlessly clean. He had admired the fountain which played in the afternoon sun outside the schoolmistress's orderly study and the glasshouse which lay beyond a terraced yard. All in all a prosperous business.

The dearest wish of his three daughters had been fulfilled; they could attend the Mansion House Establishment for the winter months. Why they wished to attend the school when they seemed always to be perfectly happy at his seat, Stadley Place in Lincolnshire, he had no idea. But then the thought processes of women had always been a mystery to him. His daughters--at least the eldest of them--were all too rapidly approaching womanhood.

Anyway, it was a pleasant enough place, Hornsey. The village, such as it was, drowsed in the heat of the late August afternoon. Horse chestnuts towered over the lane--Cress Lane--which led to Mansion House from the High Street. There were a few isolated large houses nearby--the retreats of merchants and bankers he had been told--and The Three Compasses Inn could be seen at the end of the street. To the north and west of the school spread a timbered park--an ash wood he thought--and in the distance rose the gentle height of Muswell Hill.

Stadbroke's idle reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a horseman. A young man dismounted and tossed his reins familiarly to the groom who appeared leading the viscount's own mount. He was a well-set-up young fellow--stocky and good-looking--dressed with neatness and propriety but no pretensions to fashion. He nodded politely to the viscount.

Good day, Stadbroke said, taking no trouble to conceal his curiosity.

Perforce, the younger man stopped. Caldwell Dent, at your service, sir. Teacher of art and astronomy... He jerked a casual thumb over his shoulder at the school even as he bowed.

I am Stadbroke, Mr. Dent. How can you...wait, Dent...Dent...an art teacher did you say? Are you not a portrait painter?

I am, my lord. I am flattered that you recognize my name; I will be better known one day.

From what I have seen of your work, you will indeed. And why should you teach here...given what I have seen of your art?

"Needs must, my lord. It takes time to establish a clientele. The young man was cheerful. Besides in teaching we learn. Miss Crossmichael is my sister; she has been kind enough to encourage my artistic career. I can do no less than support her educational endeavours. Have you a daughter here?"

I shall soon have three in attendance. Stadbroke reflected idly that Dent looked nothing like his sister. A half-sister he decided; they carried different names after all. He dismissed the thought. I was going to ask how you could bear to be plagued by females all day?

I find them pleasant enough company, Lord Stadbroke. My focus is on my work after all, not the ladies, whatever their age.

I shall leave you to it then, Dent. And think you a more patient man than I. Stadbroke nodded and took charge of his bay mare from the groom.

Dent offered a quick farewell and, after taking the steps two at a time, entered the school.

Stadbroke mounted, tossed a coin to the groom, and continued his ruminations as he headed down the gravelled drive. The girls would be safe here, and happy, though he questioned the ability of the reserved schoolmistress to provide as pleasant a course of learning as Miss Thripton did at Stadley Place. He turned his horse's head and trotted down the lane without a backward look.

The girls would learn a thing or two at the school; he had no doubt of that. Well, on their own heads be it, he thought. He'd given them what they desired.

* * * *

Portia looked at the three youthful faces before her and wondered what it was that the three daughters of Lord Stadbroke desired of her school.

They had arrived four days earlier in company with their father and a middle-aged governess. Portia had taken immediately to the governess; she was just the sort of commonsensical and intelligent woman she liked to employ as her teachers. She might find a way to indicate to Miss Thripton that, should she ever seek to leave Stadbroke's employ, she could apply to Mansion House School for a position.

Portia had taken care to speak only briefly with the viscount on his visit. Her comments had been polite and businesslike. He had in his turn had little to say to her, and she told herself she was glad of it. She had closely observed his exchanges with his daughters; to her surprise they were both informal and loving. He had taken his leave quickly with a sensitivity to his daughters' feelings that she could scarcely credit. She had been left with much to ponder and again with that niggling feeling of familiarity. She had pushed it all aside in the bustle of installing the young ladies.

They had been matter of fact and cheerful about the departure of their father and their governess, had made their farewells with a modicum of sentiment and no melancholy. From all accounts, they had been in good spirits since also. Portia had received reports of them from various of the mistresses and masters, and the matron, and she had already a good notion of their characters and capabilities.

Now they had been invited to take tea with her in the school's parlour, a small nicety that she practiced with all her new students. When she thought they had settled in to their new surroundings, she gave them opportunity to tell her if all was well with them.

The weather had broken and autumn rain lashed the closed windows. The colza lamps had been lit against the dreary day, and a substantial fire warmed the pleasant room. It held a variety of chairs and sophas, well-filled bookshelves and useful tables. Some of Caldwell's oils--his occasional still-life renderings--decorated the softly distempered walls. The parlour served a variety of uses in the daily life of the school, particularly as a meeting place for the senior girls in the evening after their supper. The young ladies were encouraged to read and study in the parlour, work at their needlework, and turn over the newspapers that were brought each day from London. Portia thought of it as the social heart of her school.

The Misses Perrington stood before her in a neat stepped row on the India carpet after their orderly entry. Lord Stadbroke must be justifiably proud of his offspring, for they were pretty girls and well-behaved. They were gowned in simple kerseymere dresses as befitted the cool day. Everything about their garments bespoke quality, but they wore no ornaments. Someone had carefully conned the list she had bestowed on the viscount, and kept the young ladies' apparel within its guidelines.

Portia regarded them thoughtfully, and they returned her scrutiny without dissimulation. Sabina, the eldest of the three, already showed a charming figure and her piquant face, with her father's dark eyes, would only gain in beauty as it gained in maturity. Melicent, the middle child, was inclined to moodiness; Portia had heard of hints of drama already. No doubt the avid intelligence that peered at her from a triangular face would enhance an elfin charm in later years. The smallest girl, Penelope, had displayed none of the homesickness that she might have expected from any other eight-year-old. The child had taken to dormitory life with sturdy independence--as her father had indicated she would--and had already begun to gather her own coterie about her.

Examining the threesome, Portia experienced again that strong sensation of familiarity their father had engendered. And suddenly the reason for it came to her. She had encountered the viscount before--long before--during her single Season in the heart of the beau monde. She had had that season eleven years previous; it had been just three unfortunate months in the bosom of society. Being tall and thin--all awkward angles and corners--and shy, she had not garnered any notice and certainly no popularity. She had been a hanger-on at the season of her cousin who, being both vivacious and pretty, had taken. At every ball, every rout, and every call she had had time to watch her cousin with yearning and observe all the other bright and beautiful creatures enjoy themselves.

Yes, she had seen both the viscount and his wife during that season. The encounter she best remembered had been at a ball--which one she could not now have told--but at a great, glittering affair that she had experienced from its margins. The Viscount Stadbroke--he'd been the Honourable Ingram Perrington then--had been the darling of the ton and he had looked the happiest, most carefree, young man in it. He was then only a few years wed to the beautiful Honoria Wickson, and the grace and gaiety with which he had danced with his exquisite wife, and showered attentions upon her, had stayed with Portia in all the long years since. Hidden in her subconscious yes, but nevertheless that vision had stayed with her.

She had wanted, during that humiliating season, to be the

Reviews for The Education of Portia

[deborah_568969447 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Perhaps it's more of a 4.5 than it is a 5. It is well written, balanced between thought and dialogue. I think the last intrigue was a bit unnecessary especially given the anticlimactic resolution, but a typical regency romance fraught with discord and the obligatory test of wills.

[Leena Aluru · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Its a lovely book. I like mature romance where both the hero and heroine are past 30 yrs if age.Its a well written tightly knitted story. Truly the editor has been working.