Barbara Metzger Read Free Page B

refuse. She drew the letter from her pocket and handed it over, continuing despite the interruption, while the other woman smoothed out the rumpled, slightly soiled document. “He wishes to consult with me as soon as possible, he writes, concerning the estate of my Uncle Charles.”
    “Baron Harwood, eh?” Miss Meadow gabbled to herself. “There’s no heir to the title, so the Crown will recall the entailed holdings.” (She knew her Debrett’s better than her Bible. No, Debrett’s
was
her Bible. The gossip columns were her hymnal.) “He was a ne’er-do-well anyway, a gamester. There won’t be anything left,” she mumbled, holding the page right under her nose to see better, or to sniff out any advantage to herself in it. There wasn’t any, so she lost interest and handed the letter back. “Too bad.”
    “Too bad” seemed a fairly cold remark to offer someone whose uncle has passed on to his final and just reward, but Cristabel herself was not precisely grief-stricken, so she merely accepted it as a comment on the late baron’s luck, or lack of it. “Thank you,” she said, adding, “the lawyer did speak of an estate, however.”
    “Nothing of value, you can be sure. No, if there were a vast fortune, the solicitor would certainly have come in person. If there were even a modest inheritance, he would have sent a carriage. At the very least, if there were anything at all, he would have enclosed coach fare. That’s the way these men of business think. No, he just wants your permission to dispose of some gimcrack family stuff. You’ll write back telling him to sell the lot and send you a check.”
    Cristabel twisted the letter in her long, thin hands. “Perhaps there is a portrait of my father I would like to have, or an heirloom I might wish to keep.”
    “Would you?” Miss Meadow considered. “Yes, I suppose you would.” The fact that Miss Meadow harbored no such mawkish sentiments was evident in her tone. “In that case, you must request a list of the items for your perusal. Really, Miss Swann, you could have figured this out for yourself. My teachers cannot be so featherheaded as that. Now, I am quite busy.” Her beady eyes flicked to the almond tarts. “Will that be all?”
    Miss Swann licked her lips and took a deep breath. “I…I thought I might go to London.”
    Miss Meadow sighed. This was really getting quite tedious. “The summer break shall be upon us in a few months. I had thought you might be more useful here with the day students, but perhaps you could escort one of the girls home for her vacation and fit a few days in London into your return schedule. Though why anyone would want to visit the metropolis in the heat of July is beyond me. Still, it might be educational for you, something to pass on to your students. Yes, we might consider it.” Miss Meadow selected a paper from her desk—on the other side from the tea things—and started to read. Her forehead puckered as if in concentration.
    Miss Swann had accompanied one of her more favorite students to the girl’s parents’ estate some Christmases past, and she was not about to do so again. Invited to stay, Cristabel was housed with the servants; requested to play the pianoforte, she was hidden behind a screen of potted ferns to entertain the family’s house guests. Nor was she anxious to remain at the school all summer, giving remedial music lessons to those young ladies whose families were in Bath for July or August, away from that same London heat. The girls resented lessons in the summer; Miss Swann resented that the other teachers were permitted to visit their own families during the long break, even though she had no one to visit. That was nothing to do with today’s issue. Cristabel cleared her throat.
    Miss Meadow stopped pretending to read. “Yes, Miss Swann, I
shall
consider your request.” She looked down. Then up. “Was there something else?”
    “I thought I might go to London now. That is, as soon as