Chapter Two
The next few weeks passed in a blur. Most of the students were leaving us for the winter holidays, and my time—when I wasn't teaching—was spent handling the logistics of thirty-seven girls' train rides, parents' arrivals, and losing most of my other employees and teachers as they, too, were "off" for Christmastide.
As usual, there were some students who were left to spend Christmas at the Academy. Actually, I realized as I looked over my list of students, only three would be staying behind. Often there were at least five or six.
"Miss Hunter?" Adeline inquired.
I looked up. "Yes?"
"Should I ready the arrangements for Sir Adrian's visit tomorrow? And what do I do about Monsieur Etienne? He has a cold and won't be able to teach tomorrow, and you know how concerned the parents are about the quality of our French teaching."
"Have Miss Carswell take the French if Monsieur is unable; her accent is flawless." Sir Adrian Barrymore was touring the school tomorrow with his daughter's education in mind, and Adeline was frazzled. She had a tendency to become stressed whenever it came to outsiders touring the school, and I knew it was because she was afraid of her own incompetence. The trustees of the school had given her an education for free, and I knew she constantly was attempting to "pay it back." She turned to leave.
"And Adeline?" I stopped her. "Stop worrying. You're doing fine." I smiled kindly at her, and then went to teach my last class of the day.
The highest level math was filled with girls I'd known my entire four-year run as headmistress of Ravenscroft Academy, the oldest being one of our charity students, eighteen-year-old Natasha Prior, and the youngest being fifteen-year-old Rosalie Macaulay, the Indian-born daughter of a British military man and his wife. Both of them, incidentally, were two of the students who would be staying behind over the holiday. Natasha was an orphan, and Rosalie's family too far away for either one of them to make the long trip.
Before I could even begin, Rosalie raised her hand, and I tried not to sigh. She was far too intelligent for her age—thus her placement in a higher class—but she was also the prissiest, most frivolous girl in the school by far.
"Yes, Rosalie?"
"Miss Hunter, don't you think the high maths are a little useless for us?"
"Excuse me?" I asked in disbelief, amazed at her direct questioning of my authority in front of the class.
"Well, if all we're going to do is to get married one day, what's the point of algebra and geometry?" She said the last word with especial disdain: Rosalie despised geometry.
"Miss Macaulay, why would you expect such a thing?" I said with what I hoped was devastating delivery. "Arithmetic is something to be used in daily life, whether you're married or not. If married, you would be required to keep charge of the household accounts, would you not? And as the wife of a prominent individual, you would need a basic knowledge of geometric principles, I'm sure. You plan on marrying, do you, Rosalie?"
"Of course!" She said forcefully.
I caught Natasha's effort to keep from rolling her eyes. She halfway succeeded.
"What if you were planning a grand ball?" I asked, knowing it was correct question for Rosalie's interests. "You'd need to decorate, wouldn't you?" I turned to the blackboard and began a simple drawing to illustrate my point. "You have a column on the far side of the ballroom about—oh, fifteen feet high. There is an identical column on the opposite side of the room, and you wish to hang a banner between them, but…"
I heard Rosalie groan, and I tried not to smirk. "…the chandelier hangs low enough to set the fabric on fire if raised too high. The chandelier hangs three feet from the ceiling, and the room is fifteen feet—the same height as the columns…." I continued my problem, finding myself back in the familiar and comfortable world of mathematics, even amid the foreign land of ball décor. I didn't mention how an unmarried woman might use arithmetic. They already knew about the option of teaching, and I wasn't going to enlighten them on the subject of governmental espionage.
However, I regained control of my lesson and classroom, so there was some satisfaction for small victories.
That night, I checked all the rooms at eight-thirty, as was my habit. Most of the younger girls were abed, although I confiscated an issue of the Strand from Georgie Urswick after I found her reading a Sherlock Holmes adventure under the bedcovers. I felt something akin to panic as I grabbed it before realizing that the issue was an older one—"The Beryl Coronet"—and not one that chronicled my own case. Of course, Dr. Watson used changed names* to "protect the innocent" for his contributions to the Strand, but one could draw their own conclusions to the identities of the parties involved if they tried. Normally, this would not bother me, but I didn't wish for my students to grasp this information. I'd never hear the end of their questions, and sometimes it's best for students not to delve too deeply into their teacher's personal lives.
And, of course, I was not sure crime literature was appropriate for an eleven-year-old anyway.
I gave one last reminder to the older girls, who I did not require to retire until nine, and then went down stairs to make sure Mr. Fredericks had locked all of the doors for the night.
When I finally retired for the night, nervousness about Sir Adrian's visit suddenly accosted me. Why, I didn't know— I'd handled many parents of prospective students over the years, and while I was probably not the most beautiful or charming of hostesses, I was straightforward and welcoming. Or, at least I tried to be.
I began the next day with my usual duties, saw the girls off to their classes, and then checked my timepiece. Sir Adrian Barrymore was set to arrive within the hour. Miss Gregory would handle my maths class for me that morning while I devoted my time to his tour of the school.
Sir Adrian was a portly gentleman, and older than I thought he would be. His wrinkles, gray hair, and reddened eyes pointed to an age of sixty or so, and his raspy voice made me suspect he either had health problems or a smoking habit. Or both. He said his daughter was thirteen, and with this in mind I gave him the grand tour, taking special pains to show him classes in progress and the rooming arrangements.
"Our usual practice for girls of her age is three girls to a room," I said, leading him down the hall, "but we do have options for private suites, as well. At an extra cost, of course."
Sir Adrian nodded.
Odd, I thought, that he didn't ask about the French. Our school was also known for its instruction in the "womanly arts" and deportment, something many parents were keen on, given the fact that most of these girls were to be groomed for advantageous marriages. I frowned slightly. Sir Adrian hadn't asked about that, either. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye as he examined the bedroom.
"Shall we retire to my office?" I asked, my voice sweet and obliging. "Or would you like to see anything specific again?"
"No, no, my dear young lady. I think I have seen what I needed to."
Yes, I thought. He had. His eyes had been moving quickly around the rooms under my supervision. I stiffened before leading him down into the hall to my office, where I sat down behind my desk. Sir Adrian's bulk creaked in the chair across from me.
"A marvelous institution, Miss Hunter. Marvelous indeed."
"Yes," I said, smiling. "Now, would you like to discuss financials, or shall we dive into the real reason that you're here?"
"My dear Miss Hunter, why would you think I was here for anything but my daughter's education?" the look in his eye was in inscrutable.
"I have seen parents of all sorts through these walls, Sir Adrian, but rare indeed is the parent who shows such a decided lack of knowledge of his daughter's needs," told him. "Granted, I have met your equal in that regard, and it could be excused by the unfortunate fact that many fathers take little interest in their children, especially daughters. But your survey of the grounds and rooms?" I raised a brow. "You were clearly examining possible entrances and exits—not the drapery. And I have never met any prospective patron who was so overwhelmingly interested in the state of our pipes and the rotation of the maids. Either your daughter—if she indeed exists—is such a hoyden that you wish to make sure she is securely contained, or you are here for some other purpose."
To my surprise, the man in front of me laughed—not a laugh I would have suspected Barrymore to have. The sound was oddly familiar, but I couldn't place it.
"Oh, Miss Hunter," he said gleefully, the rasp in his voice gone. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."
I narrowed my eyes. "I'm not sure I follow."
"Ah, I perhaps I set my expectations too high then, if you find me so unrecognizable."
He didn't finish his sentence before I got a good look into his eyes and gasped. "You!" The word came out in a hushed shriek. "But you're dead!"
*I know, I know- I'm using the original names from Watson's stories, so technically the name "Violet Hunter" itself would be an alias. So let us pretend that in-world different names were used. Mostly for my own sanity and the reader's clarification.
**You may recognize a few of my name choices…Natasha is named after Natasha Richardson, who played Violet Hunter in the Granada adaptation of The Copper Beeches, while Rosalie is named for Rosalie Williams, who portrayed Mrs. Hudson in the same series. Sir Adrian Barrymore is a nod to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's son Adrian, who wrote several Holmes stories of his own, and John Barrymore, who portrayed the Great Detective on-screen in the twenties.