Barbara Metzger by Miss Lockharte's Letters Read Free Book Online Page A

foot for emphasis. “But that's not the point. Miss Lockharte encouraged me to learn resolution, to stand up for what I believe. I believe we owe her a decent burial, so what are you going to do about Miss Lockharte?"
    "If she's dead, puss, there is nothing to be done. And if she's alive, there's no need to do anything."
    "But Miss Merrihew is cruel."
    And no other school would have an opening for a heretical, hysterical harridan with slovenly handwriting and a sharp tongue who wrote goosish letters. “Life can be cruel, puss."
    Then Susan was in his arms, weeping. “But she was my friend, Wynn. She cared about me and my happiness, not just about money and titles."
    Wynn patted her shoulder awkwardly. “I'm a trifle busy, puss, but I'll think about what we can do."
    She sniffed. Then she sniffed again and stepped back. “You mean you're too busy with your ladybirds to help an honest lady."
    "Dash it, what do you know of ladybirds, Sukey?"
    "I know that Mama said you stank of cheap perfume, and she was right."
    "She was wrong, my dear. It was very expensive perfume."
     

Chapter Five
    Sometimes the post brought glad tidings at Miss Merrihew's Select Academy for Young Females of Distinction: inquiries about new enrollments, cheques of deposit for current students. This was not one of those times.
    "What are we going to do, Mirabel? The bitch seems to know everything. We have to get rid of her."
    Miss Merrihew tore her letter in half, then half again and again until the pieces of her own expensive writing paper were smaller than her narrow, beady eyes, smaller than her sense of charity toward the letter's author. The paper was costly, but not nearly as costly as the wench's words would be, if made public. If the sanctimonious little scold told anyone about the rancid meats, the unqualified instructors, the pin money gone astray, to say nothing of the roving-eyed reverend, Mirabel Merrihew could move to the antipodes, for all the wealthy, well-born chits she'd be schooling.
    She tossed the bits of paper into the flames of her sitting room's fireplace, the only fire kept constantly burning at the school. Then she held her bony fingers out for her companion's letter. “We'll get rid of her, all right, one way or t'other."
     
    Sometimes the mail was early, sometimes the mail was late. And sometimes the Royal Mail was a trifle too diligent.
    "Vivian, my love, this rather sad excuse for a letter has traveled after us from Bath to Bristol and back again. It is addressed to you, my precious."
    Lady Comfrey, née Vivian Baldour, took the letter from her husband's hand, exchanging their squalling son for the penciled post. The earl jiggled the infant and cooed at him while his wife read. The babe stopped screaming and cooed back.
    "Comfy, dear,” Vivian said, looking up, “I think we are being blackmailed."
    Lord Comfrey was holding his son, the son he never thought to have. The boy was surely the sturdiest, smartest infant in all of England. If the lad wasn't the handsomest, he soon would be, taking after his beautiful mother. Nothing could mar the earl's pleasure in this moment. “Ignore it, my love. That's the best way of dealing with such nuisances."
    "But it's a tiresome letter from my old school, Comfy."
    "I still say ignore it, precious. That Merrihew chap won't open his mouth, not if he knows what's good for him, and that old stick of a sister of his surely won't cry rope on you. Her school would suffer the same exposure. More, for you are a countess and she is a cit putting on airs."
    "No, the letter is from one of the schoolteachers, Miss Lockharte. I recall that she was pleasant enough, if somewhat starchy."
    "So what does she have to say for herself?"
    "That she is dying, without ever having a child of her own."
    "Well, I can see how that would be distressing, my love, but I don't think your correspondent intended it as a threat."
    "You don't think it's a hint that she knows about little Algernon and means to tell