“I let the woman go as soon as I realized what she was.” Mother ignored Father’s grumbled commentary on bluestockings and demanded of Miss Stranje, “Well? Can you reform Georgiana or not?”
There are whispers among my mother’s friends that, for a large enough sum, the mysterious Miss Stranje is able to take difficult young women and mold them into marriageable misses. Her methods, however, are highly questionable. According to the gossip, Miss Stranje relies upon harsh beatings and cruel punishments to accomplish her task. Even so, ambitious parents desperate to reform their daughters turn a blind eye and even pay handsomely for her grim services. It’s rumored that she even resorts to torture to transform her troublesome students into unexceptional young ladies.
Unexceptional.
Among the beau monde, being declared unexceptional by the patronesses of society is the ultimate praise. It is almost a prerequisite for marriage. Husbands do not want odd ducks like me. Being exceptional is a curse. A curse I bear.
I care less than a fig for society’s good opinion. Furthermore, I haven’t the slightest desire to attend their boring balls, nor do I want to stand around at a rout, or squeeze into an overcrowded sweltering soiree. More to the point, I have no intention of marrying anyone.
Ever.
My mother, on the other hand, languishes over the fact that, despite being a wealthy wool merchant’s daughter with a large dowry, and having been educated in the finer arts of polite conversations, playing the pianoforte, and painting landscapes in pale watercolours, she had failed to bag herself a title. She’d married my father because he stood second in line to the Earl of Pynderham. Unfortunately, his older brother married shortly thereafter and produced several sturdy sons, thus dashing forever my mother’s hopes of becoming a countess. As a result, her aspirations to elevate her standing in society are reduced to puffing me off in marriage to an earl, or perhaps a viscount, thereby transforming her into the exalted role of mother to a countess.
A thoroughly ridiculous notion.
Has she not looked at me? My figure is flat and straight. I doubt I shall ever acquire much of a bosom. I have stubborn freckles that will not bleach out no matter how many milk baths or cucumber plasters Mother applies. She detests my red hair. Red is definitely not en vogue.
Not long after the glider incident, she tried to disguise my embarrassing red curls by rinsing them with walnut stain. It would infuriate her if she knew that her efforts to change my hair color increased my obsession with dyes and inks. Her oily walnut stain failed miserably. The hideous results had to be cut off—my hair shorn like a sheep. It has only now grown out to an acceptable length.
And now this. Exile to Stranje House.
I clinched the fabric of my traveling dress and wished for the millionth time that I’d been more careful while adding saltpeter to the boiling ink emulsion. If only it hadn’t sparked that abominable fire.
Miss Stranje allowed an inordinate amount of time to pass before pronouncing judgment upon me.
“I knew it.” Mother collapsed against the back of her chair in defeat and threw up her hands. “It’s hopeless. Nothing can be done with her.”
Miss Stranje rose. The black bombazine of her skirts rustled like funeral crepe. “On the contrary, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I believe we may be able to salvage your daughter.”
Salvage? They spoke of me as if I were a tattered curtain they intended to rework into a potato sack.
“You do?” My mother blinked at this astonishing news.
“Yes. However”—Miss Stranje grasped the edge of her desk as if it were a pulpit and she about to preach a sermon condemning us all to perdition—“You may have heard my teaching methods are rather unconventional. Severe. Harsh.” She paused and fixed each of us with a shockingly hard glare. “I assure you, the gossip is all true.”
For the first time that day, my mother relaxed.
I, on the other hand, could not swallow the dry lump of dread rising in my throat. Miss Stranje’s sharp-eyed gaze seemed to reach into my soul and wring it out.
She bore down on my father. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, you may leave your daughter with me under one condition. You must grant me authority in all matters pertaining to her welfare, financially and otherwise. Should I decide to lock her in a closet with only bread and water for sustenance, I will not tolerate any complaints or—”
“Heavens, no. You can’t do that.” Mother swished her hand through the air as if swatting away the idea. “It won’t work. Don’t you think we would’ve tried something so simple? It’s no use. You can’t leave her in solitude to think. She simply concocts more mischief while she’s locked up. You’ll have to come up with something more inventive than that.”
Lips pressed thin, Miss Stranje sniffed. I wasn’t sure whether she was annoyed about Mother interrupting or about being saddled with such an intractable student. “Furthermore,” she said with a steady calm, “if I deem it necessary to take her to London to practice her social skills, you will not only permit such an excursion, you will finance the endeavor.”
“More coin?” My father ran a finger around the top of his starched collar. “Already costing me a King’s ransom.”
“The choice is yours.” She plopped a sheaf of papers on the corner of the desk nearest him. “You must sign this agreement or I will not accept your daughter into the school.”
He glanced at me and his angry scowl returned. His nostrils flared. I groaned, knowing the smell of ash and burnt hay still lingered in his nose. He would sign.
“Won’t sign unless I have some assurances you can do the job.” He sat back, arms crossed. “We stated quite clearly in our letters, we expect some kind of guarantee. I’m no stranger to the rod. Went to Eton. Got beat regular. All part of the training.”
The lump in my stomach turned into a cannonball, and my backside began to hurt in anticipation.
“Women are too weak for this sort of thing.” He glared sideways at my mother. “How do I know a female like yourself can administer proper punishment, when punishment is due?”
Miss Stranje got all prickly and tall. She didn’t look weak to me. Not by half.
“I assure you, sir, although I always abide by the law and never use a rod that is thicker that my thumb—”
“Proof, Miss Stranje.” Father leaned forward and tapped the stack of papers. “I want proof that you can make something of her. Then I’ll sign your blasted papers.”
Miss Stranje tilted her head and studied him, the way a wild turkey does before it tries to peck your eyes out. In the end, the headmistress stepped back and lifted the oil lamp. “As you wish. I believe a visit to my discipline chamber is in order.” She ushered us to the door. “You, too, Georgiana, come along.”
She led us down long twisting stairs, deep into the bowels of Stranje House. Damp limestone walls, gray with age and mold, closed around us, swallowing us in chilly darkness. Deeper and deeper we went. It was the hellish kind of cold, a moist heavy chill, as if the underbelly of the house had been cold for so long it had seeped into the stones permanently. It sucked the warmth straight out of my bones. We emerged in a dank hallway and shuffled through the musty passageway until the headmistress finally stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. The hinges creaked as she opened it, and we were met with the sound of human whimpering.
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Copyright
Copyright © 2014 by Kathleen Baldwin
First Printing March 2005 by Kensington Publishing Corp.
All Rights Returned to the Author
All Rights Reserved
Revised, re-edited, and published under new copyright in 2014
Edited by Vickie Taylor of CopyEditingSavesLives.com
______
Apart from a few well known public figures from the Regency era, all other characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book and parts thereof may not be
reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without prior written permission of the author and publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Published and converted to eBook by Ink Lion Books
Baldwin, Kathleen (2014). Cut from the Same Cloth.
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1 Weaving Dark and Light
Chapter 2 I’d Rather Be Dyed
Chapter 3 Crawling Through the Eye of the Needle
Chapter 4 All Is Not As It Seams
Chapter 5 Knot in the Dark
Chapter 6 Pattern Card of Perfection
Chapter 7 Flying Shuttles
Chapter 8 Tis Better to Weave Than to Rip
Chapter 9 Stick a Pin in It
Chapter 10 Green Sleeves
Chapter 11 Smashed Strawberries and Buttercup Silk
Chapter 12 Looming Considerations
Chapter 13 Making a Silk Officer Out of A Fop’s Purse
Chapter 14 Kitten Tangled in Yarn
Chapter 15 The Flimsy Fabric of Prevarication
Chapter 16 Ribbons and Garlic Balls, Tied Up With Lace
Chapter 17 Unraveling a Tightly Knit Paradox
Chapter 18 Whatsoever Ye Sew, So Shall Ye Wear
Chapter 19 Silver Threads of Moonlight Muddles
Chapter 20 The Phantasmagorical Embroidery of Time
Chapter 21 Darning
Chapter 22 A Torn Tapestry of Foolish Dreams
Chapter 23 To Hem or Not to Hem
Chapter 24 Cutting to the Heart of the Matter
OTHER Books by Kathleen Baldwin
Dear Reader,
Copyright
Cut from the Same Cloth: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 3) Page 20