Page 16 of A Meddlesome Match (The Vaughns #3)

From the very first, Walter had adored the work of Charles Dickens and his gift for capturing the foibles of human existence. True, his novels often featured villains more at home in a Gothic tale and protagonists who felt like saintly caricatures, but his writing possessed such poignant glimpses of human nature—both what it was and what one wished it to be—that it lingered in one’s mind long after the final page was turned.

Still, Walter had no wish to live within one of Dickens’ stories, and at present, he felt more like Oliver Twist than a grown man of thirty with work to do. There he stood in his employer’s study, metaphorical bowl in hand, begging for a bit more porridge.

“Master Rolland shows an aptitude for mathematics, which I would like to encourage. I consulted with colleagues in the field, and they recommended several texts suited to his abilities,”

said Walter, forcing himself not to fidget lest he draw further attention to the carefully chosen truth.

Though “aptitude”

might have been an exaggeration, mathematics was Rolland’s best subject and well worth nurturing. Walter was doing his best to guide the boy through the rest, but as Rolland’s talents lay elsewhere, there was little good in fixating on what could not be changed. His struggles weren’t born of laziness or willfulness, but simply of a mind ill-suited to traditional lessons.

Walter had seen it often enough—a boy dismissed or harangued for what he could not do, rather than praised for what he could, or for the efforts he made in improving—and he had no wish to invite Mr. Semper’s scrutiny over such matters, particularly concerning his firstborn and heir. Better to focus on where Rolland’s natural brightness shone.

“Master Humphrey’s reading is well ahead of most boys his age,”

he hurried to add. “I’ve compiled a rigorous list of books for him, and he seems eager to tackle them.”

“And Orson?”

asked Mr. Semper, his tone making it clear he was only half listening, his pen scratching steadily across the paper on his desk.

“I am proud of the strides he’s made,”

said Walter, carefully sorting his words. “He sits through his lessons and completes his schoolwork in a timely fashion—"

“And simply getting the work done is the low standard we are setting for my son?”

Mr. Semper asked, scratching out a line and rewriting it without lifting his gaze.

“He is seven years old, and this is his first attempt at formal education.”

“Neither of his brothers found the transition difficult,”

said Mr. Semper.

Walter paused, biting back the observation that no two children were alike. And frankly, he doubted their tutor had been entirely honest in his reports; while some children adapted easily to school life, he suspected that had not been the case for the Semper boys.

“Master Orson’s exuberance will serve him well once we harness it,”

Walter said. “For now, it is difficult for him to sit as long as we require. That he has improved in that aspect and is completing his schoolwork consistently is worthy of praise.”

Mr. Semper gave a vacant hum in reply, the scratch of his pen filling the silence as Walter stood there, weighing what needed to be said next. In his experience, most parents preferred to claim the educational successes for themselves—thoroughly exaggerating them when speaking to friends and acquaintances, of course—whilst otherwise ignoring the troublesome bits, including the very people entrusted with molding their children. Save for the occasional report once or twice a quarter.

As this was one such occasion, it was the best opportunity for Walter to raise the issue. Mr. Semper was of a mind to discuss his sons’ education, and there was no guarantee he would be again for weeks or even months. Yet Walter’s hands grew clammy as he stood there, weighing his words.

Speak!

Mr. Semper raised a hand to dismiss him, and Walter saw the moment slipping from his grasp.

“We need to discuss the schoolroom supplies, sir,”

he blurted.

“Put what you require on the household accounts,”

replied Mr. Semper, his hand rising once more.

“Yes, sir, and I would have, but there were some items I required sooner than the housekeeper could send for them, and when I went to Bowles’ shop, he refused to place them on your account without written permission, and I was forced to pay for them with my own money.”

And for the first time since Walter had stepped into the study, Mr. Semper set down the pen and looked at him.

“You know I will compensate you for any expenses you incur whilst educating my sons. How much was it?”

“One pound six.”

Mr. Semper huffed a laugh and picked up his pen once more. “That is a pittance. Have no fear, I will repay you when your salary comes due.”

That sounded so very reasonable, and Walter would’ve gladly left it at that—if this wasn’t the third time he’d mentioned it to Mr. Semper.

“Yes, I know it isn’t much, sir, but with the work being done on my school, every shilling counts.”

Walter tried to speak lightly. “However—”

“I understand you took my boys to the worksite,”

said Mr. Semper, glancing up from his work, though his hand continued to scribble away.

Another distraction. Walter recognized it for what it was, yet he didn’t know how to press the issue without giving offense. For all that the wealthy called such sums “pittances,”

those tight-fisted misers were as likely to hand over their firstborn child as to pay what they owed. Walter was certain it would signal the End of Days if a single one of them ever settled their accounts in full in a timely fashion.

Ought he to press the issue and risk his relationship not only with his employer but with anyone Mr. Semper might speak to about Walter Reed and his school? Losing the good opinions of potential patrons would cost more dearly than the loss of one pound six.

“Humphrey was regaling me with tales of how plastering is done,”

said Mr. Semper, his expression growing grim.

“I assure you, that was not the purpose of our outing. It was merely a short stop on the way home, after our usual school hours,”

said Walter. “We were learning about the Napoleonic Wars from a firsthand account, and we spent the drive to and from Thornsby reviewing lessons—”

“Such as assisting damsels in distress?”

Mr. Semper’s brow arched, challenging Walter to contest the accusation lurking beneath the question.

“Miss Vaughn was in need of assistance, and it proved a good opportunity to teach the boys—”

“Peace, Mr. Reed,”

said his employer, setting his pen down with a chuckle. “As you said, lessons had concluded, and I do not begrudge you a little time to visit your school or assist a damsel in distress. From what the boys recounted, it was a necessary lesson in manners.”

Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Semper laced his fingers and rested them on his stomach. “And how goes the restoration work?”

“Well enough. I have every hope that all will be finished in time for the Michaelmas term,”

he said, some of the tightness in his shoulders loosening. “I do hope you will consider enrolling the boys when the time comes.”

“Heavens, no,”

said Mr. Semper with a laugh, though he quickly held up a staying hand. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Reed. You are a talented tutor, and I would be pleased to have you oversee my sons’ education. But starting a school in Yorkshire is a risky business.”

“I know we have a wretched reputation—deservedly so—and that is why I wish to establish it here. To restore some of Yorkshire’s tattered honor.”

“Yes, but you shall require at least one other schoolmaster to manage the pupils, and what sort of man would agree to work here?”

asked Mr. Semper with an apologetic wince. “No one of value will risk their reputation by coming to a Yorkshire school. It is them I do not trust, not you.”

“That is certainly something I will have to consider,”

said Walter as his neckcloth drew tighter around his throat.

“I do wish you luck, Mr. Reed. Your goal is admirable, but it is a fool’s errand,”

said Mr. Semper, waving a dismissive hand before returning to his work. “You may leave.”

And with that, Walter found himself on the other side of the study door before he knew what his feet were doing. Turning on his heel, he made his way through the house; he refused to think of it as “slinking,”

but the droop to his shoulders was far too pronounced to ignore. The money owed was gone, and Walter must simply accept it.

Yet the thought crawled beneath his skin.

Walter Reed couldn’t control his employer; Mr. Semper was master and held all the power. That imbalance always made such confrontations difficult, and yet, the gentleman was not so vindictive or dictatorial as to dismiss an employee simply for asking his due. No, Walter’s silent acceptance hadn’t been born of prudence. It had been fear, pure and simple, that had tied his tongue and left him slinking away like an errant schoolboy taken to task by his tutor.

Stepping through the front door—the only rebellion he allowed himself, a feeble display at that, as the Sempers never insisted he use the servants’ entrance, being neither tradesman nor servant in any true sense—Walter brooded over the debacle.

Losing the funds and proving himself a coward weren’t the only blows to his pride. How he wished he could refute Mr. Semper’s claims, but in that instance, it was truth and not his wobbly spine that had silenced him.

Walter had thought securing pupils would be the greater challenge, but there were always parents who prized economy over their children’s safety; otherwise, Yorkshire boarding schools wouldn’t have thrived for so long. Schoolmasters, on the other hand, were far more difficult to secure, and the role of headmaster was taxing enough without shouldering all lessons and lectures alone.

Gravel crunched beneath his shoes, the sound echoing as those thoughts buzzed around him like gnats—pestering, persistent, and impossible to swat away. But Walter knew ignoring the truth never helped anything. The only way forward was to face the problem, rather than burying his head in the sand.

Huffing at himself, he rubbed his forehead as his feet carried him down the lane into Danthorpe proper. A fine thought, that. Bold ideas from a man who twisted himself into more knots than a contortionist at the first hint of conflict. His business with Mr. Dix and Mr. Semper remained unsettled, and now his chance with Miss Vaughn was withering before his very eyes—all because he excelled at tiptoeing around the truth.

That blasted dance! He ought to have refused it outright. However well-meaning his mother’s intentions, Walter had known standing up with Miss Vaughn would bring nothing but trouble, yet he had allowed that travesty to unfold. And now, it had sealed his fate.

There were grander tragedies than a failed courtship, but that was difficult to believe when the woman he admired might marry someone else. Especially that popinjay Howard Gibson. To have the possibility of Miss Vaughn and prefer Miss Murray? Who in his right mind would choose the latter? And though the fates saw fit to grant him a second chance, the fool clung stubbornly to his title as the village idiot.

The sky was a patchwork of clouds, blazing with dozens of hues of white, gray, blue, and gold. Sunlight spilled through the gaps, casting shifting patterns over the grass and the wildflowers that stretched their faces toward the warmth. Somewhere nearby, the faint wisp of woodsmoke curled through the air, mingling with the richer scents of damp earth and the heady fragrance of summer blossoms.

Birds called to one another from the hedgerows, their melodies weaving through the rustling leaves like trilling flutes as the breeze stirred the grass, providing a low harmony for the bright sounds. And from somewhere in the village ahead, the sharp bark of a dog rang out—a staccato note in the gentle overture.

And then the country symphony was cut short by a distinctly feminine grunt.