Page 22 of Charming the Headmistress (Spinsters and their Suitors #3)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
T he library was hushed but alive with quiet energy.
Afternoon sunlight slanted through tall windows, glinting off polished wood and casting dancing patterns across the shelves.
A soft murmur of girls whispering over their books floated in the air—punctuated by the occasional giggle or the turning of a page.
Eleanor sat among them, a rare moment of peace settling over her as she turned the pages of the gothic novel resting in her lap.
The story’s brooding hero and shadowed halls swept her away from her usual concerns, and she found herself delighting in the melodrama more than she cared to admit.
Yet every time her eyes traced the words, she thought of the man who had placed the book in her hands—of the earnest warmth in Lord Camden’s eyes, of the way his voice had softened when he said he thought she might enjoy it.
A pleasant warmth blossomed in her middle at the memory.
She shook her head slightly, trying to focus on the novel’s heroine fleeing down torchlit corridors, but the lines blurred as thoughts of Camden intruded again, unbidden and undeniably welcome.
She realized with a start how easily he had come to occupy her quiet moments, and how often she thought of him.
She had always prided herself on remaining composed, on keeping her emotions in check even in the most trying of circumstances.
But there had been something undeniably pleasant about her recent encounters with the Marquess.
He had a way of speaking—calm, thoughtful—that lingered in her mind long after he had left the room.
And then there was the moment when he had kissed her hand, a simple gesture, yet one that had sent a warmth through her that she hadn’t felt in years.
Eleanor exhaled quietly, shaking her head.
She was allowing herself to be distracted by things that should not concern her.
Lord Camden's visits were for Helena's sake, not hers.
He was here to see his niece, and her role was simply to ensure that the girl was making progress. Anything beyond that was unnecessary.
Still, there was no denying that she found herself looking forward to his next visit. It was a thought she quickly dismissed as impractical, but the fluttering in her chest persisted, no matter how much she tried to ignore it.
A sudden voice broke through her reverie. “Miss Langford?” Mrs. Carter’s usually measured tone carried an edge of urgency as it intruded upon the cozy hush of the library.
Eleanor looked up, blinking as if woken from a dream. Around her, the girls glanced curiously between their headmistress and Mrs. Carter before returning to their reading.
“Miss Langford,” Mrs. Carter repeated, stepping closer with a note of apology in her eyes. “Your assistance is needed. There’s been a misunderstanding in the music room.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around the book’s cover for an instant—almost as if parting from a dear friend—before she placed it gently on the table beside her.
It was a strange feeling, to hesitate even for a heartbeat when duty called.
It wasn’t simply the story’s lingering pull that held her.
It was the thought of the man who had gifted it that left a lasting warmth she could not quite shake.
She reminded herself he was a marquess—a man of status far beyond her reach—but the memory of his eyes softened by laughter defied every rational boundary she set on the matter.
She turned from her thoughts reluctantly. Duty called.
She rose, smoothing her skirts with practiced composure.
“Of course,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the rush of emotions.
She offered the girls a reassuring smile before following Mrs. Carter from the library, her mind shifting from whispered tales of haunted castles to the very real challenges awaiting her in the music room.
When they were in the corridor, Eleanor whispered, “What has happened, Mrs. Carter?”
Mrs. Carter hesitated for a moment before speaking. “There was an argument in the music room. Miss Davenport has refused to participate in the group practice, and it seems she had a rather harsh exchange with one of the other girls.”
Eleanor’s frown deepened. Miss Amelia Davenport was a spirited girl, but her temper often got the better of her, especially when she felt slighted or challenged. It wasn’t the first time she had caused a disruption, but Eleanor knew that the girl’s outbursts often stemmed from deeper insecurities.
“I’ll handle it,” Eleanor said, her tone firm but calm.
The corridor outside the music room carried a taut stillness. The soft strains of the pianoforte had ceased entirely, replaced by a heavy silence that told Eleanor everything she needed to know.
Inside, Miss Amelia Davenport stood rigidly near the piano, arms crossed, chin lifted with defiance. Across the room, Emma Carrington’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. The other girls clustered together, wide-eyed and whispering among themselves.
“Miss Davenport,” Eleanor began, her voice gentle but imbued with quiet authority, “please come with me.”
Amelia’s eyes flicked to Eleanor’s, and for a moment her bravado wavered. She followed Eleanor into the anteroom adjoining the music hall—a small space with a single window casting late afternoon light across the worn carpet.
Eleanor closed the door softly behind them and faced Amelia, careful to keep her expression calm. “Tell me what happened.”
Amelia hesitated, her lower lip trembling as she struggled between defiance and shame. “Emma said my playing was too loud, and then she told me I wasn’t keeping time. I … I lost my temper.”
Eleanor nodded, stepping closer so her presence felt supportive rather than punitive. “And how did you respond?”
“I told her she wasn’t the conductor, and I took her music sheets,” Amelia admitted in a rush, her gaze falling to the floor.
“There will always be times when others criticize us,” Eleanor said, her voice soft yet firm.
“We cannot control their words, but it is how we choose to respond to that criticism that defines our character. Anger may feel powerful in the moment, but it only leaves hurt in its wake. We do not have to agree with others, but we must always be respectful.”
Amelia swallowed, her cheeks reddening. “I know, Miss Langford. I’m sorry.”
Eleanor placed a light hand on the girl’s shoulder, the gesture full of quiet reassurance. “I know you are. And I also know you’re capable of better. I expect you to return those sheets to Miss Carrington, apologize, and rejoin your classmates with the grace I know you possess.”
A tiny nod broke through Amelia’s sullen posture, and her shoulders slumped with relief. “Yes, Miss Langford.”
Eleanor guided her back into the music room, where Emma watched nervously. Amelia stepped forward, cheeks still warm with embarrassment, and returned the music with a quiet apology. Emma accepted it, and the other girls relaxed, the tension dissolving like morning fog under the sun.
The music resumed soon after—hesitant at first, then gradually rising to its former bright melody as the girls regained their confidence.
Eleanor lingered by the doorway, letting her gaze roam over the girls who were now laughing softly as they played, the notes weaving together with renewed harmony.
A sense of quiet satisfaction settled in her chest. Moments like these, when she could guide a girl back to kindness and self-control, were why she loved her calling.
Every girl at Greenbrook had her own struggles, her own challenges, and it was Eleanor’s duty to guide them, to help them navigate the complexities of life with grace and resilience.
By the time she returned to the library, most of the girls had vacated the room, moving on to their next activity. Eleanor picked up her discarded book, and after talking with a few girls, she returned to her office.
As Eleanor returned to her desk, her gaze drifted over the neatly laid-out schedule, her eyes landing on the small note in her own hand: Scholars’ Afternoon – End of Half-Term.
It was only a few weeks away. The words seemed to glow with importance.
This day had always been one of Greenbrook’s crowning moments: a time for parents to admire their daughters’ growth—academically, musically, socially—and to witness firsthand the quiet triumphs of Greenbrook Academy.
It was a day for polished shoes, neatly pressed uniforms, and a drawing room filled with bright flowers and shining faces.
It was also a day when every misstep, every sign of weakness in the school’s structure, could be scrutinized.
She had never minded that before—had almost thrived on the challenge.
But now, the thought of Lord Camden standing in the hall alongside other parents filled her with a sharp, unsettling energy.
How would he perceive the academy’s traditions?
Would Lord Camden approve of what he saw?
Would he find the academy—her life’s work—worthy of his niece—or would he see cracks she had missed?
Would he see her own efforts as admirable or inadequate?
A flutter of nerves filled her at the thought of his gaze resting on her.
It unsettled her, how her mind kept returning to him, how every meticulous plan seemed colored by the hope of his approval above every other person who would attend.
She had never known herself to be distracted before, never so conscious of another’s presence, even when he wasn’t there.
It was as though everything she prepared—from the girls’ performances to the arrangements for refreshments—felt suddenly more personal, more vulnerable.
She drew a steadying breath. The success of Scholars’ Afternoon would not hinge on one man’s opinion. And yet she could not deny that she longed to see the quiet pride in his eyes when he watched Helena succeed—or the warmth that seemed to linger in his gaze whenever it fell on her.
She pressed her palms to the polished wood of her desk, her reflection faint in the gleaming surface. How strange that just the thought of one man’s opinion could unsettle her so thoroughly.
Her mind drifted back to the memory of his quiet laugh, the thoughtful look in his eyes as he listened to her plans for the girls. She tried to banish the warmth those thoughts brought, but it lingered stubbornly, pulsing low in her chest.
She straightened a stack of parchment unnecessarily, her eyes skimming lists of parents expected to attend, notes about seating arrangements, and timings for the musicale.
Each detail felt heavier than usual. How could she possibly divide her focus between dozens of parents when every part of her felt attuned to whether one tall, composed marquess would approve of what he saw?
A soft knock at her door startled her. It was Mrs. Carter, carrying a swatch of deep blue fabric and a list of household tasks—reminders of the thousand small things that must be perfect for Scholars’ Afternoon. Eleanor rose to meet her, schooling her features into composure.
As Mrs. Carter spoke of tablecloths and arrangements for afternoon tea, Eleanor’s thoughts flickered guiltily back to the gothic novel tucked beneath a stack of papers on her desk.
She had spent the girls’ study hour reading beside them in the library, delighting in the dramatic twists of the story—and in the memory of the man who had gifted it to her.
She had never been this distracted before.
Never caught herself idly wondering how her hair looked in the afternoon light or whether her gown—a sensible dove gray today—appeared too severe.
She caught herself smoothing the skirts now, fingers brushing the fine wool as if she could erase the fluttering in her chest.
As Mrs. Carter’s words wound down, Eleanor forced herself to focus. The parents would expect excellence. The girls deserved nothing less. And she would give it to them—no matter how wildly her heart seemed determined to betray her composure.
With careful precision, she picked up her quill and began drafting the invitations, her script as neat as ever.
But with every sweep of ink, she could not keep herself from imagining the moment Lord Camden would step into Greenbrook’s grand entrance hall, Helena at his side—and what it might feel like to catch his gaze among the crowd.
She pictured his eyes finding hers across the crowded room, imagined a subtle nod of approval, with a quiet warmth in his gaze that would tell her all her efforts had been worthwhile.