‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘I have had experience teaching—two boys as well as a girl—and it was not for incompetence that I was dismissed—’ She broke off, biting her lip.
‘I need a schoolmaster,’ he said, tactfully ignoring her slip. ‘Not a schoolmistress.’ What on earth had she been dismissed for?
She scowled. ‘Why? I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would. And I can teach the girls sewing and other household skills, such as brewing simples, that would help fit them for service, and—’
‘You can’t live here!’ he said.
‘Here?’
‘In the rectory,’ he said. ‘The schoolmaster is to lodge here.’
‘But the cottage you are going to use has two rooms,’ she said. ‘I assumed that—’
‘No. He will live here,’ said Alex firmly. What use was a curate stuck away in the schoolhouse? And why make the poor fellow hire someone to cook and clean for him when the rectory was full of unused bedchambers and an unused chess set?
Miss Woodrowe’s brow knotted. ‘But, sir, will you not consider—?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Woodrowe, the schoolmaster is also to be my curate, you see.’
‘Oh. I see.’ All the bright determination ebbed and her eyes fell. ‘I...I did not realise that.’
Her hands twisted in her lap and his own clenched to fists at what he had seen in her face. She had, he realised, wanted the position. Desperately. Shaken, he said, ‘My dear, surely you don’t really need such a position? You have a family to care for you, and—’
She rose swiftly, reached for her cloak and swung it around her shoulders, even as he scrambled to his feet. ‘I apologise for disturbing you, sir.’ Her gaze met his again, shuttered, the soft mouth set firmly. ‘Please do not concern yourself any further. Good day to you.’
Alex blinked. He rather thought he had just been dismissed in his own library. Pride goeth before a fall, of course, but this girl had already taken the fall... ‘Miss Woodrowe—’
She was halfway to the door and he leapt to reach it first and open it.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said politely.
Dignity, he realised. Not pride. A scrap of memory floated to the surface; it had been known that Miss Woodrowe was intended for Sir Nathan and Lady Eliot’s eldest son, Tom, from the time they were children. Lady Eliot, he recalled, had mentioned it once. Or twice. She had viewed the match as a settled thing.
‘Miss Woodrowe—what about your cousin?’
She turned back, one small hand in its worn glove on the door frame. ‘My cousin? Which one?’
The coolness held a warning, but he ignored it. ‘Your cousin—Mr Tom Eliot. Was there not...’ he hesitated ‘...some understanding between you?’ Tom was a pleasant enough fellow, a little foolish, easily swayed by his mother, but surely a better choice for Miss Woodrowe than working as a governess?
Her eyes chilled. ‘Yes. There was an understanding. But it involved my fortune. Not me.’ She turned away, chin elevated a notch.
‘Miss Woodrowe!’ Surely she had not turned her back on her cousin out of pride! ‘If you have refused a good man out of wilful pride—’
She stared at him, something odd in her expression. ‘Refused my cousin, Mr Martindale?’ Bitterness rimed her voice and that mouth, which he remembered as made for smiles and laughter, curved into a travesty of a smile. ‘There would have to be something to refuse first. Tom never actually offered for me. Good day to you, sir. Thank you for your time.’
Alex drew a deep breath and realised that interrogating Miss Woodrowe on the clearly painful subject of her non-existent betrothal to Tom Eliot was not a good idea. Instead he saw her out politely, and went immediately in search of enlightenment.
Mrs Judd put him right at once. ‘Miss Woodrowe, sir? Oh aye. It was well known that she was to marry Master Tom. Lady Eliot had it all worked out from the time they was little. When old Mr Woodrowe died, she was that determined little Miss Polly should come to them, but Mrs Woodrowe refused and Sir Nathan didn’t push on it.’
Alex waited. There was never any need to probe with Mrs Judd. Once she was away on village gossip, there was no stopping her. He usually took care not to start her, feeling that, as rector, it ought to be beneath him to listen to gossip. Unless, as in this case, he needed information. Then she was a godsend and he did his very best not to view it as entertainment. In this case, as her daughter was cook to the Eliots, she was the best source he could hope for.
‘Course it’s all different now.’ Mrs Judd rolled out the pastry with great vigour. ‘That guardian or whatever he was turned Miss Polly’s fortune into ducks and drakes as the saying is. Didn’t leave her a feather to fly with, they say.’
She looked up at Alex over the pastry. ‘My Nan says Lady Eliot was fit to tie when the news came. Nan expected to see poor Miss Polly any day, but she never arrived. Then word came she’d taken a position teaching.’ Mrs Judd snorted. ‘Lady Eliot said it was just as well.’
‘And Mr Eliot?’ Alex’s jaw had clenched so hard he could scarcely get the words out. Two years ago. Tom Eliot was twenty-five now. He had been well and truly of age. What had held him back from fulfilling his obligations to his cousin? A girl to whom he had been as good as betrothed, even if he had never actually offered for her.
Ellie Judd banged the rolling pin down on the table and a tabby cat by the fire glanced up. ‘Reckon he did just as her ladyship told him. Like Sir Nathan. Less trouble that way.’ Mrs Judd sprinkled a little flour over the pastry and rolled it over the raised pie. ‘Nan reckons Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.’
* * *
Alex gazed unseeingly at the letter he had been writing to the bishop about the proposed schoolmaster. He supposed he could understand the Eliots’ outlook, even if he deplored the worldly attitude to marriage that it reflected. Tom Eliot and Miss Woodrowe had not been precisely betrothed, but it had been an understood thing that once she was old enough he would offer and she would accept. It kept her fortune safely in the family and provided a wealthy bride for Tom, easing the burden of finding dowries for Miss Eliot and Miss Mary Eliot.
But with no money the match was seen as unsuitable. He gritted his teeth. The Eliots would not have been alone in thinking that. And it might have been awkward housing Miss Woodrowe, but to let her go to be a governess—that was the bit that stuck in his throat. Two years ago? At just nineteen, dash it! Miss Hippolyta Woodrowe had been cast adrift to earn her keep.
He looked again at the letter.
‘...therefore I would be grateful if your lordship could recommend a man to take up these duties as soon as may be in the New Year...’
Miss Woodrowe’s determined face slid into his mind.
I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would...
He shoved the thought away. It was important to get a good man into the position. Many people disliked the idea of the parish schools the Church wished to set up, believing it dangerous to educate the poor above their station. The right man, one who could win respect, would go a long way towards breaking down those prejudices. The world was changing. No longer could children be assured of jobs on the estates they were born on. They needed schools to give them a chance.
Polly—Miss Woodrowe needs a chance.
He shoved the thought away. The school had to succeed. And if he put a woman in charge, a young lady...a lady’s