Mrs. Brodie’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies

by Galen, Shana

  Mrs. Brodie shrugged. “Maybe not all of it, no. I could tell you what I’ve done to survive, and you’d think—well. That’s a story for another time.” She looked thoughtfully at the lamp’s globe, rubbing at a smut on the glittering glass. “But whatever comes, you’re equal to the task. Isn’t that something to be proud of?”

  I deserve the best and am prepared for the worst. Whatever comes my way, I am equal to the task.

  She’d heard this daily from the young ladies, believing it idly. But she hadn’t known it until Jack appeared at the tradesmen’s entrance of the servants’ quarters with a little basket of strawberries in hand. Until he was part of her life again, and then wasn’t.

  He’d hidden a truth she couldn’t possibly argue with, that he wanted to visit his sick mother, and he cared about helping Marianne make a success of the Donor Dinner. Those things were…sweet. Thoughtful. If he hadn’t hidden his betrothal to Helena Wilcox eight years before, she wouldn’t have thought anything of it. She’d have chided him for the surprise of four new maids, then come around to thanking him.

  But they had a history, and his swift and sudden betrothal had been part of it. The now was never just now; it was the result of everything that had come before. Their present was too new to overlay the past, and so the past had cracked through. And though she’d forgiven him for it, what was the point in forgiving him again if he hadn’t changed?

  Or had he?

  By hiding his betrothal until the humiliating truth came out in public, he’d spared himself alone. But by hiring four kitchenmaids to help Marianne, he’d spared her. He’d thought about what she would need in his absence. And she’d been vain to think she could do without extra help; all four of the Js, plus Marianne and Sally, had been busy since the moment of Jack’s departure.

  Oh, he was worthy. He was the best. But he’d never come to her again.

  She’d have to go to him. To swallow her pride, and go home, and beg forgiveness.

  If that was the worst, she was prepared to do it. She was equal to the task. She’d make everything right.

  Mrs. Brodie was still looking at Marianne, now with a knowing curve to her lips. “Something to tell me?”

  Marianne took a deep breath. Stood up straight, realizing she’d lost the heavy, exhausted feeling that had been weighing her down. “I need to beg leave of you, ma’am. To make a trip home as soon as is possible. It might be…quite a long leave.”

  “Very well. Will you be ready in the morning?”

  Marianne blinked. Easy as that? “Oh—I—yes, of course! Though I hadn’t meant to depart so soon and leave you without a cook.”

  “So you’ll change the course of your life to spare me the trouble of contacting an agency? That’s obliging of you.”

  Spluttering with surprised laughter, Marianne granted the truth of this. “Sally—Mrs. White—will do well as cook, I think, given more experience. You might like also to hire some of the new kitchenmaids on a permanent basis. They are all good workers.”

  “I’ll ask Mrs. White”—the headmistress took on the new title seamlessly—“what she would prefer, in consultation with the housekeeper. And you are always welcome here. As a cook or, if you need any honest work, a chambermaid.”

  Marianne laughed. It was easier to laugh now. The easiest thing, now that there was something to do next besides cook, and cook. “I have some money awaiting me…I think.” Her sisters had been dowered, but what had her mother done with Marianne’s share of the money?

  She’d never thought of it before. Never thought of Lincolnshire as a place she might return, or her sisters and their families and her mother as pieces with which she might fit again.

  Or Jack, and his mother and sisters. The land, the hives, the bees.

  She had so much to tell the bees. And there was so much forgiveness to beg.

  “I shall see my mother and sisters,” Marianne said unsteadily. “And Mr. Grahame, if he’ll have me.”

  “A woman can never have too many sisters,” said Mrs. Brodie. “You won’t forget, I hope, how many you have here.”

  After suggesting a time for Marianne’s departure the next day, the headmistress bade her good night. When she took her lamp and closed the door, the little room still seemed bright. It only needed Marianne’s own lamp.

  She sat on the bed, stroking the plain quilt that covered it, and looked around the simple room. She’d never made this space a home, saying the kitchen was her home. But her heart was divided. Maybe some part of her had always known she would leave again.

  Without realizing it at the time, she’d always called Lincolnshire home. And she loved the idea of going toward it, not escaping. She could return home proud of what she’d learned. She knew a useful trade; she knew how to fight. She had sisters of the heart and, thank God, a home. Maybe someday she’d be able to be proud of how she mended the relationships she’d hurt.

  All she could do was try.

  For now, there was one more thing to do before sleep. She hung her apron on its hook, then pulled her book of recipes from the pocket. It was small in her hand, but represented much. Lessons learned, failures, successes. Experience documented, ignorance corrected.

  She didn’t need it anymore. She remembered it all.

  Hefting the little book one more time, she set it on the washstand. A little something to help Sally, maybe. Something to show that Marianne had been here and that she’d made something new of herself.

  Mrs. Brodie’s Academy had been a good place to be, and she could come back someday if she wanted to. Because people left, and they returned. And it was all right.

  If she was at peace in her own heart, and with those she loved, then it was all right.

  Chapter Nine

  AN UNEXPECTED FROST had fallen during the night, and Jack had been awake since before dawn, trying to ward off damage. The great fields of wheat, oilseed, and barley would be all right, but delicate peas and beans would suffer, as would every kitchen garden from that of Westerby Grange to the humblest cottage.

  Buckets in hand, Jack and every servant and tenant he could rouse had paced the rows, dribbling water onto each growing thing to thaw it before sunrise. It was grueling and arduous, this race against the sun and the sudden snap of cold.

  By the time day broke, they had saved almost everything. Viola and the household staff of the Grange saw a hearty breakfast served in the great entrance hall to everyone who had worked at the land that morning.

  When the platters of eggs and rashers of bacon and thick, steaming oatcakes had all been consumed, the other men melted off to the usual day’s work.

  “And where are you off to?” Viola, pin-neat in a lavender morning dress, asked Jack. “No one would fault you for finding your bed again.”

  True, though he didn’t feel like sleep. The success of the night’s task had buoyed him, depending as it did on the speed and purpose of his own work.

  “While I’m dirty anyway,” he decided, “I’ll spend some time working on the old Redfern stable.”

  Viola examined the delicate lace at her sleeves. “Better you than me. In a few hours, I’ll send someone to you with water and something to eat, if you like.”

  “Thanks, Vee.” Pecking her on the cheek and laughing at her grimace and protest against his dirt, Jack left the house. He tramped across the Grahame lands, crossing onto those that had once belonged to the Redferns.

  They had all altered, thanks to Helena’s money. Croplands no longer flooded due to poor drainage; the fields had been replanted with more profitable grains. Tenants had been recruited and secured, and Jack’s father’s purchase of the Redfern lands from Marianne’s widowed mother had added hundreds of acres. The house had been sold separately, along with a bit of land, to rich Londoners who wanted a bucolic country home but didn’t care to farm.

  Jack avoided the sight of it, the house where Marianne had grown up. He’d already enough reminders of Marianne tucked within his own brain. By cutting across the land to the
east of it, he arrived at his destination.

  The old stable hadn’t been used for its intended purpose since Jack’s childhood. It was slope-floored and dim, an Elizabethan relic that had been replaced with a modern construction much nearer the house. This stable was off by itself in a pasture. The remains of a footpath and training track indicated that it might once have been part of a stud facility. For decades, it had been nothing but a catch place for things that weren’t quite good enough to use but not quite bad enough to discard.

  The day after Jack’s arrival, he’d oiled the rusty old lock and wrestled it open, then shoved back one of the great doors and eyed the space. It had been well built of the same red brick as the grand homes hereabouts, roofed in slate that had kept the place sound—or nearly so. Here and there, broken slates had allowed water to damage the roof structure, to trickle in and turn tools into heaps of mildew and rust. An out-of-favor carriage had become a nest for mice, the stuffing of its squabs tugged and pulled in clouds of horsehair and batting. And the condition of the tack left behind was not worth speaking of.

  But the way it was wasn’t the way it would always have to be. And in the three days since Jack had arrived, he’d drawn up rough plans for the way the building could be changed. He’d brought over new slates and stowed them in the stable, and today he’d begin to repair the roof.

  He retrieved a ladder from the stable, relieved that it was decently sound, and hefted a roll of heavy wool batting onto his back. Slates were fragile, strong though they were once in place, and he’d need to protect them from his own weight.

  With a few slates at a time, he climbed the ladder, gingerly moved across the roof on the roll of batting to the necessary spot, then removed the broken shingle and put the new piece of drilled stone in its place. Driving it in with long copper nails, he moved on to the next, and the next.

  The frost was gone from the air, though the day remained cool. Jack was grateful for a breeze as he worked at the stable roof. The new slates were far darker than the old, which had been paled by decades of rain and sun—or maybe just purchased from a different quarry. Jack’s work stood out from the rest of the roof like freckles on a face. He rather liked it, seeing the progress he’d made. Sometimes it was nice to be reminded that he’d done something with his time.

  Just as Marianne did, meal after meal, bringing contented bellies to students and teachers and servants. Marianne, making a good wage all those years, safe and capable because someone had taken her in and taught her what she needed to know.

  He’d do the same, however he could. And this was where he’d do it.

  “You’re humming,” called up a voice from below. Startled, he dropped his hammer, cracking the slate he’d been about to install.

  And he realized he had been humming.

  And that Marianne Redfern was no longer in London, but standing on the ground looking up at him. Smiling.

  His heart, thumping from the surprise of her voice, picked up yet more speed. It was the work of a minute to scramble back to the ladder—carefully, of course, on the batting—and slide down. “Marianne,” he said as soon as his feet touched the earth. “Marianne,” he said again, taking a step toward her. “You’re—what are you doing here? How did you get here?”

  She shaded her eyes with the flat of her hand, squinting at him. “I came home. Mrs. Brodie gave me the use of her private carriage.”

  Surely he was imagining all of this. Viola hadn’t sent him any food or water yet, and he was imagining things. “Her private carriage. The use of it. For a journey of more than one hundred miles.”

  “Well, yes. She said she wouldn’t feel right about me traveling alone on a stage or the mail.”

  Jack shook his head. “What kind of academy is this?”

  “It’s an exceptional one.” Marianne grinned.

  “Yes, I think it is.” He looked at the stack of remaining slates on the ground. The roof, with so much done and so much left to do. “And you’re here…why?”

  Her expression went serious. Her hand fell to her side, and she looked at Jack with frank eyes under straight brows. “I came to apologize to you.”

  He started to sit on the slates, then thought better of it and sank to the ground. “Forgive me,” he said. “It’s already been a long day. I just—could you say that again?”

  “That I came to apologize to you?” She sat on the ground beside him, careless of her familiar old work dress. “I did. And I do forgive you, just as you asked.”

  He poked her in the arm. “Oh, good. You’re real.”

  She poked him back. “I’m real. I’m really here. And I wanted to see you. I missed you, after all the days I’d seen you in London. I decided I didn’t want to get used to missing you again. Jack, I was so proud and superior. I shouldn’t have—”

  “You shouldn’t have had to go to the slightest bit of trouble.” Oh, she would break him to bits with her apology. She would make him anew. “Why I didn’t fall on my knees and beg for your hand at once, I don’t know.”

  “Because we couldn’t bear that the past meant nothing.” She smiled. “And because you were holding all those strawberries. If you knelt, you might have dropped them.”

  “Then you do forgive me? For giving you up?”

  It was all he’d wanted—and when she shook her head, cold dismay washed over him.

  Until she replied. “But you didn’t, did you? At least, you didn’t give up on me. And so there is nothing for me to forgive. If we’d wed eight years ago, we wouldn’t be here together like this. I couldn’t have surprised you today when you were all dirty and strong and capable. And today…”

  She blushed. He smiled, the dismay ebbing like a wave, only to be replaced by peace. “Today is beautiful,” he said. Heedless of the dirt beneath his nails, the slate dust and detritus that covered him, he took her hand in his.

  They sat a moment in silence. Marianne tipped her head back, letting the breeze stroke her cheeks. “I haven’t been on this land for years. I’m glad to see it again.”

  “It missed you,” he said, not quite saying what he meant.

  She turned her face to Jack’s, imploring. “Can you forgive me for my pride and anger? I asked you to go because I thought you didn’t trust me.”

  “What a pair we’ve been. I left because I thought you didn’t trust me.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m not sure I trusted myself—to do the right thing, I mean. But I’ve since decided if I’m making choices that are motivated by love, then…that’s the best I can do.”

  “And you left because you love me.”

  He’d never seen anything as beautiful as her green eyes, looking into his with such depth and sweetness. “I do. I wanted to please you as best I could, Marianne. Even if that meant removing myself from your presence.”

  “I missed you so much. I chased you away when you meant to help, and—once you were gone, the cooking lost its savor.”

  Her lips twitched. He groaned. “You shouldn’t make terrible puns when you’re telling me nice things. You’ve told me that I love you, which is quite correct. Won’t you tell me what you feel?”

  “I want to be with you, Jack. Even if that means removing myself from London.” She smiled. “Though it’s not really leaving London; it’s coming back home. They ought to be the same thing, but somehow they’re not.”

  He seized on the meaning behind the words. “So you love me.”

  “As you say,” she said. “I love you.”

  “Well. That’s settled.” Relief, gladness, peace were warm like the sun overhead, cool like the wind that softened its heat. They were balanced. Everything balanced. “And we’re to spend our whole lives forgiving each other, are we?”

  Marianne raised a brow. “I should hope so. The alternatives are being perfect—”

  “Impossible,” he sighed.

  “—or not being together, or not forgiving each other.”

  “Intolerable,” he said. “I see. You’re quite right, we should forgive
each other thoroughly and frequently.”

  “Something in the tone of your voice is…hmm. Do you mean ‘forgive,’ or do you mean something more…” She trailed off.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Again, she blushed, and he smiled. “So you left your kitchen.” He still had a difficult time believing it.

  “It’s not mine; it’s the academy’s. And I can cook and create and show caring wherever I am. I should be sad to think I could only do that in one place. I’ll sort it out somehow.”

  She freed her hand from his, unfolding to her feet to look at his work. “But what are you doing? Repairing my father’s old stable? This hasn’t been used since I was a child.”

  “Ah. You inspired it. Or maybe your academy did.” Standing beside her, he pointed up at what he’d done. Explained what there was left to do. Once the space within was cleared, the old stalls demolished, there would be a great open space for whatever one wished. It would be a simple matter to install ovens and worktables—though one needn’t limit oneself.

  “If I can’t find a cook to teach lessons here, I’ll still be able to use it. Think of the ballroom at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy, used for far more than dancing.” Reflexively, he rubbed his shoulder at the memory. “Why, in a space like this, anything could be taught.”

  Marianne had listened thoughtfully, nodding her understanding. Now she looked into the open door of the stable, reared back, and returned to Jack. “It’s a disaster in there.”

  “It’s not ready for a teacher yet, no,” he agreed.

  “So.” She looked coyly at him, gaze aslant. “You haven’t anyone in mind for the job, you said?”

  “I always have you in mind. But I wasn’t going to ask anything more of you, certainly not to leave London for me.”

  “But I didn’t leave London. I came home.” She beamed at him, and he felt like a king. “This is brilliant. It’ll be like your own academy. You’ll be helping girls take care of themselves, just as Mrs. Brodie did.”

  “Just as you’ve done all these years,” he added. “Look, I want to be scrupulously honest with you. Every fruit has a stone in it, and this building is the stone. I don’t want to tell you that it will take a great deal of time and money to bring back, but I’m telling you now all the same. I wish it would be easy for you to stay, no barriers in the way of the decision.”