A School for Unusual Girls

by Kathleen Baldwin

  “Yes,” I mumbled, knowing the fire wasn’t the whole reason I was here, merely the final straw, a razor-sharp spearlike straw. Unfortunately, there were several dozen pointy spears in my parents’ quiver of what’s-wrong-with-Georgiana.

  If only they understood. If only the world cared about something beyond my ability to pour tea and walk with a mincing step. I decided to tell Miss Stranje at least part of the truth. “It was a scientific experiment gone awry. Had I been successful—”

  “Successful?” roared my father. He twisted on the flimsy chair, putting considerable stress on the rear legs as he leaned in my direction, numbering my sins on his fingers. “You nearly roasted my prize hunters alive! Every last horse—scared senseless. Burned the bleedin’ stables to the ground. To the ground! Nothing left but a heap of charred stone. Our house and fields would’ve gone up next if the tenants and neighbors hadn’t come running to help. That ruddy blaze would’ve taken their homes and crops, too. Successful? You almost reduced half of High Cross Greene to ash.”

  Every word a lashing, I nodded and kept my face to the floor, knowing he wasn’t done.

  “As it was, you scorched more than half of Squire Thurgood’s apple orchard. I’ll be paying dearly for those lost apples over the next three years, I can tell you that. And what about my hounds!” He paused for breath and clamped his teeth together so tight that veins bulged at his temples and his whole head trembled with repressed rage.

  In that short fitful silence, I could not help but remember the sound of those dogs baying and whimpering, and the faces of our servants and neighbors smeared with ash as we all struggled to contain the fire, their expressions—grim, angry, wishing me to perdition.

  “My kennels are ruined. Blacker and smokier than Satan’s chimney…” He lowered his voice, no longer clarifying for Miss Stranje’s sake, and spit one final damning indictment into my face. “You almost killed my hounds!” He dismissed me with an angry wave of his hand. “Successful. Bah!”

  My stomach churned and twisted with regret. Accident. It was an accident. I wished he had slapped me. It would’ve stung less than his disgust.

  I wanted to point out the merits of inventing a new kind of undetectable invisible ink. If such an ink had been available, my brother might still be alive. As it was, the French intercepted a British courier and Robert’s company found themselves caught in an ambush. It wouldn’t help to say it. I tried the day after the fire and Father only got angrier. He’d shouted obscenities, called me a foolish girl. “It’s done. Over. He’s gone.”

  Nor would it help to remind him that I’d nearly died leading the horses out of the mews. His mind was made up. Unlike my father’s precious livestock, my goose was well and truly cooked. He intended to banish me, imprison me here at Stranje House just as Napoleon was banished to Elba.

  Miss Stranje glanced down at my mother’s letter. “It says here, that on another occasion Georgiana jumped out of an attic window?”

  “I didn’t jump. Not exactly.”

  “She did.” Father crossed his arms.

  It had happened two and a half years ago. One would’ve thought they’d have forgotten it by now. “Another experiment,” I admitted. “I’d read a treatise about Da Vinci and his—”

  “Wings.” My mother cut me off and rolled her eyes upward to contemplate the ceiling. She employed the same mocking tone she always used when referring to that particular incident.

  “Not wings,” I defended, my voice a bit too high-pitched. “A glider. A kite.”

  Mother ignored me and stated her case to Miss Stranje without any inflection whatsoever. “She’s a menace. Dangerous to herself and others.”

  “I took precautions.” I forced my voice into a calmer, less ear-bruising range, and tried to explain. “I had the stable lads position a wagon of hay beneath the window.”

  “Yes!” Father clapped his hands together as if he’d caught a fly in them. “But you missed the infernal wagon, didn’t you?”

  “Because the experiment worked.”

  “Hardly.” With a scornful grunt he explained to Miss Stranje, “Crashed into a sycamore tree. Wore her arm in a sling for months.”

  “Yes, but if I’d made the kite wider and taken off from the roof—”

  “This is all your doing.” My father shot a familiar barb at my mother. “You never should’ve allowed her to read all that scientific nonsense.”

  “I had nothing to do with it,” she bristled. “That bluestocking governess is to blame.”

  Miss Grissmore. An excellent tutor. A woman of outstanding patience, the only governess in ten years able to endure my incessant questions, sent packing because of my foolhardy leap. I glared at my mother’s back remembering how I’d begged and explained over and over that Miss Grissmore had nothing to do with it.

  “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 watercolors, 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 desire to elevate her standing in society now depends on 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 ginger 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. T
he 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’ll simply concoct 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 than 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.

  Miss Stranje swept her hand forward, welcoming my parents into her dungeon just as if it were a prettily decorated parlor.

  Mother marched straight in, glanced about the room and shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s not much here we haven’t seen before.” She pointed to a pale white-haired girl who was strapped waist, shoulders, and head to a thick oak slat. “See here, Henry, this is a common backboard. Very good for the posture. They had one at my finishing school. I daresay every lady in the ton has spent time in a similar device.”

  The girl’s blue eyes opened wide and flittered fearfully as we drew close. Her forehead had been buckled so tightly to the backboard that red marks welted on each side of the leather strap. She stood perfectly still as Miss Stranje addressed her. “Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam may I present Miss Seraphina Wyndham.”

  Seraphina did not speak, nor did she greet us with a genial smile. She simply mewed like a strangled kitten.

  Next to Seraphina stood a large steel mummy case. I’d read about Egyptian artifacts but had never seen one. Except I quickly realized the coffin was not from ancient Egypt, not with that type of a clasp. I leaned closer, thinking I heard something inside.

  Breathing.

  I jumped back. “Something’s in there.”

  “Someone,” Miss Stranje corrected. Holding her lamp aloft, she peered into one of the eyeholes. The metal coffin reverberated like a dull bell when she rapped on the front. “Lady Jane? Are you—”

  A sharp yowl echoed inside the metal sarcophagus.

  “No need to move about. Those tines are extremely sharp. I only meant to inquire after your health. I couldn’t help but notice a small quantity of blood seeping out of the bottom of the case. Are you well?”

  Of course, she wasn’t well. Blood trickled out of the metal seams onto the floor. “This is barbaric!” I backed away from the horrid mummy case and the even more horrid Miss Stranje.

  “Well enough.” Lady Jane’s surly response reverberated eerily from the casket.

  “Well enough, thank you,” Miss Stranje corrected. “One must be courteous regardless of the situation.”

  There was no answer.

  “This is cruel.” I glared at the headmistress. “You can’t do this to a member of the nobility.”

  “Can’t I?” She cocked her head at me, quizzically, like a raven right before snapping up a beetle.

  A small Oriental woman padded silently out of the shadows and whacked the mummy case several times with a bamboo stick, setting off a sickening chime. I flinched as Lady Jane shrieked in pain and then obediently responded, “Well enough, thank you.”

  My mother’s only comment was, “Well now, that is something I haven’t seen before.”

  Miss Stranje inclined her head to the Chinese woman and turned to my parents. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, allow me to present Madame Cho. She assists me here in the discipline room and also instructs the girls in Asian history.”

  Small and old, Madame Cho looked crafty as a black cat. She bowed slowly and stiffly as if the effort cost her ancient bones much pain.

  My parents walked on without acknowledging her, following Miss Stranje to examine a rack of various sized training rods and lashes.

  Swift as a thief, Madam Cho straightened. So much for her old bones. Her obsidian eyes reminded me of a lizard’s as she examined me with ruthless assessment. I edged away and joined my father who stood toying with the end of a whip that hung on the wall. He fingered the knots tied in the leather thongs at the beating end of the whip. Glancing sideways at me, I wondered if he might be troubled by the idea of my back, lashed and bleeding.

  “Father?” I whispered, praying for a reprieve.

  Then I remembered how, after the fire, he’d chased me with his riding crop. His face hardened into the same angry mask he’d worn that day.

  He let go of t
he whip and rubbed his palms against the side of his coat. “I’ve been too soft on you,” he said under his breath, and turned his back on me.

  Mother stood in front of a small medieval stretching rack. The relic must’ve dated clear back to the Inquisition. She seemed alarmed to find such an evil contraption housed in a girls’ school. But as she rubbed her fingertips together I realized she wasn’t alarmed, merely perturbed that dust had smudged the tips of her glove.

  I wanted to scream. No, no, no! People do not do this anymore. Not to their daughters. Not to anyone. And yet here we were, standing before implements of reform that even the despicable Miss Stranje had not invented; whips, paddles, various length training rods, and other devices, like the backboard that were in use all over England.

  I swallowed the pincushion of fear stuck in my throat and, marshalled every ounce of courage I had left, to ask, “You don’t actually use this rack, do you?”

  Miss Stranje turned to me, hideously pleasant, as if merely commenting on the weather. “I find it remarkably effective.”

  Father headed for the door. “I’ve seen enough. I’m ready to sign those damnable papers of yours. I want to be rid of this place.”

  Rid of me.

  Mother and Miss Stranje hurried after him. I stared at the shackles on the rack, stunned that my parents would leave me at the mercy of this awful school. I’m not given to outbursts of weakness, but I began to tremble stupidly and my feet seemed frozen to the cold stone floor.

  Hope does not shatter all at once. The mind plays tricks.

  For several moments I felt certain Stranje House was no more than a ghoulish nightmare. Any moment, I assured myself, my maid Agnes would throw back the curtains and I would awaken in my own bedroom. The world would turn right again. Sanity would return. The sun would glint through my windows. The mantel clock would tick steadily and reliably, not like the panicky thumping of my heart.

  But I did not wake up. Not until Madame Cho swatted the back of my legs with her stick and pointed to the door. “You go.” Then she turned and beat on the mummy case. My stinging calves roused me out of disbelief.