“He built The Parthenon,” was all Bailey said in reply.
“Sir Gregory traveled to Greece a lot, did he?” her father asked as they continued their climb to the second floor.
“Yes, sir. He was a noted archaeologist as well as a collector of fine art and antiques. Every treasure within the house, he discovered himself.”
Megan stopped at the top of the stairs to look at a portrait of a young man. His brown hair was short and neat, his head erect, but his eyes twinkled impishly, and he wore a crooked, rakish grin on his face. “Who’s this?”
Bailey pulled his shoulders back. “That is Sir Gregory himself. In his younger days, of course. He was only about thirty-five when this was painted, I believe. I had not yet come into his service.”
“He doesn’t look like an art collector,” Megan’s father said. “Or an archeologist, for that matter.”
“He liked to think of himself as an adventurer.”
Megan thought she saw a flicker of a smile cross Bailey’s lips, but before she could be certain, he turned and walked away.
“This way, please.”
The upper hallway was long and dreary, with dark wood and a red Oriental runner. Bailey stopped at the third of six oak paneled doors on the right.
“This will be Miss Megan’s room. Yours, sir, is down here.” He led Megan’s father down the hall to a door on the opposite side. Megan put out her hand and turned the polished brass knob.
She stepped into a room that was roughly half the size of her apartment in New York. In the middle of the room was a queen-sized, four poster bed, its headboard carved with a delicate rose motif. A squat, two-drawer nightstand stood next to the bed. Against the far right-hand wall was an antique vanity. A silver framed tri-fold mirror sat atop it, showing the room to Megan in triplicate. Beside the entrance were a desk and a chest of drawers, also both antique. A fireplace was set into the fourth wall, on the far side of the bed. Four long windows dressed in sage took up the last wall.
Megan looked at the twelve-foot-high ceiling and sighed. “Well, it could be worse.” Her voice echoed to the plaster roses in the center. “I could be in Newark.”
Two other doors led from the room; one on the right, next to the vanity, and one on the left, not far from the fireplace. Megan walked across the room and opened the one on the right. Behind it was a bathroom with an enormous tub and gleaming brass fixtures. It was the most beautiful bathroom she had ever been in; even better than the Ritz-Carlton, where she had stayed once with her dad.
Behind the other door was a walk-in closet that easily could have held her old bedroom. It smelled of cedar. Megan took a deep breath—it smelled like her mother’s hope chest, clean and musky. After a thorough inspection of the many shelves and drawers Megan stepped out and went to the windows. The two in the center were actually a pair of French doors. Megan pulled them open and stepped onto a small balcony with a wrought-iron railing. She leaned over, feeling like a princess in a castle, like those in the fairy tales her mother had read to her at bedtime when she was little.
More like Rapunzel, trapped in her tower. Megan peeled an errant leaf off of the railing, and looked out over her new kingdom. Fields and gardens as far as she could see, bordered by an overgrown wood at the far end. The house was shaped like a “U”, with a wing that extended back from each end of the main building, forming a courtyard in the center. She looked straight down.
“Wow.”
Below lay a rectangular reflecting pool of white marble. Columns, the kind Megan saw in pictures of Greek temples, ran around the edge, placed at regular intervals. Sculptures stood between the columns—men in short, dress-like things, and women dressed like the lady in the fountain. A classic English garden surrounded it; a path of white stone cut through the flower beds, running between the pool and the rest of the grounds.
“That’s weird.” The pool looked out of place against the house’s stoic façade. She looked around her, at the huge, plush estate she and her father suddenly found themselves thrust into. “This whole thing is weird.”
She pushed herself off the railing and went back inside. Someone had come in while she was on the terrace and delivered her bags. Probably Miranda—that woman moves like a cat.
Megan picked up her suitcase and laid it on the bed, ran the zipper all the way around and flipped the cover open. She had just picked up her favorite sweater and was headed toward the closet when the door opened and her father poked his head inside. He grinned. “Hey there. Can I come in?”
Megan nodded.
Her father looked around. “How do you like your new room?”
Megan gave a noncommittal shrug. She didn’t look at her father, afraid of what her face might reveal. “I don’t know, Dad. The house is really nice, but…”
“But it’s not New York.”
Megan shook her head slowly and walked across the room. She appreciated the house—who wouldn’t want to live in a place like this? But she still wished for the comfort and familiarity of her city apartment. It was so quiet here—how would she be able to sleep without the city noises to keep her company?
She went to the window and looked down at the reflecting pool. It was like looking out from a jail cell. “No, Dad, it’s not. It’s so…empty. So quiet. I’m going to hate it here.” She fought back tears.
Her father tilted his head to one side. “I know, I know, it’s a big change. But can you at least give it a chance?”
Megan put her forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane. She closed her eyes, and saw her mother’s face. Like it or not, she had to suck it up, for his sake. “Yeah, all right, Dad.”
She turned to him and smiled. “My room. It’s nice.”
“Just nice? Is that like saying that New York is ‘a quiet little town’?”
“Oh, all right. It’s very nice. Happy?”
“Only if you are.”
Megan shook her head. It wasn’t worth arguing about anymore, they were here and nothing she could say would make her father go back to New York.
Her father reached into her suitcase and pulled out the carefully wrapped picture of her mother. He sat on the bed and pulled off the wrapping, his eyes glued to the face that peered out from the photo.
“She would have loved this place.” His eyes misted over. “She was always ready for adventure. You look so much like her.”
In that instant, Megan realized how immature she had been. It was easy to forget her mother had left both of them behind. “Yeah, Dad, she would have.” I’m sorry I’m such a brat.
Her father put the picture on the nightstand and ran a finger along the upper edge of the frame. He wiped away a tear as he turned around, and she quickly looked at the contents of her suitcase.
He put on a smile. “You can finish unpacking later. Let’s explore for a while, okay?”
Megan laid her sweater on the bed. Clearly her father needed her more than she needed to unpack. “Yeah, sure, that’d be cool. Did you see what’s out back?”
“No, my room looks out the front. What is it?” Megan led her father over to the window and pulled back the curtain.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s different. We have to go have tea, but after, wanna go and see it?”
It took some time to actually figure out which room was the parlor, and by the time they did the tea was cold. So instead they grabbed a couple of scones from the tea tray and went exploring.
They visited the reflecting pool and the gardens. The pool was still as glass, and just as pretty from the ground as from the window. Megan still couldn’t help but think it didn’t match the house and wondered why Sir Gregory would put it here.
The stone garden path Megan saw from the window eventually led them to the stables. The horses weren’t as smelly as she thought they would be, and Stephan the stable manager puffed up with pride as he showed Megan and her father around the barn. He introduced them to Thunder, a beautiful gelding the color of storm clouds.
“Looks like
a right beast, don’t he?” Stephan hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “But he’s gentle as a kitten. I think you and he will get along famously, miss.”
Bailey, seemingly very put out by having to search for them, tracked them down and announced that dinner was ready. They were ushered into a huge, empty dining room and sat at a long, gleaming wooden table. Bailey served them a creamy soup that smelled delicious. Megan didn’t remember the last time she had a home-cooked meal. Her father worked so much, most of the time their meals came by delivery boy.
“Tomorrow we have to go into the village.” Her father took a warm roll from a basket and passed it to Megan. “They’re not expecting you at school until the beginning of next week, and in the meantime we need to get you some school uniforms.”
Megan nodded, thinking more about the soup than school. “I hope they’re nice uniforms and not something dorky looking.”
Her father laughed. “Don’t worry, dear. Even if they are, uh, ‘dorky looking’, everyone will be wearing the same thing, so it won’t matter. You’ll all look like dorks together.”
“Gee, thanks.” Megan took a bite of her roll, thinking about something that had been on her mind since she looked out of her balcony. “Dad, I’ve been wondering something.”
“What, sweetie?”
“Why are we in this big house, just the two of us? Your firm didn’t rent this big old thing just for us, did they? They could have put us in an apartment in London. Or flat, or whatever it’s called.”
Her father set down his knife and fork. “I’ve wondered that myself. It does seem strange.” He picked up his utensils and returned to his meal. “I’ll have to ask when I go to work on Monday.”
“Maybe it’s haunted,” Megan wondered aloud. “And nobody else wants to live here, so they got it cheap and pawned it off on the unsuspecting Americans.”
“Hmm.” Her father gave a mysterious look. “Perhaps you’re right.”
They both burst out laughing. It was the best Megan had felt since her father had first told her they were moving.
Perhaps this place wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
Chapter Two: Schedules and Secrets
Megan slowly put on her uniform—a blue and gray plaid kilt, white knee socks, white button-down shirt and navy blue tie. She picked up her blazer; also navy blue, with the crest of St. Agatha’s College for Girls embroidered on the left breast. She pulled it on.
Megan leaned down in front of the vanity mirror to adjust her hat, a wool beret the same color as the blazer. She looked at herself and sighed.
Ick. I hate uniforms. She missed wearing whatever she wanted to school. Uniforms, in her opinion, stifled individuality. Little drones that all look alike, marching along like good little soldiers.
“I suppose it’s not that bad,” she said to her reflection. The uniform didn’t really flatter her figure, but it didn’t make her look dumpy either. She pushed her hat so it sat at an angle. “At least it’s a nice color.”
Not really convinced the uniform was in any way better than wearing something from her closet, she grabbed her bag off of the chair and went downstairs.
Twenty minutes later her father dropped her off for her first day at school at the front entrance of a building that looked like a castle from the Middle Ages. Hundreds of girls, all dressed like she was, streamed in the front door.
Drones.
“Don’t forget, you’re supposed to stop in and see the headmistress first. Have a nice day, Meg,” her father said. He raised his hand to muss her hair, stopped, and patted her on the shoulder instead.
“Thanks, Dad. You too.” She kissed him on the cheek, opened the door and dove into the sea of bodies headed inside.
After being jostled and bounced down the halls, she finally found her way to the headmistress’ office and knocked.
A women’s voice answered. “Come in.”
Megan opened the door. The room was small and neat. Three walls were covered with portraits in heavy wooden frames, men and women dressed in black robes, mortarboards on their heads. The fourth, opposite the door, was taken up by a large window that arched upward toward a peak, like the window of an ancient cathedral. In front of the window sat a desk. Behind the desk sat a middle-aged woman. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back in a severe, sensible-looking bun. She hunched over the desk, engrossed in paperwork. She looked up when Megan entered; she had a thin face with a small, pointed upturned nose, delicate cheekbones and round blue eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“Ah, yes.” Megan squared her shoulders and tried to stand up straight. “I’m Megan Montgomery. I’m a new student and this is my first day. They said I had to report to you.”
The woman shuffled through the papers on her desk and pulled out a manila folder. “Yes, of course. The girl from America. Well, come in child, don’t lurk in the doorway. Please sit down.”
A thick burgundy rug muffled Megan’s footsteps as she walked to one of a pair of high-backed chairs in front of the desk. She tried to look graceful as she sat down.
“Welcome to St. Agatha’s.” The woman gave a smile that reminded Megan of a cat who has just found a juicy mouse. She folded her hands on the desk, sat up straight, and looked Megan in the eye. “I am Miss Spencer, the headmistress.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Miss Spencer nodded. “Since you are from America, you are probably not familiar with our British education system. You are thirteen, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Megan had never really called anyone ‘ma’am’ before, but Miss Spencer looked like someone who she should. “I’m in the eighth grade.”
Miss Spencer’s smile widened a bit, but it was still a smile that looked put-on for company. “It’s ‘yes, Headmistress’. And we don’t have ‘grades’ here. You are in third year.” The headmistress picked up the file and walked around to Megan’s side of the desk. “I’ve looked over your transcripts, and everything appears to be in order. But I must warn you, Miss Montgomery. Here things are going to be much tougher than they were at your old school. This institution is a tradition among many families from all over the world.”
“The world?” Megan asked. “Do their families all move here so they can go to school?”
Miss Spencer laughed like a parent whose small child just did or said something cute and silly. “No, no, of course not, dear. Some, like you, are day students, while others live in our dormitories. We pride ourselves on turning out the finest young ladies. To that end, you will be taking more subjects than you are used to, including Latin.”
“Latin?” Who speaks Latin?
“Yes. As well as Music, Math, World History, Science, Literature, Philosophy, Geography and Art. You will also be in a House.” She flipped open the file. “I’ve placed you in Whitmore. Your House contains about twenty girls from each year. Your Head is Professor Livingston, she teaches History. If you have problems in school, academic or personal, go to her. Each house also meets twice a week for tutoring and study.”
“I see.” Megan’s stomach felt as if it would drop out of her feet at any moment. All those classes, plus forced study? Megan had held her own at her old school, but she wasn’t exactly a straight-A student. I’m in trouble.
“I notice you played hockey at your old school as well,” Miss Spencer continued, oblivious to Megan’s nervousness. “You might try out for the House team. It’s one of the best in the county. If you enjoy horses, we also have an exceptional equestrian team.”
I’ll run right out and sign up for that. Not.
She handed Megan a piece of paper. “Here’s your schedule. I suggest you get to class. The late bell is about to ring.”
Megan took the paper and looked it over. “Thank you, Headmistress.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked to the door. She wondered what would happen if she just kept running, right out the front door.
Megan’s first class was Liter
ature. She found the classroom and opened the door. A stern-looking man with slicked back dark hair turned and stared at her with small black eyes.
“May I help you?” he drawled. His pasty face wore a look of utter distaste, as if wondering who dared interrupt his class.
“Uh, yes sir. My name is Megan Montgomery. I’m new.” She handed him her schedule.
He glanced, sniffed, and handed it back to her. “Ah, yes. Very well, take a seat. And do not be tardy to my class again.”
Megan felt her cheeks get hot, and thought about telling him that it wasn’t her fault she was late, but decided against it. She found a desk at the back of the room and took out her textbook. From one of the desks to her right she heard a snicker.
“Miss Montgomery?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do not expect special treatment because you are new. Or because you are from America. I expect you to keep up with your classmates.”
“Yes, sir.” She slumped down into her seat and tried to make herself as small as possible.
The rest of Megan’s first day was much the same. The classes here were certainly different than at her old school. For one thing, students were expected to stand when they gave the answer to a question. Her teachers were not “Mrs. or Mr.” but “Professor.” Most of them were very strict, and demanded much more than her old teachers.
Her schedule was packed. The first day alone she had World History, Intermediate Math, Latin, and Philosophy in addition to Literature. Most the teachers referred to her as “The American Girl” several times before remembering her name.
They all piled on the homework.
At lunch, she sat alone, because of course she didn’t know anyone and no one offered to sit with her. And she saw the pointing and whispering that went on; most didn’t even try to hide it.
Megan tried to hold it together, but it was hard to ignore the fact that she was on display like some kind of freak show. She picked at her lunch, unable to eat, and sympathizing with every new kid she had ever seen at her old school.
I want to go home. She meant to New York.
LA01. The Crown of Zeus Page 2