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 class 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 pronounced, “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 class. 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 sunshine 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 Duchess 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 shiny 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 space. 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 Duchess of Netherby’s sister,” she explained. “She is currently living in Bath with her grandmother, Mrs. Kingsley.”