The Secret of the Debutantes

Chapter One

Fall, 1902

“Miss Norton! Kindly pay attention!”

With a sigh, I pulled my gaze from the promise of freedom the window brought me. “Mrs. Stanhope, I'm listening,” I protested, trying for an appealing tone as I looked at my governess. From the frown on her face, she didn't believe. I continued on, trying to convince her of my sincerity, “You are trying to impress on me the importance of shadowing in my drawings.”

“I will not stand any sass from you, young lady! That is not what I was saying at all.”

Sass? What had I just said that could be interpreted as sass? To be perfectly honest, Mrs. Stanhope simply did not like me. At least, that was what I believed. I didn't want or, in my opinion, need a governess. However, as my parents decided that boarding school was not the best environment for me, a governess was deemed the only other option to continue my education.

Thus, Mrs. Stanhope had come into my life, and nothing had been the same since then. She criticized my behavior. She swatted my hands whenever I spoke an opinion. She tutted at my wardrobe. And now even my sketches, my hobby, were not safe from her critical eye!

Complaints had done me no good. Both of my parents said that Mrs. Stanhope was looking out for my best interests. Father was the most insistent that I make the situation work. He undoubtedly feared that I would find another murderer and get into trouble if I were to set foot in another school. After all, that was what had gotten me sent home from my last school and had propelled me into an adventure.

Six months had passed since I had gone in search of my parents. I still had not been told what reason had had them in hiding, though I had begged on more occasions than I could count to know the truth of the matter. At fourteen I was considered too young to know the secret that had endangered not only my parents lives, but mine as well.

It was not fair!

“You should have advanced to water colors or oils by now! Are these truly your best work?” Mrs. Stanhope demanded, pulling my thoughts from the past. She was spreading my sketches out on the table in front of me. She pointed an accusing finger at one particular page. “And what, pray tell, is this?”

Leaning forward, I instantly recognized the page. “That, my dear Mrs Stanhope, is a marketplace in London,” I answered. And one I knew rather well. I'd gone there many times when I had served as a maid for the residence at 221 Baker Street. I'd drawn it from memory a few weeks after I had returned home.

“A lady should not draw such things. You must be able to display tasteful scenes to your peers,” Mrs. Stanhope decreed firmly. She lifted another page and glared at it. “Why have you drawn a violin and pipe together? They ought not share a page, and you should not be drawing a smoking pipe in the first place.”

My cheeks flushed as I snatched the page back. “It is to remember a...friend,” I said in defense of my work. Friend was stretching the acquaintance I had with Mr. Sherlock Holmes a bit. I decided that I had had enough of her criticism and went on the defensive. “My drawings are purely for my enjoyment, Mrs. Stanhope and I view them as private!”

“Private? Miss Norton, your artistry, or attempt at artistry, along with you musical skill, is the only proper accomplishment you seem to have!” Mrs. Stanhope responded, throwing her hands in the air. “However am I supposed to prepare you for marriage if you insist on acting like a bluestocking and persist in independent thinking?”

Marriage? This was the first I was hearing of this and I was not about to hear it. “I am fourteen years old, Mrs. Stanhope!” I objected, sweeping my drawings together. “Marriage is hardly important at the moment.”