Early December, 1812. The headmistress’s parlor at the Claridge Academy for Young Ladies. Two ladies seated in facing chairs before the fire.
Rachel Grant stifled the impulse to either squirm in her chair or leap to her feet and pace. She was simply not good at waiting. She frowned at Amelia Langston. Whatever was taking her friend and employer so long to read a two-page letter?
“I think it would be a mistake to accept,” Rachel finally said, flinging her voice into the overlong silence in place of the need to move. Drat it! She’d meant to get Amelia’s opinion before offering her own. But the suspense had forced her to prompt some sort of reaction.
Amelia looked up, removed her reading glasses, and rubbed the bridge of her substantial nose—while Rachel continued to wait. “Why ever would you think that?” Amelia asked. “This Christmas gathering sounds like a wonderful opportunity. You’ve been at sixes and sevens about what to do for the long holiday, and the Duchess of Newley’s house party would fill the bill nicely. I’m still just so sorry…”
“Don’t be,” Rachel blurted out. She wanted to stop Amelia before that discussion was revisited… again. In the past, Rachel had stayed with Amelia’s family for the long school holidays, but this arrangement was now impossible. Last month, Amelia’s youngest brother, Stephen—who had been oh-so-respectfully courting Rachel for the past two years—suddenly married the seventeen-year-old daughter of one of his parishioners. Rachel’s presence in a household that included the newlyweds would be awkward in the extreme.
In hindsight, Rachel wondered if the extreme respectfulness of Stephen’s address had signaled a lack of mutual attraction. The potential match had been a logical one, perhaps advocated more by Stephen’s parents than Stephen himself. As a vicar’s daughter, Rachel would have made an excellent vicar’s wife, and Stephen definitely needed help managing his parish.
But there had been no spark between them. Stephen was kind and considerate, but also bumbling and, honesty forced her to admit, boring. But she suspected Stephen was probably her last chance at having a home and family and so had been willing to trade her energy and organizational skills for security and a life she found comfortable.
Although both the faculty and students at Claridge still held hushed discussions about her disappointment, Rachel found she was primarily disappointed she would not be joining Lord Langston’s large and boisterous family for the Christmas Season.
“We’ve been over this, and things have a habit of working out for the best.” Rachel put a forced smile on her face. “And, as you said, the Newley’s invitation might be a wonderful opportunity.”
“But I can tell you have reservations.”
“Of course, I have reservations.” Unable to stop, Rachel bounced to her feet and began circling the room. “I would be spending the entire holiday with people I have never met. At a duke’s residence, of all things. I’m plain Miss Grant, a vicar’s daughter who now teaches for a living. What would I have in common with anyone else attending a house party there? Well, except for someone’s companion or a stray governess who accompanied a family with children.”
She’d come to the end of the room and reversed her direction, so she could see Amelia take a breath to begin a rebuttal. “No, not a word until I have mentioned all my doubts, the greatest of which is whether I’m supposed to be a guest or an employee. The duchess wants me to oversee the production of the Harvest Festival play I wrote for the girls here—with ‘seasonal adaptations,’ whatever that means. She mentions this will be an amateur theatrical, with the parts being played by those attending the house party. So, am I considered one of the amateurs who are guests, or am I a visiting professional, in which case, I would basically be an employee?”
Rachel turned to retrace her steps and saw a grinning Amelia waving a piece of paper in each hand. Rachel stumbled to a stop. “What in the world are you doing?”
“I’m sending semaphore signals for you to dock your ship. I’m having difficulty talking with someone who is sailing about the room.”
“Oh, good Heavens. Are you a dignified headmistress or a ten-year-old?” Rachel rolled her eyes and flopped back into her chair in a manner that would have garnered a reprimand had she been a student. “I don’t think you’re taking my concerns seriously.”
“I am—but I think most of your apprehensions are without merit.”
“How can you say that? Did you actually read the letter or just use the pages as signaling flags?”
Rachel’s irritation increased as Amelia’s face settled into the mask of patience she often wore with the school’s slower students. “I’ve read your letter from the duchess with great care,” Amelia said, “and am using what she says as the basis for my confidence that you’re needlessly worrying about imaginary problems. So, first to your greatest concern… It is obvious to me that you have been invited as a guest. Her Grace is most laudatory about your talent and praises the cleverness of your play.”
Rachel suspected the bulk of her cleverness had been in assigning one of the major roles, the Harvest Sprite, to the Duchess’s daughter, Margaret, and then seeing to it that the girl didn’t embarrass herself—something Margaret normally tended to do with consistency.
“As far as doing some ‘seasonal adaptations,’” Amelia continued, “well, it shouldn’t be hard to work in some Christmas references since the theme of the story is that kindness leads to understanding and harmony.”
“Amelia,” Rachel drew out the name in her own version of put-upon patience, “all of the characters who teach this lesson are animals. Do you honestly see any adult who’s attending a house party at a ducal estate wanting to be cast as a wise hedgehog?”
Amelia laughed. “I can think of a number of peers who could be hedgehogs without a costume. Having them appear wise, however, might be much more difficult.”
“Easy for you to laugh since you will not be the one trying to convince these people to take a part in a play designed for young girls. I can’t see my being particularly persuasive since I don’t fit into this segment of society. These are your type of people. Not mine.”
Amelia suddenly leaned forward and slapped the two pieces of cream stationery into Rachel’s lap. “Just answer the letter in the affirmative. Then go and have a wonderful time. Meet new people. And stop whining about not fitting in. You’re the granddaughter of a viscount, for Heaven’s sake. Not a washer woman.”
“A viscount I have never met. A man who disowned my mother when she had the audacity to marry the local vicar rather than a man of his choosing. I have no desire to claim kinship with such a person.” Rachel frowned at her friend in irritation.
Amelia already knew Rachel had no contact with her grandfather. They had discussed Rachel’s tenuous connection to Society when she’d taken the teaching position at the Claridge Academy six years earlier. Amelia promoted the school by telling the parents of prospective students that all the teachers were related to peers—a fact which helped both to attract the daughters of wealthy industrialists and to reassure those of the aristocracy. Rachel had reluctantly agreed there would be truth in this statement about her as well.
But being included in a general statement about a group of teachers was not the same thing as presenting oneself at a ducal doorway with such dubious credentials.
“Well, then there’s also the problem that I have nothing appropriate to wear.” Although this was a tangible concern, Rachel wanted to cringe at voicing what sounded like a typical feminine lament. In this case, however, it was true. Teachers had neither the funds nor the need for more than one dinner dress—and one was exactly how many Rachel owned. Her trusty mauve had seen her through every occasion that called for something more elegant than a day dress ever since coming to Claridge Academy. From the first, the dress had been more classic than stylish, and now it was simply out-of-date.
“Easily addressed by using the Abandoned Closet and enlisting Mrs. Gibbs.” Amelia gave her a satisfied smile.
“But the Abandoned Closet is for the use of our scholarship students.” Rachel had long been impressed with Amelia’s efforts to make Claridge more egalitarian. Students’ use of titles was forbidden, and there were a number of bright students whose parents could not have afforded the fees if Amelia had not arranged for benefactors to help with the payments. But regardless of these efforts, financial and social positions were readily apparent in clothing.
And so, the Abandoned Closet had come into being. At the end of every term, students left clothing in their wardrobes and chests. Out-grown, deemed unfashionable, or disposed of because the garment no longer appealed, the collection of discarded dresses, pelisses, and undergarments was staggering. This was where Mrs. Gibb’s skill was needed. The diminutive, gray-haired seamstress could magically transform a castoff item into something fashionable that was unrecognizable to the original owner.
“I was thinking of the dresses Lillian Taymor left here, two years running,” Amelia said. “The materials and styles were much too sophisticated for any of our students, but would be ideal for a mature woman.”
Rachel gave her friend a rueful smile. “Thanks for reminding me I qualify as mature by any definition.” At twenty-six, Rachel probably qualified as on-the-shelf—a spinster school teacher whose last chance at having a home and family had disappeared when a balding, disorganized vicar became enamored with a mere child. So, perhaps, she was a bit disappointed. Maybe, just maybe, a ducal house party would provide her with a different perspective.
“I was thinking of that wonderful green velvet,” Amelia said. “So inappropriate for a girl of seventeen, but perfect for you. I think we can be happy that, while Lillian’s mother had poor judgment in what a young girl should wear, she also had a good deal of money.”
Rachel remembered the green dress and smiled. “I think we should repair to the Abandoned Closet,” she said, sliding her arm through her friend’s and pulling her toward the hallway.