Free Miss Hartwell's Dilemma by Carola Dunn

reciprocate.”
    Amaryllis giggled. “If my name were Melpomene,” she admitted, “I should prefer that no one used it. It is bad enough to be called after a Greek shepherdess. I cannot think what her parents were about to name her for the muse of Tragedy.”
    “I hope you have a plan in mind,” her aunt went on. “It is prodigious unpleasant to have to listen to Augusta complaining for thirty minutes at a time, I vow.”
    “I need more information before I can contrive a successful scheme. Try to find out why she does not choose to live with the tonnish brother, and as many things that give her the vapours as you can.”
    Preparing for bed later that evening, Amaryllis realised she had not told her aunt or Tizzy of the inquisitive Spaniard. Still, there was no need to alarm them. No doubt he would turn up in a day or two to enroll a daughter in the school, or perhaps he wanted to give Spanish lessons. As Bertram had said, it was not likely that some relative of the Spanish Ambassador should have tracked her down with revenge in mind after all these years. All the same, it was not only the chilly sheets that made her shiver as she climbed into bed.

 

Chapter 6
     
    Monday morning brought rain, blowing in wintry drifts across the village and dashing against the windowpanes with a rattle like a snare drum. September or no, Mrs. Vaux ordered fires lit in every room that would be used during the day.
    Mr. Raeburn arrived at the school with his greatcoat soaked through, his umbrella having turned inside out within a few steps of the vicarage. One of the housemaids hurried the dripping garment to the kitchen, while Daisy ushered the vicar into the small, cosy parlour where he would spend the day attempting to inculcate the tenets of Christianity into four or five young ladies at a time.
    Patient and genial, Mr. Raeburn had no opinion of preachers of hellfire. He had the greatest difficulty in checking his tendency to expatiate upon charity and compassion at the expense of more abstract virtues. His greatest joy was when, as happened not infrequently, one of the girls would bashfully hand him a portion of her pin money with a request to see to the comfort of some parishioner whose troubles he had mentioned. They all loved him, and not a few considered the inexplicable peppermint scent that imbued his presence to be synonymous with the “odour of sanctity.”
    It was still pouring with rain at four o’clock when he had finished his lessons. Miss Hartwell asked him to rake Louise Carfax over the coals for her behaviour in church, and then to explain the service to Isabel Winterborne so that she would be less confused next Sunday.
    Louise emerged from her scolding utterly unabashed. “Don’t be frightened,” she whispered to Isabel, who was nervously awaiting her turn. “He’s nice.”
    By the time Isabel came out to confirm that, excepting her Papa, the vicar was the nicest man she knew, it was too late for him to return to the vicarage before dinner. Miss Augusta might have hysterics if she wished, he would know nothing about it. Thus, Amaryllis sent Tizzy to entertain him with a glass of Madeira until dinnertime.
    “‘Wine that maketh glad the heart of man,’” said Miss Tisdale. “Psalm 104, verse 15. I do not believe my father ever used it for a sermon, but he was wont to quote it after dinner.”
    The meal was greatly enlivened when Daisy poured a glass of water for Mrs. Vaux and a frog leaped out of the pitcher in a shower of droplets. Several girls jumped up onto their chairs, squealing, though how that would save them was unclear as the frog was hopping about the table. The unfortunate creature sprang for shelter and landed in a dish of salad. Louise grabbed the offending beast as it scrambled out, trailing greenery and leaving oil-and-vinegar footprints on the white tablecloth.
    “Shall I put him outside, Miss Hartwell?” she enquired, trying hard to suppress a look of unholy glee.
    “If you please,”