A School for Unusual Girls

by Kathleen Baldwin

  I popped an orange slice into my mouth, thinking that it wasn’t difficult to guess. She couldn’t very well tell a countess to go away. It simply wasn’t done. Even I knew that much.

  Sera quietly set her fork on her plate. “One,” she stated matter-of-factly, “if you do not allow Lady Daneska to visit she will assume it is because you have something to hide. She will double her efforts to find out what is afoot.”

  “Precisely. And?”

  “Two. By allowing her to visit you have an opportunity to misdirect her.”

  Ah-hah! Misdirection. So that’s how our headmistress kept her treatment of young ladies a secret from the authorities for so long. I might find an ally in our visitors. This Lady Daneska must’ve gotten wind of Miss Stranje’s methods.

  “Go on.” Miss Stranje scooped out her egg and salted it.

  “Thirdly. During the conversation, it may be possible to trip her up, perhaps lure her into a slip of the tongue. She might unwittingly disclose some tidbit that would be…” As if embarrassed to continue, Sera glanced sidelong at me. “Um … useful.”

  Useful for what? Did Miss Stranje collect gossip with which to blackmail her neighbors—more infamy to hide her despicable behavior?

  Sera did not stop at only three reasons. “It would also prove illuminating to ascertain the purpose of her visit.”

  Miss Stranje tilted her head with something akin to respect in her expression. “Yes, and what purpose do you suppose she might have?”

  “I suspect Lady Daneska has several objectives.” Again, Sera looked sideways at me, this time she did not appear embarrassed or guilty. “Not the least of which, is curiosity about your new student.”

  “Well done.” Miss Stranje whisked out the folded note again and read it silently.

  “Your last assumption is impossible,” I argued. “I only arrived night before last. No one even knows I am here?”

  “Oh, she knows.” Jane spoke this to a spoonful of peaches laced with cinnamon. “She probably knew you were here before your coach turned down the drive.”

  Tess nodded.

  “Without a doubt.” Miss Stranje smiled with a wickedly arched brow. “You all know what this means, don’t you?”

  The others nodded.

  “Disarm them.” Jane forced a smile. “Make them excessively comfortable.”

  “Play the innocents,” Sera whispered to me.

  “Yes,” our headmistress confirmed. “To that end, before Lady Daneska’s arrival tomorrow, please assist Georgiana in selecting more appropriate attire.” She flicked her hand in my direction. “See if you can do something with her hair.”

  I shrugged, all too accustomed to my appearance being a source of consternation.

  Miss Stranje tapped the note against the table and studied me. “We shall be serving tea to our guests. I trust your mother instructed you on the proper behavior for such occasions?”

  Oh, yes, my mother had instructed me on proper behavior while taking tea, proper behavior at dinner, at soirees, assembly rooms, and even at card parties. Mother had instructed me over and over, but on every occasion found me clumsy, ugly, and socially inept. I answered Miss Stranje with a fraudulent smile, “Yes, certainly.”

  “Excellent.” She stood abruptly. “Now, if you’ve finished your breakfast, Georgiana, come with me. It is time we attended to your studies.”

  Tess and Maya looked askance at each other. Were they worried?

  My studies?

  I followed our headmistress into the hall feeling certain her use of the word studies was a euphemism for torture. She meant to punish me for last night’s behavior. Clearly, Miss Stranje’s educational theory relied heavily on pain. No doubt she was planning to whip the stuffing out of me until I dared never disobey her again. She would do all this under the guise of turning me into a more pleasing daughter for my mother.

  Go ahead. Torture me. I will never become a simpering, pudding-headed, marriageable Miss. Never.

  I clamped my lips together in absolute defiance, but my clammy palms spoiled the effect. So, I wiped them against my skirts and marched onward to my doom.

  We had descended the main staircase before I realized the discipline chamber wasn’t in this direction. Unless Miss Stranje possessed two torture chambers, I might not be getting stretched on the rack this morning. Confused, I tried to guess my fate.

  Attend to my studies …

  If she meant to stick me in a room with that dragon, Madame Cho, and force me to learn Chinese history, I would leap out of the nearest window, cut off my hair, don boy’s clothing, run to the nearest port, jump aboard a frigate, and join the crew. Not a perfect plan, I’ll admit. But surely it would succeed better than last night’s escape.

  My studies?

  Miss Stranje’s task was to reform me into a biddable young debutante. What studies did that require? Oh, please God, do not let it be a dancing master. I could not bear the humiliation of crippling another skinny Frenchman. Monsieur Fouché had howled louder than a cat with his tail caught under a chair when I tromped on his ankle. Mother had to pay him double his fee just to get him to stop squealing.

  I slowed my pace, from a resigned march to slow plod. Not dancing. Please, not dancing.

  “It isn’t dancing, is it? Because I simply won’t—”

  “Heavens no.” Miss Stranje led us through the foyer into the west wing corridor. I breathed a sigh of relief and picked up my stride to match hers. With a slight sniff and a no-nonsense tone she said, “Dancing class is on every other Thursday. Next week we will be mastering German folk dances.”

  I groaned and slowed my steps again. We passed a gallery of family portraits, unmistakably Miss Stranje’s relatives. Their sharp-beaked features did little to cheer up the dark-paneled hallway. I shivered, unable to escape their uncanny lifelike stares. They glared down at me as I walked beneath them, judging, though they were long cold in their graves.

  “Do stop dawdling, Georgiana.” She waited beside a door at the far end of the hall. I caught up as she pressed a key into the lock and turned the handle. She stood back and pushed the door open.

  The ancient floorboards creaked as I stepped inside. Mullioned windows allowed in ample light and yet there was a row of lamps dangling from the ceiling so the room might be used after dark. A stillroom lay before us—unlike any stillroom I’d ever seen. Filled with wonder, I stood with my mouth hanging open like a stunned codfish. I couldn’t stop myself from rushing across the room to a long worktable set with the most amazing equipment I’d ever seen.

  I had only dreamed of such contraptions. I’d read about equipment like this in Antoine Lavoisier’s chemistry books. But to see them, not in a drawing, but in real life—I could scarcely breathe.

  I touched my finger to a set of brass measuring scales. They bounced in reaction. I jerked my hand back and inspected a distillation tube connected to a copper beaker atop a heating platform. The damper on the small oil burner could be opened or closed to perfectly control the heat. Remarkable.

  Miss Stranje stood at my elbow. “The copper tubing can be removed,” she said, and pointed to the clasps on the rim of the beaker.

  “Where did you get it?” I marveled.

  “A gypsy caravan came through last month. Their tinker did respectable work so I commissioned him to make that and some of these other devices.”

  “But why?”

  She pointed to several small glass beakers. “These I procured from a glass blower in London.” She pointed to a bank of small drawers on the side wall. “You’ll find the bins filled with various minerals. I wasn’t certain which you needed so I ordered an assortment.”

  I rushed to the small drawers, pulled several open, and couldn’t believe my eyes. Sulphur. Magnesium. Saltpeter. Copperas. Precious cobalt.

  “This was my grandmother’s stillroom.” Miss Stranje inhaled deeply. “The smells never fail to remind me of her. I still remember her teaching me to distill rose oil and make almond extract.” She p
icked up a worn marble mortar and pestle. “This was hers.”

  I pulled open a bin marked “mollusk shells,” fine iridescent shells that could be ground into purple powder. How did she know they were a component in so many dyes? Then, I spotted my books stacked on a small desk beside the cabinet. My books! The History of Persian Alchemy, a treasure my brother had procured for me, and Lavoisier’s Manual. Even my notes were laid out, unwrapped, unpacked from my trunks—without my permission.

  “Why!” I spun around. “Why have you done this? My parents hired you to purge this sort of thing out of me, to rid me of my, my…” I was going to say defects.

  She watched me, waiting without mercy to see how I would describe that which my mother hated in me.

  My stomach twisted into a sickening knot just as it had last night. Except this morning, it tightened around sausages and curried eggs. I refused to get sick. I would not humiliate myself in front of her. So, despite the squeezing knot in my belly, I clamped my lips together and swallowed hard. If only I could run from the room and curl up in a corner somewhere. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel like retching. But my stern headmistress stood between me and the door, searching my face for weakness, waiting for me to say those torturous words. My defects.

  I would’ve preferred the rack. Thrusting my chin into the air, I said, “My eccentricities.”

  “Eccentricities?” The corner of her mouth angled up slightly. “Is that what you call it? I should rather have thought of it as the workings of a brilliant mind.”

  I blinked. No one, except my brother, had ever said such a thing about me before. Wary, I edged away. “I saw your torture chamber. I know what you do in this school.”

  “Do you?” She feigned innocence.

  “Yes. Everyone knows your reputation. I daresay there are hangmen considered more merciful.”

  Her shoulder lifted in a minuscule shrug.

  “I saw with my own eyes. Bruises and cuts on the other girls. Manacles. Whips. Jane locked in a spiked mummy case.”

  She squared her shoulders. “The chamber has its uses.”

  “Oh, yes, I imagine so.” My chest heaved with indignation. “Useful for reforming brilliant minds into unexceptional ones. For ridding your students of their eccentricities.”

  “Do you really think such punishments could accomplish all that?”

  Her question caught me off guard. I drew back. It wouldn’t work on me. I would rather die. “No,” I admitted.

  She waved her hand at the laboratory equipment. “And this? Do you think this is a devious plan to rid you of your eccentricities? A clever ploy—if you are free to experiment, science will lose its appeal?” She waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Of course, if you’d prefer to have a go on the rack, I’ll simply have to oblige you.”

  I blinked, unable to find my bearings with her.

  “Come now, Georgiana. Do you want to work on your formula, or not? It occurred to me that with the proper equipment you might not burn down any more stables.”

  True. With proper equipment, that fire would never have happened. Was this another tactic? Apparently she was quite fond of misdirection. “I know what you want,” I said. “You want me to finish the ink formula for Lord Wyatt and Captain Grey.”

  “Yes.” A tiny hint of admiration softened her features. “That is precisely what I want.”

  “Why? What makes you think my ink is anything of value?”

  “Your mother’s letters were quite explicit about your experiments.”

  A lie. “Impossible.” I squinted and crossed my arms. “Until the fire she never cared one wit about anything I did. She wouldn’t know anything beyond the fact that I was working on an invisible ink. Her letters would’ve been full of complaints. Nothing substantial enough to merit all this.” I waved at the equipment.

  The intrepid Miss Stranje pressed her lips tight, buying time to construct another untruth. I gave her no quarter. “What does Miss Grissmore have to do with any of this? If you have harmed her in any way—”

  “Hardly!” She glanced up sharp at that, like a hawk discovering the mouse in her claws had rather pointy teeth. “Miss Grissmore and I are former schoolmates. She came to me after your parents turned her out without a reference.”

  “Oh.” I cooled considerably and turned away, toying with one of the brass weights for the scale. “Thank you for that. She didn’t deserve such poor treatment. Grissy was an excellent teacher.”

  Miss Stranje took a deep breath and proceeded with a softer tone. “She speaks rather highly of you as well. She convinced me that you are capable of developing an ink. On the strength of her recommendation I procured this equipment.”

  “I see.” Except, I didn’t see. I couldn’t see any more than a blind man in an apothecary shop. Miss Stranje and Miss Grissmore were friends. Impossible. Everything suddenly felt topsy-turvy. My assumptions were all called into question. I kneaded my temple. “Very well, you’ve explained how, but you’ve still not told me why. What do you intend to do with my ink?”

  “A prudent question.” This response did not come from Miss Stranje. I spun toward the deep voice. Sebastian and Captain Grey stood in the doorway. The captain approached us. “Well done, Miss Fitzwilliam. It is right that you should ask.” He bowed. “I’m relieved to see you have recovered from your mishap.”

  “Captain, how good of you to come.” Miss Stranje met him with rosy warmth. The two grasped each other’s hands as if they were lifelong friends, and just as quickly stepped apart, blushing and awkward.

  Miss Stranje tried to hide her reaction by introducing them to me. “Captain Grey, Lord Wyatt, you’ve already met my new student, but under … how shall I say … under less-than-appropriate circumstances. Please, allow me to properly present to you, Miss Georgiana Fitzwilliam.”

  I dropped into a curtsey elegant enough to please even my mother, wishing the whole time that my wretched hair did not resemble a stork’s nest smushed into one paltry white ribbon. But it did. There was no help for it, and because there is no sense trying to pretend one is a silk purse, when one is, in fact, a sow’s ear, I quickly dispensed with the niceties.

  “Pleased to meet you, Captain Grey.” I intentionally took no notice of Sebastian. “Now, if you will kindly explain what it is you want with my ink, and why I should trust—”

  “Georgiana!” Miss Stranje cut me short. “You will not take that rude tone. Captain Grey is a man to whom we owe much. It is only his generosity and goodwill that allows us to live here. This house, the grounds, the cottages and adjoining property, all belong to him.”

  The gentleman shook his head. “No, no, my dear Miss Stranje, you must not credit me with such virtues. It is not generosity on my part. You are a most excellent overseer. The estate flourishes under your guidance and your students’ contributions.” He caught his breath and stepped back from her. “By rights the house ought to be yours. Your father would have left it to you, if it were not for that abominable entailment, or if you’d had a brother.…”

  He stopped. Warmth colored his cheeks. His mellow voice caught and his easy manner turned awkward and unexpectedly boyish. “It is the least I can do.”

  Clearly, generosity had little to do with the matter. Remarkable. Poor earnest Captain Grey appeared to be in love with my scheming headmistress.

  “There you have it,” Miss Stranje resumed lecturing me. “Captain Grey deserves our utmost respect. You may not demand answers of him as if you were the local magistrate.”

  Oh, if only I were the magistrate. This school and her malevolent discipline chamber would be banished from England. I silenced myself, clamped my lips together, and turned my thoughts to how I might finagle the truth out of them as to what they wanted with my ink.

  Captain Grey clasped his hands behind his back and paced a step or two before stopping in front of me. “It is right and proper that you should ask these questions, Miss Fitzwilliam. It is crucial that your formula be guarde
d. In the wrong hands, it would be a dangerous tool.” He took a deep breath. “I will explain our interest.”

  “Proceed cautiously, Ethan,” Sebastian warned. He leaned against the doorpost, his arms crossed over his chest as if he was bored. “She is, after all, a girl. And girls must talk. Incessantly.” He uncrossed his arms and strolled toward us. “They tend to do so without regard for the importance of secrecy.”

  Oh, that topped it. I couldn’t keep a secret? Bird’s-nest hair or not, I confronted his high and mighty lordship. “I sincerely doubt the topic of invisible ink will come up while chatting with my friends about how many ruffles to put on my next ball gown.”

  Sebastian brazenly perused my sprigged muslin morning dress with so critical an eye that obviously he doubted I’d ever worn a ball gown.

  No matter that I hadn’t. I certainly could have, if I’d ever had the slightest interest in such frivolous things. Which I did not. In light of his scorn, I decided to have a ball gown made for me just to spite him. Although, how it would spite him, I wasn’t quite certain.

  Oh, confound it all! The man was muddling my thinking.

  Captain Grey clapped Sebastian on the shoulder. “In that case, I shall leave the explanations to you.” He bowed to me, a veritable saint compared to his brutish companion. “Miss Fitzwilliam, I leave you in the capable hands of Lord Wyatt. Not only is my nephew an able attaché, he is, like yourself, a student of science. It may please you to know that he is acquainted with the author of one of your books. When Sebastian was a very young lad, he and his father helped Monsieur Lavoisier’s wife smug—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Pardon me. What I meant to say is he and his father helped her transport out of France some of Monsieur Lavoisier’s writings and equipment.”

  Sebastian crossed to the other side of the table and lifted a small glass beaker, turning it round and round in his fingers. “Captain Grey exaggerates my part. I only helped my father carry away a few sacks and provide a diversion. But I remember her. A brave intelligent woman, Madame Lavoisier. Without her, we would know nothing of these instruments.” He set down the flask with a reverence that surprised me. “Nor would you have his notes. After her husband’s capture, the revolutionaries confiscated almost everything. The Republic does not need scientists or chemists, that’s what they said, right before they beheaded him.” He flicked his finger against the flask. “They guillotined both her husband and her father on the very same day.”