Read Online The Sergeant Major's Daughter by Sheila Walsh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sheila Walsh
Ads: Link
Miss Lipscombe, in a riding dress of ruby velvet, to find Felicity sitting on the top of her desk amid a circle of upturned faces, with her guitar on her knee, singing a Spanish carol to which the children had learned a simple chorus.
Felicity was not aware of their presence until Ester touched her arm. She slid to her feet in confusion; the well-drilled children bobbed their greeting and were sent back to their laborious copying.
She intercepted a glance of disapproval tinged with incredulity directed by Miss Lipscombe at Lord Stayne which roused her to meet the Earl’s high-nosed stare with a measure of defiance.
“The children have worked so hard this morning, I decided they were in need of a little relaxation. We are practicing very hard for a Christmas concert.”
His expression remained unfathomable.
Lucinda Lipscombe, however, was more forthcoming. “Surely, Miss Vale,” she said with an air of sweet reasonableness, “if the children are to be taught singing at all, which I am sure my mamma would not hold to be necessary, a simple English song would be preferable—and more instructive. To be teaching them a foreign language before they have mastered their own hardly makes good sense.”
“I cannot agree, ma’am,” Felicity’s voice was cool, though anger raged within her. “They pick up the Spanish with surprising ease, and I hold that anything which inspires their confidence and encourages them to express themselves at this stage is invaluable.”
“Then we must hope that your ... experiments ... succeed, Miss Vale. It would not do for you to be abusing the trust Lord Stayne has placed in you.”
The arch look which accompanied this honeyed reproof was wasted on his lordship, who had been casually perusing the children’s work. He looked up with a derisive smile.
“Your methods, if unorthodox, appear to achieve results, Miss Vale. There is a distinct improvement since my last visit.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The victory was a small one, but sweet—and Lucinda’s discomposure sufficient reward. It was as well to bask in his approval while she may; it was inevitable that sooner or later she would fall foul of it.
Rose Hibberd had been confined to her bed with a cold and Jamie, with only old Nurse to watch him, was making the most of his chances. Several times Felicity had discovered him tucked away at the back of her classroom, ineffectively concealed by the rest of the children. She entirely sympathized with his yearning for young company—and thought it no bad thing for him to be mixing with those less fortunate than himself—yet she could not suppose that either his mother or the Earl would share her views.
Even less would they have appreciated his ripening friendship with Lanny Price; of all the soulmates to have chosen, Lanny was the most potentially disastrous to a boy of Jamie’s questing spirit. Red-haired and incredibly slight for all his nine years, Lanny was the son of the most slippery poacher in the area, and was already set to rival his father’s reputation.
Felicity did all in her power to discourage the unholy alliance; beyond this, she could only pray that it would die of natural causes. Her prayers were destined to go unheeded.
One morning the schoolroom door crashed back to admit Lord Stayne — his greatcoat flapping, his face like thunder. With a sinking heart Felicity saw that he was not alone; two small, grimacing boys, each held inexorably by the ear, were frog-marched up to her desk.
“Miss Vale,” he snapped without preamble, “I would be obliged if you will make clear to your brats that my woods are out of bounds.”
Felicity flushed, but said calmly, “They have already been so instructed, my lord.”
“Have they!” He thrust the wriggling Lanny forward. “ Then how is it, do you suppose, that I find this young whelp wreaking havoc in my covers, making my b irds as crazed as be-damned?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“ And I suppose you have no
Felicity was not aware of their presence until Ester touched her arm. She slid to her feet in confusion; the well-drilled children bobbed their greeting and were sent back to their laborious copying.
She intercepted a glance of disapproval tinged with incredulity directed by Miss Lipscombe at Lord Stayne which roused her to meet the Earl’s high-nosed stare with a measure of defiance.
“The children have worked so hard this morning, I decided they were in need of a little relaxation. We are practicing very hard for a Christmas concert.”
His expression remained unfathomable.
Lucinda Lipscombe, however, was more forthcoming. “Surely, Miss Vale,” she said with an air of sweet reasonableness, “if the children are to be taught singing at all, which I am sure my mamma would not hold to be necessary, a simple English song would be preferable—and more instructive. To be teaching them a foreign language before they have mastered their own hardly makes good sense.”
“I cannot agree, ma’am,” Felicity’s voice was cool, though anger raged within her. “They pick up the Spanish with surprising ease, and I hold that anything which inspires their confidence and encourages them to express themselves at this stage is invaluable.”
“Then we must hope that your ... experiments ... succeed, Miss Vale. It would not do for you to be abusing the trust Lord Stayne has placed in you.”
The arch look which accompanied this honeyed reproof was wasted on his lordship, who had been casually perusing the children’s work. He looked up with a derisive smile.
“Your methods, if unorthodox, appear to achieve results, Miss Vale. There is a distinct improvement since my last visit.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The victory was a small one, but sweet—and Lucinda’s discomposure sufficient reward. It was as well to bask in his approval while she may; it was inevitable that sooner or later she would fall foul of it.
Rose Hibberd had been confined to her bed with a cold and Jamie, with only old Nurse to watch him, was making the most of his chances. Several times Felicity had discovered him tucked away at the back of her classroom, ineffectively concealed by the rest of the children. She entirely sympathized with his yearning for young company—and thought it no bad thing for him to be mixing with those less fortunate than himself—yet she could not suppose that either his mother or the Earl would share her views.
Even less would they have appreciated his ripening friendship with Lanny Price; of all the soulmates to have chosen, Lanny was the most potentially disastrous to a boy of Jamie’s questing spirit. Red-haired and incredibly slight for all his nine years, Lanny was the son of the most slippery poacher in the area, and was already set to rival his father’s reputation.
Felicity did all in her power to discourage the unholy alliance; beyond this, she could only pray that it would die of natural causes. Her prayers were destined to go unheeded.
One morning the schoolroom door crashed back to admit Lord Stayne — his greatcoat flapping, his face like thunder. With a sinking heart Felicity saw that he was not alone; two small, grimacing boys, each held inexorably by the ear, were frog-marched up to her desk.
“Miss Vale,” he snapped without preamble, “I would be obliged if you will make clear to your brats that my woods are out of bounds.”
Felicity flushed, but said calmly, “They have already been so instructed, my lord.”
“Have they!” He thrust the wriggling Lanny forward. “ Then how is it, do you suppose, that I find this young whelp wreaking havoc in my covers, making my b irds as crazed as be-damned?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“ And I suppose you have no
Similar Books
