Miss Williams sniffed. “I’ve not as of yet. And I’ll not teach them myself.”
“I am aware, Miss Williams,” Cordelia said.
“They are sticky.”
“So you’ve said. But we do need such a teacher, so please do continue asking around.” She peered at her list then looked at Mr. Spencer. “Do you have an estimate for the yearly cost of paints for the amount of students we wish to take on?”
Mr. Spencer was a poet with a head for numbers who had volunteered, for now, to operate as bookkeeper as well as instructor of verse. Eventually. When they were able to open. They currently offered a few classes, helped a few children learn new skills, but hopefully soon their rooms would be brimming every hour of every day, filling up the silence of an empty house with the bustle and chaos of art and joy.
Mr. Spencer fumbled with some papers scattered on the table beside him and peered over the edge of his drooping spectacles. “Ah, hm, yes, well, you see, it appears that it’s quite a lot.”
“I am expecting as much. The number please?”
He swallowed hard. “A hundred students, a quarter to a half of those on scholarship and providing no fees to cover art supplies.”
She nodded. “A low number at first to make it feasible, but hopefully shall expand our number of students rapidly.” The price of supplies would be steep but unavoidable. They were, after all, running an art school.
Mr. Spencer pulled a damp handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and replaced it haphazardly. Then he leaned across the table to whisper near her ear.
“Just as I suspected.” She used a strong voice, but her lips thinned. “Well, we already comfortably provide supplies for ten students using the tuition of twenty-three. We should consider raising what we charge the paying students.”
He bobbed his head, the spectacles falling off entirely. “The colorman I spoke to said the good paints are quite dear, and to order as much as we wish to order so frequently… I think it perhaps better to take on fewer charity students.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But the children misuse the paint, use much more of it than necessary,” Mrs. Aimes the watercolor instructor said.
“But they are the ones who most need us.” They were Cordelia’s purpose in life, her way of paying back the man who had helped her, a means, as well, of easing her guilt. For years, she’d done nothing but mourn and paint and sculpt and write. She’d been as good at mourning as she’d been bad at the others. But no more. Not ever again would she be a drain on someone’s coffers. She would be an independent woman, and she would give others the chance to develop skills that would grant them independence as well. “We will find funds by whatever means necessary. When I started this scheme two years ago, it was with a singular mission, and I will not give up on it.” She shook her list of possible financial backers in the air. “Do any of you have new names to add here?”
The eleven assembled teachers of the future Waneborough Charitable School of Art shook their heads.
“Right. Excellent.” Not excellent in the least, but best to be positive when leading the others. She tapped her various lists into order on her lap. “Does anyone have any lessons scheduled today?”
Miss Williams raised a hand, as did Mrs. Aimes.
“I hope your students prove more talented than I.” Cordelia’s grin returned, and the others chuckled.
They had all, at one point or another, been paid by the late marquess to teach her, to hone talents she did not possess. They had watched her journey into artistic discovery and viewed it not as failure, but as the making of her, no matter how nonexistent her skill. Like her, they loved art. Like her, they knew the myriad ways it could save a soul. It could help widows smile again and give children confidence. And the skills learned did not have to be reserved for art galleries alone. Teaching a mud lark how to draw court scenes could save him from a watery grave in the Thames. Teaching a mother of ten to embroider might earn her a few extra pence for fancy work with the dress shops.
She stood. “I believe we’re done for the day.”
They began to pack up.
She tried not to let her voice waver. Confidence was key. “Please do keep in mind that I cannot remunerate you for your work until we have more paying clientele.” The twenty-three paying patrons they had so far covered, barely, the cost of the paints and other supplies they needed for… everyone.
Her instructors grumbled their assent.
“And also remember that if Lord Theodore should grace us with his unexpected presence, you are to—”
“Hide,” eleven voices said at once.
“Precisely.”
Mr. Spencer ambled over and cleared his throat. “We should do something about him, my lady.”
“Wearedoing something about him. As soon as he realizes I can pay for the house through my own endeavors, he’ll leave us be. I’ll buy the house. Or rent it.” More likely. Though it should have been hers. The old marquess had promised her. The solicitor she’d visited after Lord Theodore had announced intentions to turn her out had said the old marquess had often talked of signing the house over to her but had never actually done it. A shadow rose up before her, but she put her back to it. Nothing to do but move forward.
“He’s a brute,” Mr. Spencer said. “I do not like to think of him importuning you at any given moment night or day.”
