Barbara Metzger Read Online Free Page A

luxuries, to be sure, but no lacks, either. Her father was the well-respected vicar in a small village where his little family had all they wanted and enjoyed what they had. Reverend Swann had died when Cristabel was sixteen, forcing his wife and daughter to eke out a meager living as best two gently bred females could, living in rented rooms and giving music lessons. Still, they had each other, but just for a year. At her mother’s death, Cristabel considered herself fortunate to gain a position with Miss Meadow’s school, teaching the youngest girls their do-re-mi’s. Who knew what would have become of her else? Certainly her Uncle Charles hadn’t answered her plea for help. She was not precisely ungrateful to Miss Meadow, these seven years later, but she couldn’t help wishing that someday her life would change. She couldn’t help fearing, though, that sometimes someday never came.
    That was before the letter. Now, if the letter had just arrived, and she’d gone straightaway into Miss Meadow’s office with it, then she would likely have done precisely as her employer advised. She would have written a polite reply to the solicitor. But she’d had the letter for two days. Last night one of her girls was sick, from too many candied cherries smuggled in somehow. And today was Patron Day at the school, when various of the Bath dowagers visited the establishment to have their sponsorship rewarded with an afternoon of musical renditions, poetry recitations, needlework and watercolor exhibits, and tea with Miss Meadow and some of the upper girls. The school benefited from the association with the
ton,
the girls learned more about the polite world, and the patronesses got to feel they were making an unselfish contribution to society, without having to touch their checkbooks or anything dirty. If they wished to feel particularly magnanimous, they could even invite one or two of the senior girls to their homes for an afternoon call, especially if they had an impecunious nephew on the lookout for a rich wife. Anyway, Miss Meadow had been much too busy with the grand visitors to bother about the concerns of her most junior instructress. So Miss Swann had had the extra time to commit the letter to memory and to dream.
    Think of castles in the sky; Cristabel built a full-blown fantasy palace! The town house in Grosvenor Square, a sedate older lady to act as chaperone and make introductions to the ladies of the
ton
who might remember her mother. Pretty dresses—a whole closet full—and a cheerful little maid to take care of them. Music—all she wanted, operas, concerts, musicales at…at Carlton House with the Prince! Why not, for Miss Cristabel Swann, heiress of Harwood House? Even if Uncle Charles had only left her a jointure, and she had to give music lessons to supplement her income… Even if Uncle Charlie had just
remembered
her, if someone cared.
    She couldn’t simply write a letter. She couldn’t let the dream die, not when it might be her only chance, ever.
    Miss Swann straightened her already firm spine. She raised her pointed chin and this time marched back across the hallway to Miss Meadow’s office.
    “What now, Miss Swann?”
    “Miss Meadow, I
wish
to go to London.”
    “What is that to the purpose? I wish to waltz with the king!”
    Cristabel almost lost track of her thoughts, picturing this tiny harridan dancing with the mad king, in his nightshirt, if rumors were true. She shook her head. “Miss Meadow, I wish to go now.”
    “And I wish this conversation at an end. One more word and you shan’t go to London at all, not now, not this summer. Not ever. Is that clear?”
    “Yes, Miss Meadow, but—”
    “I am finding your behavior impertinent and unbecoming in the extreme. I shall have to reconsider renewing your contract for next year.”
    “Yes, Miss Meadow, but this year or rather next week…”
    “If you say ‘but’ to me one more time, young lady, one more word about this matter, I shall