{"id":6944,"date":"2022-08-10T09:53:51","date_gmt":"2022-08-10T13:53:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/?p=6944"},"modified":"2022-08-10T10:14:02","modified_gmt":"2022-08-10T14:14:02","slug":"ingenious","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/ingenious\/","title":{"rendered":"Ingenious"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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By Lisa Karon Richardson<\/a>e<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Lady Portia Blithe\u2019s life really started when she was offered admission to Saint Scholastica\u2019s, England\u2019s most exclusive boarding school. Graduates of Saint Scholastica are always selected to serve as ladies-in-waiting to the queen. Unbeknownst to the rest of the world the school teaches more than deportment. Alongside dancing and conversational French, students are trained to guard the queen\u2019s life. They are the Praetorienne.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the cusp of graduation, Portia and her classmates are introduced to Princess Victoria, the next in line for the British throne. Everyone knows the elderly king will not live much longer, and for the first time in three centuries, England will have a female monarch. It\u2019s a heady opportunity for princess and Praetorienne alike. But when it appears there is a plot afoot to kidnap the princess, Portia has to make certain that Victoria lives long enough to claim her throne.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

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Prologue<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

Barley-on-Rye, England
August 9, 1832<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My first mistake was daring to be born a girl. I subsequently disappointed my parents further when I failed to be a pretty child, having a face full of freckles and hair the color of a well-used penny. Nor was I particularly sweet-natured or docile. Instead, curiosity made me inquisitive, and I learned more about the people of the neighborhood than the daughter of a noble family<\/a> ought to know. My numerous faux pas<\/em> might have led me down a great many paths, but all the trouble I might have created for myself was abruptly rerouted when I was ten years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I should start at the beginning. And for me, life truly began when I met Dame Guinevere Withers, headmistress of Saint Scholastica School for Young Ladies, which, as I was to find out, was the most exclusive female boarding school in all Great Britain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An inkling that something unusual might be about to happen came as I was cheerfully disobeying my mother by riding one of the kitchen boys\u2019 velocipedes. The steam engine chugged away merrily, the wind danced through my hair, and my legs pumped, adding my power to the machine\u2019s. Having mastered the tallest hill on our estate, I sat for a moment looking out over the Blithe holdings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even from up here, I could not see where they ended. The view on offer included an expanse of green fields broken up by stone fences and the tuft of a copse here and there. The river sectioned off the northwest corner of our property. From afar, it looked like a brown silk ribbon lying across the landscape. Nestled against a far bank of hills, the village looked precisely as one would expect a fairy-tale village to look.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nearer and just to my right sat our old ramshackle house. It still occupied the site of the original keep built centuries ago. Every generation of Blithes since then had apparently felt it their duty to \u201cmodernize,\u201d resulting in a weird amalgamation of architectural styles and more rooms than a family three times the size of ours could possibly use. The floors weren\u2019t all precisely level, and one would have to step up or down to enter some rooms. It was full of odd nooks and crannies. Out of father\u2019s hearing, my mother called it a monstrosity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I loved it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I drank in the view, then turned the borrowed contraption and flew back downhill, hands raised as I shouted with joy at the freedom of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The velocipede gathered speed, and I hurtled faster and faster. Just as I came near the bottom, a figure stepped through the hedgerow into the narrow lane. My hands dropped to the handlebars, and I jerked to the left. But the momentum was too much, the correction not calculated, and the velocipede hurtled into the hedge on the far side of the road. Perched atop the high wheel, I was launched over the hedge to tumble headfirst onto the soft pastureland that lay on the other side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The stranger, a tall woman, well-dressed for the country in tweed jacket and wide riding skirt with a crop in her hand, popped her head through a gap in the hedgerow. \u201cDo you often ride in such a fashion?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Winded, I lay without answering, though my sides wheezed with laughter. She probably thought I was having a fit. At last, I managed to gather myself. \u201cEvery chance I get.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cool gray eyes assessed me, and I had the sensation of being weighed in the balance. \u201cI am Dame Guinevere Withers. When you can collect yourself we will continue.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cContinue what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour assessment.\u201d She turned and pushed through the hedge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I scrambled to my feet and followed her back to the lane. \u201cAssessment for what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She barely spared me a glance over her shoulder. \u201cAdmission to Saint Scholastica.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is Saint Scholastica?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That brought her up short, her skirts swishing around booted ankles. \u201cThe finest and most exclusive school in England or any of its dominions. Dukes\u2019 daughters are regularly refused admittance.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever heard of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She narrowed her eyes. \u201cAre you trying to be deliberately provocative?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know what provocative meant, but I liked the sound of it. I was being deliberate. \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rather than rant or stalk away in a huff as mother would have done, she turned to face me fully. \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I swiped my suddenly damp palms over my torn pinafore, leaving more dirty smears. \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She raised an eyebrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I kicked the still spinning tire of the velocipede. The silence stretched and stretched, and all the while her inquisitive gaze burned a hole into my forehead. I shrugged. Sighed. \u201cI wanted to make you angry.\u201d The words spurted out on their own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A small smile cracked her glacial expression. \u201cMy dear girl, you do not want to see me angry, I promise you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I believed her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She stooped and helped me right the velocipede.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I glanced at her sideways. \u201cWhy does everyone want to go to this school?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause most of them can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cocked my head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She continued. \u201cWe only allow six students at a time. Never more and never less. We call them a cohort, and almost all of them will serve as a lady-in-waiting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo, it\u2019s about being important?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor some it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf all these other people want to send their daughters to your school, why are you here talking to me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a very good question.\u201d She pulled out a notebook and scratched something down. \u201cWe look for a certain combination of qualities in our students because our curriculum is very\u2026unique.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Had I known then what I know now, I would have pursued that line of questioning further, but as it was, I had another question burning the back of my throat. \u201cDame Guinevere, are my parents wanting to send me away?\u201d I met her gaze, refusing to look away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another pause stretched between us. \u201cYour grandmother nominated you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGrandmama Blithe?\u201d My very favorite relative had passed away eight months before. If Grandmama Blithe liked this school, then it was a sure bet that Mother would not. This in itself was a recommendation for the place as far as I was concerned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour grandmother attended Saint Scholastica herself when she was young.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid she really?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not in the habit of telling falsehoods.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat makes this school so good?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She waggled an eyebrow at me. \u201cAt the moment, I do.\u201d With that she marched away while I pushed the velocipede in pursuit. The front wheel wobbled and shook making it hard to control, but I chased her doggedly. I wasn\u2019t sure I liked her, but I was more than a little intrigued.<\/p>\n\n\n