Free So Long At the Fair by Jess Foley Page B

amusement.
    The squire, blithely unaware of the reactions to his questioning, proceeded to give Abbie a series of arithmetical problems to solve, which she answered satisfactorily in each case. In the single instance her answer differed from that prepared by the squire, it was found that it was he who was wrong. When he jovially conceded the error Abbie began to feel a little more confident.
    He had not finished, however. ‘Now,’ he said, adjusting another sheet of paper in front of him, ‘the Battle of Hastings. Can you give us the date of that?’
    Abbie was aware of further swift glances being exchanged between the school inspector and the Baptist minister. With a nod to the squire, she said, ‘1066, sir.’
    ‘Correct,’ said Mr Bradfield. ‘What about . . . the Great Fire of London?’
    ‘It was 1666, sir. I believe it destroyed about 13,000 houses and other buildings – including St Paul’s Cathedral. Though few lives were lost. Seven or eight at most.’
    ‘Excellent.’ The squire gave a congratulatory nod. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the Baptist minister, Mr Yates, forestalled him.
    ‘I wonder if you’d care to read something for us, Miss Morris. Allow us to have an idea of your reading ability.’ As he spoke he pushed an open book across the table towards her.
    She took it up and saw that it was Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice , which she had recently been reading. ‘Ah.’ She nodded. ‘Act Four, the Court of Justice.’
    ‘Quite so,’ said Mr Yates stiffly. ‘Would you care to read a passage for us . . . ?’
    Abbie looked down at the page, then up at the five pairs of eyes regarding her. She took a breath and began to read Portia’s famous speech:
    ‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d;
    It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
    Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d;
    It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
    ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
    The throned monarch better than his crown . . .’
    She continued to the end of the speech and came to a stop. Looking up, she saw Dr Parrish beaming at her.
    ‘That was splendid, Miss Morris. If you don’t teach perhaps you should consider becoming a Shakespearean actress and going on the stage.’
    Mr Yates turned to him with a disapproving frown, then reached out and took the book back. ‘Do you know anything of politics, Miss Morris?’
    ‘Well,’ Abbie replied with a shrug, ‘I read the papers.’
    ‘And what, for example, do you know of Mr Benjamin Disraeli?’
    ‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid. I know that he was made Chancellor of the Exchequer in Lord Derby’s Conservative administration at the beginning of July.’
    Mr Yates nodded, then turned enquiringly to the Revd Hilldew.
    Taking his cue, the Reverend said, ‘Do you read for pleasure, Miss Morris?’
    ‘When I have the time, sir.’
    ‘And what have you been reading? Would you like to tell us?’
    For a second Abbie’s mind went blank, then she said, ‘I’ve just been reading Thackeray’s History of Henry Esmond . Before that I read David Copperfield . Also, I very much like Keats’s poetry. Oh, yes, and I very recently read Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert.’
    ‘Madame Bovary,’ said Mr Yates, pursing his little pink mouth. ‘I don’t think that’s the kind of book we’d want disseminated in a classroom. Where do you get your books from, Miss Morris?’
    ‘Mostly from the lending library, sir.’
    ‘What is this Bovary book, then?’ asked the squire. ‘I don’t know of it, Mr Yates.’
    ‘Then be content, Squire,’ Mr Yates replied. ‘I haven’t read it myself and I’ve no intention of reading it. I’ve been told about it, though. It’s a scandalous book: the story of a – a wanton Frenchwoman, a woman who reaches the kind of end she deserves. And not a moment too soon.’
    ‘I read that,’ the doctor said, ‘when it came out a few years ago. In all fairness, Mr Yates, I don’t think