6 a.m. Prep
7–7:30 Breakfast
8–9 Copy Books
9–10:15 Arithmetic
10:15–10:30 Break
10:30–11:30 History (with special emphasis on important dates)
11:30–11:45 Break
11:45–12:45 p.m. Latin
12:45–1 Poems
1–1:45 Dinner
1:45–2:45 Rest (walking using backboard for the girls. Bible study and reading aloud from Sir Walter Scott for the boys)
2–3:15 Mental arithmetic test
“Not a backboard!” Rachel gasped, sounding horrified.
Mrs. Glee smiled gently. “I can’t abide slouching.”
“What is a backboard?” I asked.
Mrs. Glee had produced a piece of wood with hooks at the side for arms. I recalled, dimly, what it was. Backboards were invented to make girls stand up straight—but truly they were instruments of torture.
“You really will find it most useful,” she beamed. “It will do such a lot of good for your chances.”
I didn’t need to ask what Mrs. Glee meant by “chances”—marriage was clearly what she had in mind for us girls. She meant to be kind, as really she was a good-natured lady. It was just that she had rather old-fashioned ideas about things. A black gloom descended on me.
“You’ve rather the wrong idea, Mrs. Glee,” I said, gently. “We’re used to a bit more time for … general education. My father—the professor—believes—”
“Does he, Kitty?” she said vaguely. “I must ask him about it. In the meantime, kindly turn to page forty-two in your Pliny. Now, do sit up straight, dear.”
Even Waldo had been anxious that our lives would become, well, more difficult. It didn’t turn out that way though. Although Mrs. Glee’s intentions were strict, she tended to be rather erratic. She would often disappear to “the powder room” or “have a funny turn.” Sometimes I thought it was even easier to pull the wool over Mrs. Glee’s eyes than my own father’s. Which is why today, as she had disappeared for a good three-quarters of an hour, I was fretting. There was an oddness, now and then, in Mrs. Glee’s green eyes. A look almost of despair. Sometimes her face was so strained that the wrinkles on it stood out like raised veins. I had tried gently to ask her if anything was wrong. But she had just smiled and talked of her stomach.
I thought it was more serious than that. I feared that she was dying.
“I’ve remembered what the bottle was—you know, that I saw her swig,” I said. “It had Sydenham’s printed on it.”
“I know that tincture,” said Waldo. “It’s perfectly harmless, Kit. Soothes pain or something like that.”
Isaac had burst out laughing. “Did it say Tinctura Opii on it?” he asked.
“Something like that.” I nodded.
“You really are a silly goose,” he said. “Mrs. Glee is taking laudanum is all.”
“What is laudanum?”
“Opium mixed with alcohol. Perfectly harmless, I believe. Used to relieve indigestion and stomach pains and aches of all sorts. I believe they even give it to babies.”
“But isn’t opium a vile drug?” I asked. Vague images flashed through my mind: smoky opium dens, Chinamen with long clay pipes, emaciated artists. I had heard of many artists and writers who took it, and tales of those who became slaves to the drug and even died from it. Fear took hold.
“Opium is terrible,” Isaac said, trying to sound knowing. “But laudanum is a sort of medicine.”
Rachel wasn’t listening. She had pulled out her pocket mirror and was studying herself in the glass. I noticed she had curled her hair in a new way, so glossy ringlets cascaded over her ears. Pretty, I suppose, but hadn’t she anything better to do than gaze so lovingly at her own reflection? She may accuse me of being childish, but my best friend had changed. She was always mooning about over dresses and ribbons. Yesterday I caught her applying beetroot to her lips to make them redder! The final straw was when I saw her drooling over a pair of peach satin dancing slippers. Shoes, for pity’s sake! The infatuated look on her face made me think I was really losing my friend.
Sometimes, I thought that as we grew up Rachel and I were becoming strangers. She was turning into one of them. If you don’t know what I mean, you’re probably one of them too!
“Rachel,” I barked, just to make her start.
“Sorry.” She instantly slipped the mirror back under the desk. “I’m just wondering how to arrange my hair for Miss Minchin’s wedding.”
The boys and I exchanged gloomy looks. Rachel might be excited about our former governess’s wedding to the Hon. Charles Prinsep, but the rest of us were dreading it. I was looking forward to the ceremony, in the baronet’s ancestral castle on Dartmoor, about as much as having a tooth pulled out with a pair of pliers. I would have to wear a flouncy peach gown for the ball, which Waldo said made me look like a “turnip in frills.”
Of course Rachel looked lovely in her gown.
The door opened and Mrs. Glee appeared. Her cheeks were flushed, little red spots standing high on the wrinkled white skin. Her eyes had a hectic glitter.
“Good news, my dears,” she announced with a smile. “No lessons today!”
“Fantastic!” I blurted, with visions of taking Jesse for a canter on Port Meadow.
“Instead we’re going to brush up our etiquette for Miss Minchin’s wedding. I want you all to be a credit to me.”
A deep sigh went around the room. Lessons might be bad, but learning manners was worse. Far worse.
Chapter Three
“Would you do me the honor of the first waltz?” A young man stood on the edge of the dance floor and made me a courtly bow. He was quite handsome, I suppose, in his bow tie and tails. But there was something rather too intense about him, with his flushed face and shining eyes. We were at Miss Minchin’s engagement ball at her fiancée’s castle. Merriford, set on the bleak sweep of Dartmoor, was more used to the whistle of gales than this sparkling society throng.
“No, thank you,” I said firmly, moving my peach taffeta skirts back against the wall. “We’re only here to watch.”
But the young man seemed not to hear. He held out his hand toward me, with another bow.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, sir,” I snapped. “It’s just we’re not interested in dancing.”
The young man was clearly an idiot. He was gazing at me, a dazzled expression on his face. Strange, for I didn’t look that wonderful. Then I glanced at him and realized that I was invisible. He was actually looking past me, toward Rachel. And she was gazing, or do I mean swooning, back at him.
“Stop,” I said stepping between them. “This won’t do.”
He held out his hand for Rachel’s dance book, an elaborate gold one with ruby tassels, and I saw the page was already full of appointments. Rachel was glowing, her lovely face peeping out above her white lace collar. The ball had scarcely started before her first admirer had crawled out of the woodwork. I didn’t like it at all. There was something odd about the young man. Besides, Mrs. Glee had been quite clear, Father had said we weren’t meant to dance—only to observe.
“I’m afraid she can’t dance either,” I said firmly.
“Can’t or won’t?” the young man asked, gazing at her. Rachel flushed, pink flaming up her neck till it reached her ears. Annoyingly she looked even more beautiful.
“Oh, Kit, be reasonable. I’m sure Mrs. Glee won’t mind if I dance this waltz. You know I love waltzes.” With that Rachel let the young man take her hand and sweep her away onto the dance floor. It was a pretty sight, the gas lamps flaring and the women blazing in gowns as vivid as a thousand tulips. Hot, though. I was already sweating under my corset. An ice would cool me down. I turned, intending to skirt past the dancers into the refreshment room, and bumped smack into Waldo.
Isaac and Waldo were standing together, grinning. With a sinking heart I realized they must have witnessed the whole scene.
“I suppose I had better dance with
you, Kit,” Waldo smirked. “Before you go making a fool of yourself again.”
“As a special favor, I’ll dance with you too, Kit. Though I’d rather be home with my chemistry equipment,” Isaac said. “We’ve all got to do our bit to save you from more embarrassment.”
“I’m not dancing with anyone,” I snarled. “Certainly not with one of you clowns. Anyway, Isaac, shouldn’t you be looking after Rachel? She is your sister.”
Isaac glanced at Rachel. “I think she can look after herself,” he grinned.
Sighing, I sidled away from my friends. Give me an ice before a boy any day. The daintier treats were always popular at parties. It was wise to get in quick before the rush, else you could end up disappointed. I had no love of Cornish pasties or the bony ends of fowl. But with a rough tug, Waldo had taken my hand and pulled me into the crush of dancers.
“Waldo, what are you doing?” I gasped, when I could get a word in. It was hard for there was such a press of bodies.
“Keeping you out of mischief,” Waldo smiled, looking down at me.
My heart was beating disturbingly. Waldo steered me firmly through the crush. I pulled away, but found that he was stronger than me. I glared at him but he smiled straight back at me, his blue eyes infuriatingly smug. Nice eyes—though I would never let Waldo know I thought so.
What could I do? I didn’t want to make a scene, so I had no choice but to submit and let Waldo trundle me around the dance floor. After a few minutes I found, to my surprise, that it was actually quite pleasant. Waldo was a better dancer than I’d imagined, his guidance strong and firm. He didn’t tread on my feet or breathe on my face. My thoughts slid above the throng as my feet broke free.
“Kit,” Waldo was grinning down at me. I realized with a start that my feet were still moving, though everyone else seemed to have stopped. “The dance is over.”
“Oh.”
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I shrugged. “Better than Mademoiselle Blanche’s dancing school, I suppose.”
“Oh, come on, Kit, you loved it.”
“What girl wouldn’t be honored to dance with you?”
Frowning, Waldo steered me back to my place, where the girls were huddled by the wall waiting for young men to ask them to dance. Well, I wouldn’t be a wallflower. If I had to go to this ball I might as well do something. I was just about to suggest to Waldo that we take another turn around the dance floor, this time to a lively polka, when I noticed someone was desperately trying to catch his eye. She was a blond girl, with perfect ringlets, pale blue eyes and a little rosebud mouth. Quite pretty, I suppose, but I have to confess I took an instant dislike to her. There was something so sugar-sweet about her.
“I see you have an admirer,” I snapped.
“Hardly an admirer.” Waldo laughed. “Just Emily.”
“Who is Emily?”
But Waldo did not answer my question. Instead he said abruptly, “Look, Kit, you don’t mind if I skip this dance, do you?” Then he was off, scurrying over to Emily, whose face was alight with pleasure.
I turned away. I wasn’t going to stand about watching as Waldo trampled Emily all over the dance floor. Anyway Mrs. Glee had just arrived, and I was sure she would forbid us all to dance. After all, my father had said we had to “be a credit to him.” But to my dismay she took one look at Rachel and the wavy-haired young man, another look at Waldo and Emily and promptly vanished.
Feeling a little sulky, I brushed off Isaac’s suggestion that we do the polka together. Isaac, I am sure, would murder my toes, for his mind would be full of his current experiment—making a bomb out of cake ingredients. He seemed delighted with my suggestion that we locate the ices instead, so we left the ballroom.
I was a little upset with Waldo, for we were meant to be friends and yet he had deserted me at the first sight of a simpering Emily. But the ices cooled me down. I had three helpings. One a delicious melting pink concoction flavored with rosewater, another vanilla-ish, and a third which was a mystery. Isaac swore it was rum, but I have never drunk the sailor’s tipple and I’m pretty sure he hasn’t either.
I returned to the ballroom alone, for Isaac could not be torn away from the refreshments. My mood soured when I saw that Waldo was dancing with Emily again, this time a slower waltz. They were quite making exhibitions of themselves, for Emily seemed to be whispering in his ear. Anyway, I leaned against the wall frowning and a moment later Miss Minchin—soon to be Mrs. or even Lady Prinsep—stopped.
This beaming person was such a different creature to the thin-lipped governess who had come to our house all those years ago.
“Dear Kit.” She beamed. “Let life into your heart.”
“Pardon?” I asked, taken aback.
“You’re not a boy,” she said. “I know you want to be one. But, Kit, you’re a girl. Be lovely.”
“Being lovely is hardly an occupation.”
“Oh, it is,” she beamed. “It’s jolly hard work.”
I backed away, for there was a gooeyness about her that made me uneasy. For one ghastly moment I even thought she was going to embrace me. Luckily her groom-to-be called to her and she was lost in the ball gowns. The next thing I knew, Waldo was standing next to me, frowning.
“Something is up, Kit,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” I replied, a little coldly.
“It’s Emily. She says Mrs. Glee is not what she seems.”
“What on earth does she mean?”
“It’s odd, Kit. I don’t like it.”
“Spit it out.”
“Emily claims that Mrs. Glee is not Mrs. Glee at all. She says she recognized her at once. She’s a Mrs. Dougal and she was their housekeeper till she disappeared last summer. There was some mystery about it, but Emily never found out what really happened.”
“So?”
“Thing is, some valuable cufflinks vanished at the same time.”
I was perturbed, for it was an odd tale. But then I thought of the blinking, simpering Emily and felt doubtful. Who did I trust? Mrs. Glee, who was thoughtful and had our best interests at heart, despite her illness. Or the conniving Emily?
“I’m surprised you believe what Emily tells you,” I shrugged. “She has obviously forgotten her spectacles.”
“Emily doesn’t wear spectacles,” he replied.
“Of course not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sheer vanity. Emily is so short-sighted she can’t see beyond the end of her nose. If she had her spectacles on she would know she’d never met Mrs. Glee before. Instead she makes up a story to try to impress—”
Without waiting for me to finish my sentence Waldo flashed me a disgusted look and walked away.
Chapter Four
It was a cheerless day to travel, the wind howling off Dartmoor, buffeting the coach that was taking us back to Oxford. A storm was blowing up and soon a few fat droplets began to splatter against the windows. The track leading off the moor past the small country villages was rough, full of potholes that jerked us about till our bones ached. I pitied Hodges, our genial coach driver, sitting on his perch high above the horses. He was exposed to the full fury of the elements. Even more, though, did I pity the four poor beasts. Already their bridles were lathered in froth.
Mrs. Glee had decided we would travel from Merriford House back to Oxford by coach, even though the train was so much more convenient. I had tried to argue but she had made up her mind. I suspected, frail as she was, she was frightened of train travel. So here we all were, cold, crushed together and jolted. Huddled between Rachel and Isaac I recalled the old legends that told of great beasts that roamed the moor, of highwaymen who preyed on unguarded travelers. I shivered a little. But I got no sympathy from my friends. Indeed the atmosphere inside the coach was as thick as fog. I could have choked on the dark looks, misunderstandings and ill humor wafting around. Both Waldo and Rachel were furious with your friend Kit Salter, and had declared they would never speak to me again. R
achel had been especially hurtful.
“You know what your problem is, Kit?” she had spat. “Apart from being downright domineering, of course. Jealousy. Don’t look so surprised. J.E.A.L.O.U.S.Y. You don’t like your friends having other friends. You want to be number one the whole time.”
The silence in the coach left me plenty of time to reflect on Rachel’s words. Uncomfortably, I had to admit that there might be some small element of truth in what she was saying. But minuscule. Really very small. Truly!
As neither Waldo nor Rachel was talking to me, and Isaac was lost in his own (possibly explosive) thoughts, I turned to Mrs. Glee, who was crocheting a hideous pink bonnet.
“Merriford House was splendid,” I said. “So gloomy. All that wind whistling down the chimneys.”
“Lovely,” she agreed, with a vacant smile. “I’m so happy for Miss Minchin. Marrying a baronet’s son. Usually sweet fortune does not smile upon poor governesses.”
There was a wistful look in her green eyes as she said this. I wanted to take her hand and squeeze it to give her a little courage. Life, I guessed, had not been kind to Mrs. Glee. You could see her own misfortunes in the lines on her face and in the anxiety with which she greeted everything. She did try, our poor new governess, but she just wasn’t strong enough for this world.
I had never found out about Mr. Glee. I was tempted to try a little probing.
“Do you miss Mr. Glee very much?” I asked.
To my surprise she went rigid.
“Why?”
“Sorry?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered. I thought—”
Mrs. Glee was biting her lip “He was a brute, Kitty, a brute.”
I didn’t know what to say. This conversation wasn’t going as I’d imagined. She sounded so fierce.
“I didn’t know,” I muttered lamely.
“Not a day goes by, not a single day, when I don’t give thanks that I am rid of him.”
There was silence after this. The four horses pulling our coach labored in front of us. All that could be heard was their panting and snorting and the fierce whoosh of the wind outside. I was wearing a thick navy traveling cloak over my serge dress, but I was still chilled. Inside and out. There were so many mysteries about our new governess—her anger as well as her suffering. Everything seemed to make her fearful. Why had Mrs. Glee turned down the quick and modern train? Dark shapes loomed against the gray darkness of the moor. Wind-blasted trees, the occasional wretched cottage. I wondered that the horses were able to canter so fast, avoiding potholes in the dusk.
The Book of Bones Page 2