Barbara Metzger Read Online Free Page A

unpleasant to unbearable after she had rebuffed the caddish cleric's advances. When she died, she was going to watch out for the other girls at the school, Rosellen warned that son of pond scum now. She'd make sure he didn't sneak any more schoolgirls out at night as he'd done to poor Vivian Baldour, who'd been sent home in disgrace. Miss Baldour, Rosellen had heard, was hurriedly married off to the Earl of Comfrey, a man who was older than her father.
    My dear Lady Comfrey, I hope this finds you in better straits than mine. I wish to beg your pardon for not protecting your innocence more vehemently whilst you were in my charge. I hope you find happiness and fulfillment in your marriage. Miss Baldour would have been better off with a chimney sweep than she'd been with Mr. Merrihew, whose aim seemed to be to compromise some wealthy chit into an advantageous marriage. Advantageous for him, at least. Miss Baldour's father was too downy, or the Earl of Comfrey was too eager to get an heir, one way or the other. The girl shouldn't have had to suffer for falling for a rake's practiced promises, and him in holy orders! Papa would have been aghast.
    Her pencil was nearly down to the nub and she didn't have another in the desk, but Rosellen wasn't finished yet. Dear Lord Vance, she wrote, trying not to press so firmly on the page, I am dying, and I never even owned a dog. She knew she was repeating herself, but she was growing weary. Besides, Lord Vance, one of the school's local patrons, was a sportsman with his own pack of hounds. He'd understand, but Rosellen could not fathom what the man was doing calling after midnight through the back gate. Her little round window revealed him tying his horse behind some trees, then skulking through the shrubbery.
    Whatever the man was doing, it couldn't be any good. If he thought that the heavenly hosts knew of his clandestine visits to Miss Merrihew's rooms, perhaps he'd stay at home with his wife. At the least, he should consult mad King George's physicians. Miss Merrihew, indeed!
    By the close of Lord Vance's letter, Rosellen was yawning, struggling to keep her eyes open. Not yet, she begged, not yet. She had two more letters to complete before she could write finis to her life.
     

Chapter Three
    My dear Susan, I could not leave this mortal plane without bidding you farewell. I might never have had a beau or a babe or seen a balloon ascension, but I did have a friend. Here Rosellen had to stop to blow her nose and blot a fallen tear from the paper. She could hardly see what she had written, through the moisture in her eyes and the ever-increasing weakness. Her fingers were numb and cold. Just a little longer, she begged whoever might be listening. Attila the Hun lived to be over forty; surely Rosellen the Writing Instructor could be granted another hour.
    Miss Susan Alton was the only girl at Miss Merrihew's to befriend Rosellen when she arrived at the school. Kindness seemed the rarest commodity at the academy, scarcer even than a decent meal, until Susan smiled at her. Mere months apart in age, they were worlds apart in upbringing, yet Susan was not too proud to accept the disgraced parson's brat as a companion. Granddaughter to a duke, sister to a viscount, Susan was used to the ways of Society and refused to permit gossip and innuendoes to color her affection. The bumblebroth at the Maplethorpe ball could have happened to any green girl, Susan swore, especially one without a mama to advise her or a male guardian to protect her. Susan had her brother, Wynn, and was sure no here-and-thereian would trifle with her affections or her honor whilst the formidable Viscount Stanford was nearby breathing malevolence and loading his Mantons.
    Perhaps gentle Susan's kindness was the cruelest rub of all, for she'd offered hope and handed Rosellen heartbreak. When Rosellen had been at Miss Merrihew's for six months, Susan Alton had already been there for two years. She was looking forward to her