always been a girl for the books, never gave her mother a day’s worry and now, all of a sudden …
Guiltily, Bella made her way down Dorset Street, looking over her shoulder as she went for fear that – what? – Mother might be following and learn her true intentions. It was ridiculous, she knew. Perhaps it was the ghost of her father she feared would appear, doomed for a certain term to walk the night. But Pappie had died in a state of grace; he had no need to linger. She turned the thought on its head. Perhaps Corporal Beaver’s declaration of interest coming at this moment was due to Pappie’s intercession ? There, she felt better. She was glad to reach the illuminated streets and the sounds of revelry on Rutland Square. There might have been rowdies spilling out on to the street from pubs and wine lodges but they left her alone. Maybe it was out of respect for her mourning garb.
The season was on the change and the nights were drawing in so it was verging on darkness. She could feel her heart thumping faster than was usual but it wasn’t romantic fervour, but the subterfuge that agitated her. Small doubts niggled at her – was Corporal Beaver’s manner a mite oily, his looks on the flashyside, his eye a tad gamey, his manner too charming to be entirely sincere? But she countered with herself, wasn’t she settled now, with a year’s teaching behind her and an increment on the way? Wasn’t it high time for her to be considering her marriage lines? But what swayed her most in this argument with herself was the Reverend. A few days’ respite from him, even if it was to mourn for her dear Pappie, had convinced her. She had to find a way to escape from his avid clutches. Without Pappie, the breastplate of her armour against the world had been removed. Even though he had known nothing of her predicament, she felt weaker without him. Anyway, it was too late to turn back now for the Corporal was already there, standing under a halo of golden lamplight.
‘Is it yourself, Bella?’ he asked simply as she approached as if they had met by chance rather than by assignation.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is.’
‘I knew you’d come,’ he said.
How, she wondered, how did he know? Was there something about her that spoke so loudly of easy virtue when that was not at all her nature? What made him so sure that a respectable daughter , such as she was, would venture out and her father not cold in his grave? But she banished these disputatious thoughts. She was here, wasn’t she?
They strolled down Sackville Street as light ebbed from the ashen sky. Corporal Beaver was attentive to a fault, steering her with the faintest touch to her elbow and prompting her intoconversation with a gentle but confident air.
‘You are now a fully-fledged schoolma’am, the boys tell me,’ he said.
It gratified her to know that he had been following her progress .
‘Yes,’ she said for she could think of no way to elaborate. She should have pressed him for some details of his occupation at this point but she found herself miserably mute.
‘How do you keep them all in check?’ he asked. ‘Bad enough to keep the barrack-room in order, but a squad of snotty children!’
‘We try to keep their noses clean,’ she retorted.
‘Touch-ay,’ he said winking.
The humour seemed to lubricate their exchange and though she had been shy at the start, the words began to flow when she spoke about her work.
‘Lead by example, that is what Mr Pestalozzi, the great educator , would say.’
‘Pestalozzi – would he be an Italian now?’ the Corporal asked. He drew the eye out of Italian, she noticed.
‘No, no, he was Swiss,’ she replied. ‘In each child, Pestalozzi said, is a little seed that contains the design of the tree so the educator must take care that no untoward influence disturbs Nature’s march of developments. Before a child learns words by rote, he must understand and so the teacher must show the meaning of the word in
Guiltily, Bella made her way down Dorset Street, looking over her shoulder as she went for fear that – what? – Mother might be following and learn her true intentions. It was ridiculous, she knew. Perhaps it was the ghost of her father she feared would appear, doomed for a certain term to walk the night. But Pappie had died in a state of grace; he had no need to linger. She turned the thought on its head. Perhaps Corporal Beaver’s declaration of interest coming at this moment was due to Pappie’s intercession ? There, she felt better. She was glad to reach the illuminated streets and the sounds of revelry on Rutland Square. There might have been rowdies spilling out on to the street from pubs and wine lodges but they left her alone. Maybe it was out of respect for her mourning garb.
The season was on the change and the nights were drawing in so it was verging on darkness. She could feel her heart thumping faster than was usual but it wasn’t romantic fervour, but the subterfuge that agitated her. Small doubts niggled at her – was Corporal Beaver’s manner a mite oily, his looks on the flashyside, his eye a tad gamey, his manner too charming to be entirely sincere? But she countered with herself, wasn’t she settled now, with a year’s teaching behind her and an increment on the way? Wasn’t it high time for her to be considering her marriage lines? But what swayed her most in this argument with herself was the Reverend. A few days’ respite from him, even if it was to mourn for her dear Pappie, had convinced her. She had to find a way to escape from his avid clutches. Without Pappie, the breastplate of her armour against the world had been removed. Even though he had known nothing of her predicament, she felt weaker without him. Anyway, it was too late to turn back now for the Corporal was already there, standing under a halo of golden lamplight.
‘Is it yourself, Bella?’ he asked simply as she approached as if they had met by chance rather than by assignation.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is.’
‘I knew you’d come,’ he said.
How, she wondered, how did he know? Was there something about her that spoke so loudly of easy virtue when that was not at all her nature? What made him so sure that a respectable daughter , such as she was, would venture out and her father not cold in his grave? But she banished these disputatious thoughts. She was here, wasn’t she?
They strolled down Sackville Street as light ebbed from the ashen sky. Corporal Beaver was attentive to a fault, steering her with the faintest touch to her elbow and prompting her intoconversation with a gentle but confident air.
‘You are now a fully-fledged schoolma’am, the boys tell me,’ he said.
It gratified her to know that he had been following her progress .
‘Yes,’ she said for she could think of no way to elaborate. She should have pressed him for some details of his occupation at this point but she found herself miserably mute.
‘How do you keep them all in check?’ he asked. ‘Bad enough to keep the barrack-room in order, but a squad of snotty children!’
‘We try to keep their noses clean,’ she retorted.
‘Touch-ay,’ he said winking.
The humour seemed to lubricate their exchange and though she had been shy at the start, the words began to flow when she spoke about her work.
‘Lead by example, that is what Mr Pestalozzi, the great educator , would say.’
‘Pestalozzi – would he be an Italian now?’ the Corporal asked. He drew the eye out of Italian, she noticed.
‘No, no, he was Swiss,’ she replied. ‘In each child, Pestalozzi said, is a little seed that contains the design of the tree so the educator must take care that no untoward influence disturbs Nature’s march of developments. Before a child learns words by rote, he must understand and so the teacher must show the meaning of the word in
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