Part 1 (2/2)

Joel had not been there at the time, but he did not mourn her departure. It had not been beyond the woman to intrude upon his third of the room, stepping carefully over the chalk line so as not to smudge it, to give her verdict on the paintings in progress, and invariably it was a derogatory judgment. She was an opinionated, joyless woman who clearly despised all children, and orphans in particular. She appeared to have seen it as her personal mission to prepare them to be humble and servile and to know their place-that place being the bottom rung of the social ladder, or perhaps somewhat below the bottom rung. Sometimes he had thought she resented even having to teach them to read, write, and figure. She had done her utmost to quell dreams and aspirations and talent and imagination, all of which in her view were inappropriate to their parentless condition.

She had walked out after Mary Perkins went running to find Miss Ford to tell her that Miss Nunce was beating Jimmy Dale. When Miss Ford had arrived on the scene, Jimmy was standing in the corner, his back to the room, squirming from the pain of a sore bottom. Miss Nunce, it seemed, had discovered him reading one of the new books-unfortunately for him, one of the larger, heavier volumes-and actually chuckling over something within its pages. She had taken it from him, instructed him to stand and bend over his desk, and walloped him a dozen times with it before sending him to the corner to contemplate his sins. She had still been holding the book aloft and haranguing the cla.s.s on the evils of the trivial use of one's time and of empty-minded levity when Miss Ford appeared. Seeing her, Miss Nunce had turned her triumphant glare upon the matron.

”And this,” she had p.r.o.nounced, ”is what comes of allowing books in the schoolroom.”

The books, together with a large bookcase to display them, had been donated a short while ago by a Mrs. Kingsley, a wealthy and prominent citizen of Bath. Miss Nunce had been quite vocal in her opposition at the time. Books, she had warned, would merely give the orphans ideas.

Miss Ford had crossed the room to Jimmy, turned him by the shoulders, and asked him why he had been reading in cla.s.s. He had explained that his arithmetic exercise was finished and he had not wanted to sit idle. Sure enough, all his sums were completed and all were correct. She had sent him back to his seat after first removing her shawl and folding it several times into a square for him to sit on. She had asked the day's monitors to take charge of the room and invited Miss Nunce to step outside, much to the disappointment of the children. Joel would have been disappointed too if he had been there. But then, the incident would not have happened if he had been there. No child at the orphanage was ever struck. It was one of Miss Ford's immutable rules.

Less than fifteen minutes later-the children and some of the staff in other parts of the building had heard the teacher's raised voice alternating with silences that probably indicated Miss Ford was speaking-Miss Nunce had stridden from the building with Roger a few steps behind her to lock the door, lest she change her mind.

Joel had rejoiced, not just because he had found it difficult to work with her, but because he cared for the children-all of them. He had been greatly relieved too, because Miss Nunce had succeeded Anna Snow, who had left a few months ago, and who had been everything she was not. Anna had brought suns.h.i.+ne to the schoolroom.

It was Anna whom he loved, though he tried doggedly to use the past tense whenever he considered his feelings for her. She was a married lady now. She was the d.u.c.h.ess of Netherby.

Two.

Soon after Joel arrived at the school, his art group-children ranging in age from eight to thirteen-was engrossed in the painting of a still-life grouping he had set up on the table. They were using oils on canvas, a difficult challenge for most of them. He walked quietly about the room, observing their efforts while trying not to unnerve any of them or break their concentration. It did not take much to break Winifred Hamlin's, however. Her hand shot suddenly into the air, and Joel sighed inwardly.

”Olga's teapot is smaller than her apple, Mr. Cunningham,” she said without waiting for permission to speak-so why the raised hand?

It was indeed. Olga's teapot had been painted with the meticulous care one might expend on a miniature. Her apple, on the other hand, was round and red and yellow and green and s.h.i.+ny and exuberant-and huge. It actually looked more appealing and appetizing than the original, which stood on the linen-draped table with the large teapot and a cup and saucer and a book.

”And so it is,” he said, resting a hand on Winifred's shoulder. ”When everyone has finished, we will ask her why that is. We will also ask Paul why the objects in his painting are in a straight line and not touching one another. And Richard will tell us why on his canvas the objects are seen from above, as though he were sitting at his easel on the ceiling. If you have finished, Winifred, you may clean your brushes and palette and put them away in the cupboard.” He did not add that she should arrange them neatly. She did everything neatly.

In Winifred's painting, he saw, everything was in perfect proportion to everything else and positioned as the real objects were on the table. The table itself was absent, though. The objects dangled in s.p.a.ce. He would ask her about that later.

There was a tap on the door and a few of the children turned their heads when it opened. Several did not, showing admirable concentration upon their work.

Miss Ford stepped into the room with a severe-looking young woman dressed stylishly but unappealingly from head to foot in fawn and brown. A new teacher? Already? Joel's heart sank. She looked as humorless as Miss Nunce, and he had been hoping for a respite even from a good teacher since it was the middle of the summer and most schools were closed until September. This one remained open only because it was on the children's living premises and kept them occupied and amused through the long, often hot days. At least, that was the philosophy behind keeping it going.

”Mr. Cunningham,” Miss Ford said, ”may I present Miss Westcott? She has applied for the teaching position, and we have mutually agreed upon a fortnight's trial.”

All heads swung about.

Westcott? Joel's eyes sharpened upon the new teacher.

Miss Ford confirmed his suspicions. ”Miss Westcott is the d.u.c.h.ess of Netherby's sister,” she explained. ”She is currently living in Bath with her grandmother, Mrs. Kingsley.”

”Half sister,” the woman corrected, giving the impression that as far as she was concerned, that was half a relations.h.i.+p too much. ”How do you do, Mr. Cunningham?”

She was the elusive Miss Westcott, then, was she? Joel had seen the other one-the pretty one. Anna had been delighted when at the age of twenty-five she had at last discovered her family, but her half sisters had spurned her overtures of friends.h.i.+p and affection. To Anna's deep distress, they had removed themselves, first from London and then from their erstwhile home in the country to take up residence here in Bath. She had worried about them and had written to ask Joel if he could possibly discover their whereabouts and find out if all was well with them, as far as anything could be well when the very bottom had just fallen out of their world. He had discovered who their grandmother was and had seen her on a few occasions with the other sister, going into the Pump Room to join the fas.h.i.+onable set, who went there daily to take the waters and exchange gossip.

He had actually been introduced to the two of them at an evening party given by the very Mrs. Dance whose portrait was now standing on the easel in his new studio. She had invited him to attend and to bring some of his smaller paintings to show off to her guests in a kind attempt to help him acquire more clients. He had never set eyes upon the other granddaughter-until now. He had a.s.sumed she was a recluse. She was certainly the plainer of the two-and plainer than Anna as well. She also looked dour.

”How do you do, Miss Westcott?” he said.

She was tall and built on a generous scale, though her full figure was well proportioned and elegant. She had dark hair and fine blue eyes, a well-defined jaw and a stubborn-looking chin. Bold features prevented her from being pretty. She was not ugly, however. Handsome might be a good word to describe her. She looked like a woman born to command. She looked, in fact, like someone who had lived most of her life as Lady Camille Westcott, elder daughter of an earl.

He disliked her on sight. ”I look forward to working with you.”

”I have explained,” Miss Ford said, ”that you usually come here two afternoons a week, Mr. Cunningham.”

Miss Westcott did exactly what Miss Nunce had often done, though there was no longer a chalk line across the room. She moved away from the door and wandered among the easels, looking at the paintings over the children's shoulders.

”Olga's teapot is smaller than her apple, miss,” Winifred informed her.

Miss Westcott looked back at her with raised eyebrows, as though she could not believe the evidence of her own ears that a child had actually addressed her without being invited to do so. Then she glanced at the table where the still life had been set up, looked down at Olga's canvas, and took her time perusing it. Joel could feel his hackles rise. Miss Ford folded her hands at her waist.

”But the apple does look good enough to eat,” Miss Westcott said, ”or maybe even too good to eat. Perhaps Olga sees it as the most significant object on the table. Were you instructed to paint the objects as you see them or as you feel them?”

Irrationally, Joel felt even more annoyed. Was it possible that she got it, that she understood? Somehow he did not want that. He wanted to feel justified in disliking her. But was that just because she had been unkind to Anna? Or was it because she looked severe and humorless and he did not want her let loose upon the children here? Whatever had Miss Ford been thinking?

”Mr. Cunningham don't never tell us how to paint, miss,” Richard Beynon told her. ”He makes us work it out for ourselves. He tells us he can't teach us how to see things the way we want to paint them.”

”Ah,” she said. ”Thank you. And that should be 'he will never tell us' or 'he won't ever tell us.' Have you ever heard the head-scratcher of the double negative actually making a positive?”

Richard's face brightened. ”It does make you want to scratch your head, miss, doesn't it?” he said, grinning broadly.

Despite that exchange, she still looked severe and humorless when she returned to Miss Ford's side. She walked with an upright, unyielding bearing, as though she had been made to walk around as a child with a book balanced on her head.

”I beg your pardon, Mr. Cunningham, for interrupting your cla.s.s,” she said. ”I look forward to working with you too.”

He expected her to extend a hand to be shaken. Instead she inclined her head graciously-a grand lady condescending to an inferior?-and left the room with Miss Ford, who smiled at him before closing the door.

Now, what was that all about? he wondered as he frowned at the door panels. What in the name of thunder had put it into her head to apply to teach here of all places? In the very schoolroom where Anna had taught. In the orphanage where Anna had grown up. She had rejected Anna's offer of affection. Yet she was choosing to come here?

”She liked Olga's painting, Winny,” Richard said, and he was poking out his tongue and crossing his eyes when Joel turned.

”And she corrected your grammar, Richard,” Winifred retorted, scrunching up her face until her head vibrated.

”If your eyes ever stay like that, my lad,” Joel said, ”you are going to tire of having to gaze at your nose for the rest of your life. And if you keep doing that, Winifred, you are going to have a faceful of wrinkles and the permanent shakes by the time you are twenty. You all have five more minutes to finish painting and then we will move on to the discussion.”

It was always an important part of his lessons, getting his pupils to look at one another's work, not to rank them best to worst, but to see how the vision each had of a subject was very different from everyone else's. Not necessarily inferior, not necessarily superior, just different.

She was Anna's sister. No, correction-Anna's half sister. But how could there be even that close a relations.h.i.+p between the two women? Anna was all grace and light and warmth and laughter. Miss Camille Westcott was . . . different.

Not inferior? Not superior? Just different?

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