Regency Christmas Wishes(97)

The look of horror that Lucinda Chase cast in her direction assured Cecilia that the time was not quite ripe for such a radical comment. And just as well, she thought as she put her arm around her twelve-year-old charge. “It is merely a suggestion, my dear. Perhaps when you are eighteen, you will feel that way, too.” It seemed the teacherly thing to say, especially for someone into her fifth year as instructor of drawing and pianoforte at Miss Dupree’s Select Academy for Young Ladies.

Her young charge was silent for a long moment. She sighed. “Miss Ambrose, I suppose you are right. I do not know that Janet would listen to me, anyway. Since her come out she has changed, and it makes me a little sad.”

Ah, the crux of the matter, Cecilia thought as the post chaise bowled along toward York. She remembered Miss Dupree’s admonition about maintaining a firm separation between teacher and pupil and—not for the first time—discarded it without a qualm. She touched Lucy’s cheek. “You’re concerned, aren’t you, that Janet is going to grow up and leave you behind?” she asked, her voice soft. “Oh, my dear, she will not! You will always be sisters, and someday you, too, will understand what is going on with her right now. Do trust me on this. Perhaps things are not as bad as you think.”

Her conclusion was firm, and precisely in keeping with her profession. Lucy sighed again, but to Cecilia’s ears, always quite in tune with the nuances of the young, it was not a despairing sigh.

“Very well, Miss Ambrose,” her charge said. “I will trust you. But it makes me sad,” she added. She looked up at her teacher. “Do you think I will survive the ordeal of this most trying age?”

Cecilia laughed out loud. “Wherever did you hear that phrase?”

It was Lucy’s turn to grin. “I overheard Miss Dupree talking to my mama, last time she visited.”

“You will survive,” Cecilia assured her. “I mean, I did.” Lucy stared at her. “Really, Lucy, I was young once!”

“Oh! I didn’t mean that you are precisely old, Miss Ambrose,” Lucy burst out. “It’s just that I didn’t . . .” Her voice trailed away, but she tried to recover. “I don’t know what I meant.”

I do, Cecilia thought. Don’t worry, my dear. You’re not the first, and probably not the last. She smiled at her charge to put her at ease, and returned to her book. Lucy settled down quietly and soon slept. Cecilia put the book down then and glanced out the window on the snowy day. She could see her reflection in the glass. Not for the first time, she wondered what other people thought when they looked at her.

She knew she was nice-looking, and that her figure was trim. In Egypt, where her foster parents had labored for many years—Papa studying ancient Coptic Christian texts, and Mama doing good in many venues—her appearance excited no interest. In England, she was an exotic, Egyptian-looking. Or as her dear foster brother liked to tease her, “Ceely the Gift of the Nile.” Cecilia looked at Lucinda again and smiled. And heaven knows I am old, in the bargain, she thought, all of eight and twenty. I doubt Lucinda knows which is worst.

She knew that her foster brother would find this exchange amusing, and she resolved to write him that night, when they stopped. It was her turn to sigh, knowing that a letter to William would languish three months in the hold of an East India merchant vessel bound for Calcutta, where he labored as a missionary with his parents now, who had been forced to abandon Egypt when Napoleon decided to invade. She looked out the window at the bare branches, wishing that her dear ones were not all so far away, especially at Christmas.

She had been quite content at the thought of spending Christmas in Bath at the Select Academy. Miss Dupree was engaged to visit her family in London, and the other teachers had made similar arrangements. She had remained at the Academy last year, and found the solitude to her liking, except for Christmas Day. Except for that one day, when it was too quiet, it was the perfect time to catch up on reading, grade papers, take walks without students tagging along, and write letters. That one day she had stood at the window, wanting to graft herself onto families hurrying to dinner engagements or visiting relatives. But the feeling passed, and soon the pupils and teachers returned.

Lady Maria Falstoke, Marchioness of Falstoke, had written to Cecilia a month ago, asking if she could escort Lucinda home to Chase Hall, on the great plain of York. I cannot depend upon my brother-in-law, Lord Trevor Chase, to escort her because that dear man is woefully ramshackle. Do help us out, Miss Ambrose, she had written.

At the time, Cecilia saw no reason to decline the invitation, which came with instructions about securing a post chaise, and the list of which inns would be expecting them. Miss Dupree had raised her eyebrows over the choice of inns, commenting that Cecilia would be in the lap of luxury, something out of the ordinary for a teacher, even a good one at a choice school. “I doubt you will suffer from damp sheets or underdone beef,” had been her comment.