he was turned Miss Polly’s fortune into ducks and drakes as the saying is. Didn’t leave her a feather to fly with, they say.’
She looked up at Alex over the pastry. ‘My Nan says Lady Eliot was fit to tie when the news came. Nan expected to see poor Miss Polly any day, but she never arrived. Then word came she’d taken a position teaching.’ Mrs Judd snorted. ‘Lady Eliot said it was just as well.’
‘And Mr Eliot?’ Alex’s jaw had clenched so hard he could scarcely get the words out. Two years ago. Tom Eliot was twenty-five now. He had been well and truly of age. What had held him back from fulfilling his obligations to his cousin? A girl to whom he had been as good as betrothed, even if he had never actually offered for her.
Ellie Judd banged the rolling pin down on the table and a tabby cat by the fire glanced up. ‘Reckon he did just as her ladyship told him. Like Sir Nathan. Less trouble that way.’ Mrs Judd sprinkled a little flour over the pastry and rolled it over the raised pie. ‘Nan reckons Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.’
* * *
Alex gazed unseeingly at the letter he had been writing to the bishop about the proposed schoolmaster. He supposed he could understand the Eliots’ outlook, even if he deplored the worldly attitude to marriage that it reflected. Tom Eliot and Miss Woodrowe had not been precisely betrothed, but it had been an understood thing that once she was old enough he would offer and she would accept. It kept her fortune safely in the family and provided a wealthy bride for Tom, easing the burden of finding dowries for Miss Eliot and Miss Mary Eliot.
But with no money the match was seen as unsuitable. He gritted his teeth. The Eliots would not have been alone in thinking that. And it might have been awkward housing Miss Woodrowe, but to let her go to be a governess—that was the bit that stuck in his throat. Two years ago? At just nineteen, dash it! Miss Hippolyta Woodrowe had been cast adrift to earn her keep.
He looked again at the letter.
‘...therefore I would be grateful if your lordship could recommend a man to take up these duties as soon as may be in the New Year...’
Miss Woodrowe’s determined face slid into his mind.
I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would...
He shoved the thought away. It was important to get a good man into the position. Many people disliked the idea of the parish schools the Church wished to set up, believing it dangerous to educate the poor above their station. The right man, one who could win respect, would go a long way towards breaking down those prejudices. The world was changing. No longer could children be assured of jobs on the estates they were born on. They needed schools to give them a chance.
Polly—Miss Woodrowe needs a chance.
He shoved the thought away. The school had to succeed. And if he put a woman in charge, a young lady...a lady’s place was in the home, not out earning her living...she was not made for independence...
And what if her home and fortune has been taken from her? What if she has no choice?
Then her family should take care of her!
That was how it had been for his own mother. Memories slid back. He’d been ten when his father died heavily in debt, old enough to realise his mother’s grief was edged with fear. Fear she had tried to hide from him as she wrote letter after letter to her own family. He had found some of the replies after her death. Offers to house her—in return for her otherwise unpaid services as governess, or companion. None had been prepared to take her child as well.
Only Dominic’s father had offered the widow a home along with her child. Offered to educate his brother’s son and provide for him. As a child Alex had taken it for granted. Now he knew how lucky they had been. Not all families could, or would, provide for an impoverished widow and child.
What would have become of his mother if Uncle David had not taken them in?
Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.
He could believe that if they’d allowed her to come asking about the position of village schoolmistress!
His kindly uncle had settled a small annuity on his widowed sister-in-law, providing a measure of independence along with a home.
Picking up the pen, he dipped it in the ink and continued, politely enquiring after the bishop’s health and that of his wife. A moment later he laid the pen down, glared at the letter and tore it in two. Mouth set hard, he took another piece of paper, picked up the pen and began, with considerably less care, another letter, this time to his cousin Dominic, Lord Alderley.
He had prayed for the right teacher for the school, and he believed that God always answered prayer. The trick was in recognising an unexpected answer.
* * *
Polly pushed open the door of the village shop, glad to be out of the wind again. It sliced through her old cloak straight to the bone. Mr Filbert popped up from behind the gleaming counter. He stared for a moment, then his gnome’s smile broke.
‘Why, it’s you, Miss Polly!’
She managed a smile. Mr Filbert was someone whose manner towards her hadn’t changed at all. ‘Good day, Mr Filbert. My aunt sent me in for some embroidery silks.’
He blinked. ‘Miss Eliot and Miss Mary were here just a few moments ago buying silks for Lady Eliot,’ he told her. ‘They didn’t say anything about your being with them.’
Probably because she wasn’t. She’d had no idea her cousins had been planning to visit the village. She could only pray they’d seen her neither entering nor leaving the rectory.
‘A misunderstanding,’ she said carefully. ‘Thank you.’
‘They went back to the inn,’ he said helpfully.
The already gloomy morning dimmed a little further. Her cousins had heard their mother set her the errand of walking into the village for new embroidery threads and had said nothing. What would have happened if Mrs Filbert had served her and she’d bought the threads again? She forced the bitter, uncharitable thoughts back. Perhaps they hadn’t decided to come in until after she’d left. They hadn’t passed her on the road, so it wasn’t as if they’d had a chance to offer to take her up.
‘Thank you, Mr Filbert,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’ll find them.’
She hurried out of the shop and down the street towards the inn, just in time to see the Eliot coach turning out of the inn yard towards the manor.
‘Susan! Mary!’ Probably they hadn’t seen her...ah, John Coachman had. He was slowing the horses. She picked up her pace, hurrying towards the carriage. Susan frowned, leaning forwards, clearly giving an order. John responded, pointing his whip at Polly hurrying to the coach. Susan’s chin lifted, she spoke again, the words indistinct, but her tone sharp... John hesitated, cast Polly an apologetic look and urged the horses on.
Polly slowed to a stunned halt, staring after the departing carriage. Hurt fury welled up, scalding her throat, as she set out for home. The frost had thawed that morning, leaving the lane muddy. By the time she was halfway there, her skirts six inches deep in mud she would have to brush off, she had a new plan. Very well. Her aunt had refused to give her a reference. Mr Martindale had failed
