Forever My Love (Historical Romance) by Constance O'Banyon Page A

behave in a manner that would make Mr. Routhland proud of her and reflect well on her mother.
    "Look out the window, Royal," Arabella pointed out. "We are approaching London!"
    The sight that met Royal's eyes was not at all what she had expected. The quaint, dirty, stall-lined streets were flanked by drab, crumbling warehouses. The smell of rotten vegetables and raw fish was so overpowering that Royal covered her nose with a handkerchief so she could breathe. The coach rattled over cobblestone streets, past garish inns that looked ready to collapse and public houses where dingy laundry had been hung out the windows to dry. The streets seemed to be filled with an endless swarm of disheveled men and women, trailed by shoeless, dirty children.
    When the horses clopped across a wooden bridge, the scene began to change. It was as if they had entered another world. The sky was webbed with church steeples and towering buildings that gleamed in the afternoon sun.
    "We are entering London's par excellence district, Miss Bradford," the solicitor informed Royal. "Here the highborn, titled, wealthy, and powerful dwell. The choicest section is said to be bound on the north by Piccadilly, on the south by Pall Mall, on the east by the Haymarket, and on the west by St. James's Street. Your new home, Fulham School, is, of course, within this domain."
    If Mr. Webber was trying to make Royal feel at ease, he had failed. More and more she was convinced that she would not fit in, no matter how hard she tried.
    They passed coaches with coats of arms boldly painted on their doors, symbolic of the nobility that rode inside. Royal gazed at the wide avenue with its age-old trees standing guard like sentinels, defying entrance to any outsider. Here, well-dressed men and women strolled in and out of fashionable shops. Royal was surprised when they passed stately homes with block gardens not unlike those in Savannah.
    When the coach drew to a halt before the fashionable Devonshire House, the solicitor smiled. "This is where you will reside until such time as you are properly outfitted for Fulham School. On Mr. Routhland's instructions, I have made arrangements for you to patronize several of the shops. This is Monday. I should think by Monday next, you will be ready to be presented to the headmistress, Mrs. Fortescue."
    Royal caught her aunt's eyes and received an encouraging smile. Drawing on her courage, she moved out of the coach. Whatever the future held for her she could not guess, but she was prepared to meet it bravely.
    ***
    The office of the headmistress of Fulham was sparsely furnished, cold and impersonal. Two straight-backed chairs faced the cherry-wood desk where a woman with cold, hard eyes looked Royal over from head to foot. Royal met the headmistress's assessing stare with interest.
    It appeared that Mrs. Fortescue was in her late fifties or early sixties, but it was difficult to tell for certain. She was tall for a woman, big-boned, and wore her hair unpowdered and drawn tightly away from her face and covered with a stiff white cap. Thick glasses sat on the narrow bridge of her nose, and she tended to look over the rim rather than through the glasses.
    Mr. Webber had warned Royal that the headmistress ruled with the same authority as a queen laying down laws for her lowly subjects. Royal felt certain that Mr. Webber had described the woman correctly.
    Mrs. Fortescue glanced down at the log book on her desk, allowing Royal and her aunt to wait to be acknowledged. At last the woman raised her head.
    Pale blue eyes seemed to bore right into Royal with an intensity that made her shiver with fear. The headmistress pointed to the chairs in front of her desk, indicating Royal and her aunt should be seated. Both quickly complied.
    "I have been expecting you, Royal Bradford," Mrs. Fortescue said in a decidedly irritated voice, the words clipped and impeccably enunciated. "If you are to be a student at this school, you will be punctual at all