Read Online The Daughters of Gentlemen by Linda Stratmann - Free Book Online Page B

Venn. She took charge of the sovereigns and they returned to her study, where she locked the coins in her strongbox and penned the required letter. ‘Miss Doughty,’ she said, ‘I would be very obliged to you if you were to remember at all times the importance of the school’s reputation. We rely absolutely on the confidence and trust which our patrons place in us. They send us their best of treasures – their beloved daughters – and they must know that I will care for the girls as if they were my very own. One tiny suggestion of the smallest stain upon the school’s record would be a disaster of the greatest magnitude. I have already told you more than most people know.’
    The unanswered questions trembled upon Frances’ lips, but she did not ask them. If she had simply scored a victory over the headmistress, that would have left them still at defiance, but she now had the opportunity to earn the lady’s trust and respect, and with that would come the confidences she needed.
     

     
    Salem Gardens was a narrow street of small terraced houses. The ‘gardens’ in question were not apparent to the passer-by, and were presumably at the back of each premises, although Frances doubted that a great deal of gardening as she understood it was being carried out. The sounds of hammering nails, sawing wood, and beating of metal, as well as a strong whiff of laundry soap and borax showed that the enterprising denizens had used the space to establish their own businesses. As she sought out the house of Matilda’s mother she passed a chimneysweep carrying his brushes and poles and wearing the grime of his employment like a black greatcoat, a carpenter striding to work with a canvas bag of tools slung across his shoulder, a carrier with parcels on a handcart, and boys taking barrows of vegetables from door to door. Children too young to be in the parochial school were clustered in doorways, but they were decently dressed, and as clean as could well be expected.
    Frances knocked at the door of a tidily kept house and it was opened by a woman of about fifty whose compact figure, dark enquiring eyes and the sharp tilt of her nose at once identified her as Matilda’s mother.
    ‘Mrs Springett – my name is Frances Doughty and I have come from the Bayswater Academy,’ began Frances. She offered the letter of introduction, and Mrs Springett looked at it with a frown. ‘May I come in?’
    Mrs Springett spent a great deal of time reading the letter then bit her lip and looked sorrowful, as if the visit was both unwelcome but expected. At last, she nodded and stood aside. ‘Is it about Tilda?’ she said, resignedly.
    ‘Yes,’ said Frances, ‘is she here? May I speak with her?
    She entered a small narrow hallway with stairs directly ahead leading to the upper floor. The front room, judging from its lace-curtained exterior, was a small parlour kept for Sunday best and special occasions, and Mrs Springett led Frances to the back room, where there was a fire roaring in the grate, a scrubbed wooden table, plain chairs and a simple dresser with pans, kettles, teapots, crockery and flat irons. An armchair stood by the fire, and there was a workbox and a pile of garments to be mended, all of it male working clothes. A door at the rear led to a small scullery, from which Frances assumed the garden space and outhouse could be reached.
    ‘She’s not here,’ said Mrs Springett, in answer to Frances’ question. ‘She lodges at the school, but you’ll know that if you’ve come from there. She should be there now.’ She stared at Frances with some anxiety and seemed about to ask a question, then changed her mind. ‘I was about to make a cup of tea. Please, sit down.’
    Frances sat while Mrs Springett made tea. It was obvious that the lady was not simply flustered but actually alarmed by the visit. It would have been natural for her to ask what Frances wanted with Matilda, but it was fear, not courtesy that prevented her from