The Lady's Tutor Read Online Free PDF Page A

dean was reluctant to relay the information.
    With good reason.
    Phillip was eleven and in the first form. Bernard, in the fifth
form, had only one more form to complete before graduation.
    Her son was indeed ferocious to reduce a student who was four to
six years older than himself into a “quivering mass of nerves.”
    “Are you suspending Phillip, Dean Whitaker? Because if you are, I
must inform you that I have been considering removing Phillip for quite some
time. Harrow, I believe, offers a higher standard of education than does Eton.
And, of course, if I remove Phillip, then I will also take Richard. I know he
has only six more months before he takes his exams, but still. . .”
    “There is no need to jump to conclusions, Mrs. Petre.” The dean
was loath to lose not only money but prestige—the two boys had a very
influential grandfather and father, both of whom had attended Eton. “I am sure that with
the appropriate monetary funds—after all, damages were minimal, and boys will be boys—”
    Elizabeth stood up. “Please contact Mr. Kinder, my husband’s
secretary. He will make arrangements to pay you for damages. I would like to
see my two sons now.”
    “Master Phillip is in detention and Master Richard is in class.
Perhaps another time .. .’
    “I think not, Dean Whitaker,” she said briskly. “Harrow is looking
more and more desirable.”
    “Very well, Mrs. Petre.” He picked up a small brass bell and rang
it. Immediately, his clerk, a middle-aged man with stooped shoulders who was as
timid as the dean was aggressive, entered the room.
    “Bring Petre major and Petre minor to the visitor’s salon, Mr.
Hayden. Mrs. Petre, if you will follow me.”
    Two pairs of shoes echoed hollowly along the wooden hallway, the
dean’s soft and unassuming, hers sharp and intrusive.
    Eton was a depressing place, Elizabeth thought, all gleaming wood
without one single finger smear to account for the hundreds of boys who
occupied its hallowed halls.
    The dean threw open a door and stepped back for her to enter. “Pray,
make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Petre. Master Phillip and Master Richard will be
here directly.”
    The visitor’s salon was not a room that invited comfort. It
contained two leather wing chairs that confronted a rigid walnut sofa with a
three-medallion back and eight legs. A small, mean coal fire burned in the dark
granite fireplace beside the sofa.
    Taking off her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, Elizabeth perched on the
edge of the sofa and stared at the glowering coals.
    She wished she could keep her two sons home with her, warm and
safe from harm.
    She wished it were enough being a mother.
    She wished —
    “Hullo, Mother.”
    Elizabeth swiveled around on the edge of the sofa.
    Phillip stood in the doorway, auburn hair ruthlessly combed back
from his face. He nervously shuffled from one foot to the other.
    His left eye was swollen shut. His right one was bright with
unshed tears.
    She wanted to run to him and smother him with hugs and kisses.
    She wanted to sweep him away from Eton and all of its dangers.
    She wanted to give him the dignity he was so valiantly struggling
to hold on to.
    “Hello, Phillip.”
    “You talked to the dean.”
    Elizabeth did not bother responding to what was plainly obvious.
    “Am I going to be expelled?”
    “Do you want to be?”
    “No.”
    “Do you want to tell me why you picked a fight with a boy in the
fifth form? Those are pretty vicious odds.”
    Phillip balled his fists. “Bernard’s a Whig—”
    “Please do not insult my intelligence by repeating that nonsense.
Besides, we do not call them Whigs anymore—they are Liberals.”
    His shoulders drooped. “I’m not a boy anymore, Mother.”
    “I know you are not, Phillip.” She offered him a wry smile. “You
have the black eye to prove it.”
    He stood a little taller at her words . . . and seemed to grow
even younger than his eleven years. “Please don’t ask me why I started the
fight. I don’t want