Page 9 of A Shop Girl’s Christmas (Pennington’s Department Store #3)

Cornelia stood alone in the small playground area in front of Alfred and Francis’s new school waiting for them to finish for the day. Mothers, nursemaids and nannies waited in groups of four or five. Others huddled in trios, sharing umbrellas as the drizzle dampened the shoulders of their capes and jackets. She curled her gloved fingers tighter around her purse, the icy wind biting at her temples.

The women’s attention to her had gradually changed over the weeks. Gone were the curious yet warm glances, the odd soft smile and nod from mothers tentatively offering gestures of intended kindness or friendship. Now, their stares lacked the welcome of before, their smiles and nods practically non-existent. Clearly, somehow, they had learned of her impending divorce and judged her accordingly. Quite possibly the knowledge had come from something Alfred or Francis had said in the classroom and she could hardly reprimand them for speaking the truth.

She gently stamped her feet, pretending it was for warmth rather than her discomfort at the scorn of the women around her. She pulled back her shoulders, determined to brave the snide or judgemental looks that came her way.

Holding the gaze of one particularly hardened ringleader, Cornelia’s heart beat out every one of the five seconds it took for the woman to look away before she turned to her cronies, said something and they burst into an unladylike barrage of spiteful laugher. Cornelia drew on Esther’s strength, tenacity and resilience. It was impossible that her ostracisation could go on forever.

The pealing of the school bell rang across the playground, and Cornelia breathed a sigh of relief. The school’s dark blue door opened and Miss Barclay, the boys’ teacher, came out first, wrapped in a black woollen coat and matching gloves, her young students lined up behind her. A woman who had devoted her life to children, first as a governess and now as a school teacher, Miss Barclay’s commitment, attentiveness and care had been a huge barometer to Cornelia’s decision to send her boys to this particular school.

One by one the pupils ran onto the playground and into the waiting arms of their mothers or nannies. Cornelia lifted onto her toes, but she couldn’t see Alfred or Francis anywhere as the area around her filled with childish chatter and laughter.

Her heart picked up speed as her panic grew and she pushed her way through the barrier of bodies.

‘Excuse me. Sorry, excuse me.’ She kept her gaze resolutely on Miss Barclay, fear for her children overriding any concern for anything these women might think or feel. At last, she reached Miss Barclay. ‘Miss Barclay? Where are Alf—’

‘Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Parker.’ The teacher nodded, her dark brown eyes tinged with kindness as she assessed Cornelia over the edges of her spectacles. ‘Alfred and Francis are in the classroom. I’m afraid I must ask for a few minutes of your time.’

‘Oh.’ Cornelia’s relief the boys were safe was quickly quashed by concern about what they had been up to. ‘Of course.’

‘Just this way, please.’

Miss Barclay turned on her heel and stepped back through the school door, leaving Cornelia to follow. She sneaked a peek behind her. Two or three groups of women still loitered in the playground, their malicious gazes studying her. Shooting them a glare, Cornelia quickly followed her sons’ teacher inside.

The smells of beeswax and chalk surrounded her as she entered the school and followed Miss Barclay along a corridor decorated with pictures of holly-and-ivy-strewn fireplaces and candled fir trees drawn in sweet, clumsy, carefree crayon and pencil. The drawings and brightly coloured classroom doors, along with Miss Barclay’s amiability, had left her in no fear of Alfred and Francis settling well at St Barnard’s Primary School.

Not that she’d had any experience of a real school herself. Her mother had not allowed Cornelia or her younger sister to linger in education any longer than the law demanded. The great Ophelia Culford was everything her daughters needed in a teacher. After all, couldn’t everything be learned within the four walls of a nursery with regards to decorum, dressmaking, jewellery and the skill of catching a wealthy husband?

To her mother, things like arithmetic, grammar and bookkeeping were for boys’ futures, not girls’. Why would she ever consider her daughters’ desire for independence, to work and discover the world in their own way?

The notion was laughable.

Alfred and Francis sat at a double wooden desk in front of the classroom and Cornelia carefully studied them. Any hope her children were about to be praised quickly vanished under the ferocity of Francis’s scowl.

‘Are Alfred and Francis in trouble, by chance?’

‘I’m afraid Francis is, Mrs Parker.’ Miss Barclay held her hand out to the desk beside Alfred and Francis. ‘Please, won’t you sit down?’

Cornelia glanced at Alfred. Her eldest child stared straight back, his dark blue eyes clear of any guilt, his mouth relaxed and semi-smiling. She sat and shifted her gaze to Francis. He glared back at her, his arms crossed high on his chest, lips pursed, and his chin firmly jutted.

Suppressing a sigh as exhaustion bore down on her, Cornelia faced their teacher. ‘Can I ask what Francis has done?’

Miss Barclay stared at Francis, her face expressing concern rather than admonishment. ‘Francis has been caught flicking rolled-up paper at students when my back is turned. He put chalk on three boys’ chairs twice this week and, finally, he deemed it funny to draw a bottom on my chalkboard when I left the classroom for less than five minutes. Your son, Mrs Parker, seems to be struggling with some discontent either at school or home and it’s my wish to get to the bottom—’

Francis sniggered, and Cornelia shot him a glare.

‘Needless to say,’ Miss Barclay continued, ‘Francis does not seem to appreciate the gravity of these misdemeanours. I, on the other hand, most certainly do.’ She stood and splayed her fingers on her hips. ‘Now, this is your last chance to tell both myself and your mother what is causing this behaviour, Francis, or I will have no other option than to inform the headmaster.’

Cornelia raised her eyebrows in warning at her youngest son. She did not want either of her children to have a reputation of troublemaker and having one of them expelled would hardly be an appropriate thank you to Lawrence and Esther after all they had done for her.

‘Well, Francis? What do you have to say yourself?’

The anger and resistance in his eyes did not waver. ‘It’s not my fault.’

‘What isn’t?’ Cornelia snapped, annoyed and more than a little shocked at his insolence and temper. ‘The drawing? The chalk?’

‘All of it.’

‘Then whose fault is it?’

‘Yours!’

Cornelia flinched. ‘Mine?’

‘Yes. If you hadn’t left Daddy and moved us to stupid Bath, I would still be a good boy. If you weren’t getting divorced, me and Alfred wouldn’t be teased, pinched and prodded by our classmates. It’s your fault. Yours!’

Silence fell on the room with the violence of a slamming door.

Harsh. Sharp. Angry.

Cornelia’s heart raced as warmth infused her from face to foot. My God, what have I done to my children? I had no idea Francis was harbouring such resentment . She looked at Alfred who stared down at the desk. Did he blame her for their life now, too? She turned to Francis. Where is my shy little boy of a year ago? The son who stood behind my skirts, afraid to say as much as boo to a goose.

‘I want Daddy back,’ Francis grumbled.

Before Cornelia could respond, Alfred reached across the desk. He clasped his brother’s hand and looked at his mother. ‘Francis is just muddled, Mama. He doesn’t mean it.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Do you? Once Mama finds it in her heart to forgive Papa things will be better, I promise.’

Francis stared sullenly back, his cheeks bright red and his lips tightly closed.

Alfred’s wisdom and maturity were shaming, and Cornelia’s heart sank. How had everything become so complicated? How had she not realised just how badly the boys had been affected by the separation? By everything they had seen and heard when she and David lived as husband and wife? She had been so determined to blame David’s actions for hurting their children that she hadn’t considered for a moment the boys might blame her.

Guilt twisted her heart. From now on, she would ensure they were entirely protected.

She drew in a strengthening breath. ‘Your father gave me no choice but to leave, Francis. You know this.’ Hating the crack in her voice, Cornelia kept firm. She didn’t feel weak. Only guilty, and at a loss for what to do except to take her hurting son into her arms. ‘Everything will be all right. You will soon see your father once everything has quieted down and we are more settled.’ She glanced at Miss Barclay, who watched Francis, her gaze filled with concern. ‘You like living with Uncle Lawrence, don’t you?’

Her son continued to glare, his silence deafening with the depth of his hurt and confusion.

Miss Barclay cleared her throat and, when she spoke, her tone was significantly softer. ‘Mrs Parker, I think it might be best that you take Alfred and Francis home and discuss things privately. Under the circumstances, I will not speak to the headmaster, in the hope that Francis accepts that when we are angry, we need to find another, more productive way to vent that anger, rather than upsetting other pupils.’ She stared pointedly at Francis. ‘Do you understand, Francis?’

He stared at his knee as he bounced his foot up and down.

Cornelia curled her hands tighter around her purse. How could she have not noticed these changes in her precious little boy? Had Lawrence or Esther?

Guilt dried her throat, and she coughed. ‘Answer Miss Barclay, Francis.’

He hitched his crossed arms higher. ‘I want to go home now.’

‘Oh, we are, but first you will apologise to Miss Barclay and, if she wishes, tomorrow, you will apologise to anyone else you have troubled. Do you understand?’ Cornelia held his sullen stare until he dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded. ‘Good. Then look at Miss Barclay and start as you mean to go on.’

Slowly, Francis lifted his head, his eyes gleaming a little under the lights. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Barclay.’

She softly smiled. ‘Apology accepted. Now, I suggest you go home and think what you want to say tomorrow to the boys concerned.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

Cornelia stood and offered her hand to the boy’s teacher as they got to their feet. ‘I’m sorry for the trouble and you have my word I will speak to Francis and there will not be any recurrence.’

Miss Barclay offered a brief smile. ‘Then I’ll see the children bright and early in the morning.’

Cornelia nodded, turned and held her hand towards the door. ‘Come along, boys. We will talk further at home.’

Her children walked ahead of her, and Cornelia followed straight-backed and full of resolve. Alfred had been right in stating she needed to forgive David if they were to move forward. But how was she to do that when she could barely think about him, let alone talk to him? It was less than a week to the court hearing. How was she to forgive him when all her shame and humiliation would be laid bare for the judge to hear?

She’d never forgive David. Not ever. How could he have sabotaged their marriage and risk hurting the boys? Destroying their family? Well, his affair had blossomed into an upcoming marriage and there was no chance Cornelia would stand by and let her children become embroiled in David’s treacherous new beginning.