Page 82 of His Spirited Lady
“Not a finishing school,” Amelia said, taking her oldest confidante’s hand in the hopes of softening the shock. “Thea and I have met a woman in London who is beginning a proper university for young women. It will be a few years before she takes her first pupils, but you know as well as we do that most young women won’t be academically prepared without support.”
“For village girls?” Graves’s wide stare shot between them as she removed her hand to her lap. “How could they afford school? And preparing them for university only to be turned away because they’re common would be cruel.” She shook her head. “You cannot—”
“Mrs. Reid has assured us the university will be open to any young woman who can pass the entrance exams and pay tuition,” Thea said. “And we’ve already begun securing scholarship pledges, mostly from our trustees.”
They had been overwhelmed by how quickly the women they had approached had agreed to serve as the inaugural board members and how many of them had pledged funds without being asked. Evelyn Bolding, Lady Althorne, had been particularly generous in her response to Amelia’s letter. She’d even included a note about how she’d been impressed by Richard.
Blinking into the sun, Amelia put a hand on her hat to keep it from slipping while she gulped until her throat and eyes were dry. It was one of the more useful skills Graves had taught her.
“I could not possibly prepare a class of girls for that,” Graves said. “Perhaps one at a time.”
“We don’t want you to teach,” Amelia said. “We want you to be the matron.”
“There will be instructors for each subject, or at least to divide subjects between them at first,” Amelia continued in a level tone. She couldn’t muster enthusiasm for anything, but right now it was useful. The more serious she sounded, the less Graves would doubt her. “You would be in charge of recruiting and supervising the women—we do hope to have as many women on the faculty as possible. You would also be in charge of the students.”
Graves’s mouth fell open in a most unladylike way. “This is a huge expense. Are your husbands supportive?”
“Rushford is, yes.” She frowned when Amelia stayed silent. “And I believe Mr. Ferrand will be once Amelia outlines it for him. This has come together quite quickly. But we have our own money, Lillian.”
“Begging your pardon, but allowances and pin money won’t cover this.” Graves took Amelia’s hand as though to warn her of the foolishness. “This would take everything your mother left you and still require more. And you’ll be in Canada.”
“There will be plenty of time to settle things.” Amelia squeezed her friend’s thin fingers in reassurance. “And the duchess and I have six hundred a year, at present.”
For she was sure her business would grow. Society ran on whiskey, workers celebrated with it. Drake was already reviewing investment opportunities offered by other circle members. She would have other businesses, other partners.
Graves looked ready to faint. There was no turning back now. Amelia smiled the way she’d practiced. “Lillian, we are going to tell you something that must remain our secret.” She drew a deep breath. “I am Eamon Brewer.” She fought to keep her grip on the woman beside her. “I was too tired for painting lessons because I’d been up all night bottling whiskey while everyone slept.”
“And I own The Galloping Goat.” Thea placed her hand on Lillian’s knee. “As well as what my husband likes to call the village bank.”
“That’s…mad,” Graves whispered. “How on earth…?”
Thea looked past her before giving a reassuring smile. “We’ll explain later. Right now, we have another task.”
The carriage stopped in front of a worn gate that bridged a gap-toothed fence. The house beyond it looked equally tired. It had been neat once. Whitewashing was still visible, and the paint on the door was just beginning to peel.
But the flowers were long dead. The vegetable patch, which should have been ready to harvest, was a straggly, withering morass. The sickening smell of rot and waste gave all the women pause.
“I didn’t know this was happening,” Amelia whispered. She should have. The Beyers were Father’s tenants. They were her responsibility, but she’d been too busy with too many things to visit. She’d considered her duty fulfilled because she’d purchased the sharon fruit Florence and her father had carted to the distillery, because she paid Florence a wage.
“Nothing for it now that we’re here.” Thea stepped down from the carriage. “Let’s see what’s going on. If this is her father’s doing, he won’t have a job after today. Which Oliver would say only compounded the problem, but we don’t pay our employees so they can drink or gamble their wages away.”
If Florence’s father had wasted his money on alcohol, Amelia would take her three hundred pounds to the church and join a nunnery. Which might not be a bad idea anyway. She’d heard tales of orders who made alcohol.
The girl came to the door with one child on her hip and two more at her knees. They were all wide-eyed, but they were clean. Florence did her best to curtsey despite her load and her siblings’ grip. She was already crying.
“M’lady. Did Mr. Brewer send you? Tell him I’m sorry for not coming to work. My mama is ill. Papa didn’t have time to go by the distillery to send word, and I didn’t trust the boys on their own.”
The boys looked to be four years old. But her father would have passed the distillery on the way to the lumber mill.
“Is your father not here at night?” Thea asked in a voice she’d used long before she was a duchess.
“He’s… He’s taken another job in town, Your Grace. At the abattoir.” Florence’s tears grew to a flood. “Please don’t be cross with him. We need the meat.”
“Of course not.” Thea took the toddler from her arms and handed it to Lillian without looking. She offered her hands to the boys and smiled. “Take me to see your mama while your sister speaks with Lady Amelia.”
Lillian followed them into the house. “I’ll see what’s in the kitchen.”
Amelia half-dragged Florence from the door, shaking her gently to get her attention. “No one is angry with you. We’ve come to help.” Technically, she’d come to lecture the girl on theft and keeping to her time, but that agenda was no longer appropriate. “How long has your mother been ill?”
