Before Ashley changed for dinner at the inn in Hastings, she kept her promise to Georgia and penned a short note letting her friend know they had arrived safely, expressed hope that Bognor—their next stop—would turn out to be better than its name might imply, and dropped the letter in the outgoing post.
Dinner at the inn could have been cooked by the finest French chef or a child throwing ingredients together at random, for all Ashley could taste. Aunt Eunice had insisted on bringing their own linens so the beds were warm and dry if a little lumpy. Ashley had resisted bringing the pillowcase that still bore Ravencroft’s faint scent. Barely.
“What do you think?” Mr. Chadburn said early the next morning. The solicitor had arrived in Hastings in his own carriage, and now rode with them to the estate that was available for lease.
The two-hundred-year-old manor house sat on a bluff, high enough to command a view of the Channel in the distance, and had access to its own private, sandy beach.
“It would do just fine,” Ashley said without enthusiasm. Instead of a well-to-do family living here and everyone having private bedchambers, there was plenty of space for classrooms and dormitories. The house had sat vacant through the winter, though a kitchen garden had been planted last year, and the stables were close enough to be convenient but not so close as to smell them in the summer. Madame Zavrina had kept several horses, for pulling the carriage as well as saddle horses to encourage the girls to spend time outdoors and make sure they could ride competently while being courted.
Courting. The process of finding a husband.
Refusing to let herself sigh, Ashley resigned herself to permanently being the headmistress and not the one being courted. Madame Zavrina had done it. She could, too.
Uncle Edward and Mr. Chadburn discussed the property in greater detail and made notes.
“It’s close enough to town that you won’t feel isolated, and it has adequate fields that you could be almost self-sustaining were you to hire an estate manager,” Mr. Chadburn pointed out.
“The landmarks nearby will make teaching history easier,” Aunt Eunice added. “Won’t your students be excited to visit historic sites?”
“England is such an old country,” Ashley muttered, “wherearen’tthere historic sites nearby?”
They spent another hour examining the property and making notes before heading back to the inn.
“Perhaps Bognor will be more to your liking,” Mr. Chadburn said. “Mrs. Platt’s school has an excellent reputation and has been operating for more than a quarter century. Many of the students currently enrolled are the daughters of previous graduates. “
“Taking over an existing school will certainly be simpler than starting one from scratch,” Aunt Eunice reminded her.
At the inn, they consulted a map. “My parents may have considered sending me here rather than Torquay,” Ashley said. “I vaguely recall not liking the name of the town.”
Aunt Eunice smiled at her. Ashley tried to respond in kind but couldn’t get the corners of her mouth to lift.
That night, as Ashley was going to her room where Sally and Maggie awaited her, Aunt Eunice tugged her aside.
“Things will get better,” she said softly, embracing Ashley. “You just need time.”
Ashley nodded, too choked up to speak.
They set out early the next morning. One of their stops for a meal and to change horses was in Brighton.
“If you choose the school in Bognor,” Aunt Eunice said, “you’ll be able to visit Brighton often and get more than just a glimpse of the Royal Pavilion from a distance. Perhaps even see His Highness!”
Ashley did not comment, as all she could think of was a grumpyharrumpf.
They reached Bognor in good time. Late afternoon sunlight glistened on the waves, sparkling like diamonds. Bathing machines on the beaches would enable her to swim in the ocean, not just get her ankles wet. Quaint shops and coffee houses lined the streets, enticing visitors to linger, and numerous inns offered lodging for those on holiday.
The inn they had chosen for the night was not far from the school, so they decided to drive past the school for a cursory look.
Several young women were out in front a modest manor house, tending flowerbeds, supervised by a fashionable matron with white hair who vaguely reminded Ashley of Lady Bedford. The matron smiled and waved at the passing carriage. Ashley impulsively rapped on the roof and asked the driver to stop.
“I couldn’t help noticing that you’re planting marigolds,” Ashley said, striding up the front walk from the street. Two of the young women stood up, dusting dirt from their hands. Their hair in long braids, they couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. “And that you have beds with lavender and rosemary.” The other two girls stood up, shaking dirt from their skirts.
“You are interested in horticulture?” the matron said.
“One of my favorite healing balms uses marigold, lavender, and comfrey.”
“I am Mrs. Platt,” the matron said, tugging off her gardening gloves. “I am the headmistress here.” She tilted her head. “Oneof your favorite balms?”
Ashley introduced herself as well as Aunt Eunice, who had descended from the carriage and joined her.
