Page 28 of The Secret Word (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #10)

W hen Clem’s and Chris’s portion of the manor was ready, they moved in, and after that, divided their time between their London townhouse and Maidenstone Court.

When he was in London, Chris spent most of his days at Wright’s offices, but he also found time to attempt to persuade his relatives and Billy to support the school.

The Earl of Crosby was cautiously in favor. “It is an appropriate activity for a gentleman,” he said. “And the house has not been lived in by family for a long time. However, you will want to be careful that it does not become a Charybdis, sucking down your income, Christopher.”

“We hope to make it self-sustaining, sir, with a combination of sponsored students, charity students, and paying students.”

Billy O’Hara pointed out the flaw in that plan. “You’ll not be able to sell the aristocracy on the idea of educating their sons with street rats. Nor the middle sort, either, probably.” His frown was a thoughtful one, so Chris waited to see where his thoughts took him.

“I’ll pay your fees for six lads,” he declared.

Wright was not so supportive. “You’ll not be spending my hard-earned brass on a swarm of gallows bait, boy,” he declared. “They are scum, and they will always be scum, and that’s that.”

“No,” Chris said. Meeting Wright’s anger with anger never worked, but the man did not know how to counter calm determination. “I shall be spending some of the income from my estate, and money from patrons, on giving boys with promise a chance for a future. Boys like me, sir.

“You’re wasting your time,” his father-in-law insisted.

Lord Halton was of the same mind. “Your pupils will murder you in your beds,” he warned, which was something of a startling prognostication.

Chris had no fear of that happening. His first pupils were going to be the children that Billy had already civilized.

He would certainly need to be careful with others.

He knew, none better, about the savage anger that burned in the breast of the neglected and abused child.

They might seem—they were—too cowed to show it.

But as soon as they felt safe, the anger would burst out, often in ways dangerous to the child and those around him.

Prospective pupils would need to be carefully vetted, and so would the teachers and other staff. They would not only need to offer a high standard of education, but also understand and have sympathy for the pupils, whatever their background.

He wanted people who genuinely believed in the mission of the school. People who believed his boys were nothing but “gallows bait” would not be allowed near them.

The first step was to choose the two people whose personalities—so everyone advised him—would set the tone for the school: the head teacher, who would set the curriculum, lead the teaching staff, and teach some subjects, and the matron, who would care for the boys’ physical and emotional needs.

None of those he interviewed proved to be suitable.

In the end, it was, to his surprise, Lord Halton who found his head teacher.

Andrew Partridge was perfect. He had been a tutor to the three sons of an earl, a friend of Halton’s.

Before that, he had taught at a prestigious boys’ school.

He declared himself intrigued by Chris’s vision for the school, and was not at all put off to discover that his first six pupils were ex-street children who were being sponsored by a gambling den operator.

His references were sterling, if one ignored the school’s testimonial, in which there was clear disapproval of Patridge’s preference for non-physical forms of discipline. There was also a veiled remark about a lack of respect for the school’s tradition.

“What about the school’s tradition did you find objectional?” Chris asked the man.

Partridge showed no hesitation in answering.

“I should explain that, when each boy started, they were given a senior pupil as a mentor. A good idea, and I did not have an issue with the junior undertaking chores for the older boy. If the older boy was of good character, the system worked well. If the older boy was a tyrant, a dictator, or a bully, the junior boy had no recourse. As a teacher, I was not meant to interfere. Any brutality was excused in the name of ‘toughening up’ the younger lad.”

He sighed. “The headmaster and I agreed that I was not a fit for the school, and we came to a parting of the ways. My next employer’s middle son told his father that I had stood up for him, and he removed all three boys from the school and hired me as their tutor.”

“How would you discipline a bully?” Chris wondered.

“Not by being a bigger bully,” Partridge retorted.

“Chores often work. Mucking out the stables. Peeling vegetables. Rewards for good behavior can be effective—the opportunity to ride, or a special dessert for dinner. The most effective thing, I believe, is to create an atmosphere where the boys themselves will disapprove of bullying. Boys, even bullies, desire the respect of their fellows.”

Chris nodded. He had not analyzed how Billy got cooperation from his street rats, but he recognized the techniques Partridge outlined.

Billy also used extravagant threats, none of which he carried out.

Though Chris had known a few instances over the years of a boy who’d not been able to adapt, and who had suffered the one punishment that was irreversible.

“We need to make the school a safe and appealing place to be, then the ultimate threat—expulsion—should never be needed.”

That prompted an appreciative grin from Partridge. “I like the way you think, Mr. Satterthwaite. However, if a boy is a threat to the other boys and refuses to change…” He shook his head, sadly.

“I’d like to offer you the job, Partridge,” Chris said. “Let me tell you about the salary and benefits.”

The salary was generous and benefits included bed and board—a small private flat that had been carved out of one end of the manor for the head teacher of the previous school, all meals, use of the stables for the head teacher’s horse and any vehicle he owned, and cleaning services from the school’s servants.

“The housekeeper is willing to stay on, but will serve under the direction of the matron,” Chris explained. “We have yet to find a suitable matron, but when we do, she and the housekeeper will meet with my wife and decide whether they are a good fit.”

“As to that,” Partridge said, “I may have a suitable matron for you. That is, if she agrees.”

It transpired that Partridge’s sister was a childless widow, who had been a teacher herself, before she was married, and who had recently been matron at an orphanage.

“The supervisor of the orphanage had been taking funds intended for the children and spending them on his own entertainment. When she objected, the orphanage’s trustees dismissed her,” Partridge claimed.

“She is an affectionate woman. Firm, but fair. She would be perfect for turning your street children into gentlemen.”

If the explanation of her dismissal was true, she was just what Chris was looking for. “Ask her,” Chris said. “If she agrees, my wife and I will see her for an interview.”

Mrs. Westbridge, Partridge’s sister, was perfect, and Clem and Chris hired her on the spot. “I should like to accept the position, but I have a request, Mr. and Mrs. Satterthwaite,” she said, when they reached that point of the interview.

She wanted Clem and Chris to admit two children from the orphanage into the school. “I wish you could take them all, madam and sir, but I realize that is unrealistic,” she said. She sighed. “There are so many children, and then why one orphanage rather than another?”

“We cannot save everyone,” Chris said, “but we can make a difference for a few, and perhaps they will grow up to help others. Tell us about these children, and why they would benefit from the education we plan to give our pupils.”

They were boys—two brothers. According to Mrs. Westbridge, they were both very bright.

“Their mother taught them to read and figure. The orphanage, for all its faults, at least offered basic schooling in the three ‘R’s. Martin and Gregory were already ahead of the class when they came to us. If I had told the supervisor, he would have put them straight to work, so I taught them myself. Please. The supervisor will let you have them, if you offer him the payment he always demands. I shall work for no more than my keep to pay for their tuition.”

It was a real treat to exchange glances with Clem, know what she was thinking.

They were of one mind, as usual. “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Westbridge.

I’ll arrange for their release from the orphanage, and they can be our first charity students.

The other six all have a sponsor for their tuition. ”

The supervisor proved to be as venal as Mrs. Westbridge had said, and Chris had no problem securing the two boys.

The supervisor did not even ask what Chris wanted them for.

Indeed, he didn’t believe the truth when he heard it, which was after he and Chris signed an agreement, while they waited for the boys to be retrieved from the oakum-picking workshop and delivered to the supervisor’s office.

“The boys have been selected to attend a school for bright orphans,” Chris volunteered.

With a nod and a wink, the supervisor indicated he didn’t believe a word of it, but would keep his mouth shut out of respect for Chris’s money.

The boys arrived hand in hand, both pale and rigid with fear.

“You are Martin and Gregory White?” Chris asked.

The older of the two boys nodded.

Chris indicated the small bundle each boy carried. “Are those all of your possessions?”

Another nod.

“Speak up, boy,” said the supervisor, importantly. “This gentleman is taking you to a school. It is a school, is it not, Mr. Satterthwaite?”