At that time, Paul Gardener was clear-sighted and vigorous, nothing like the man he would be twelve years later.
He came down to my height, bending on one knee with ease and not exhibiting any of the creakiness that would plague him later in life. He reached out his hand to me slowly, as though trying not to startle a skittish animal, and with gentle fingers raised my chin so that we were eye to eye.
"What is your name, child?"
"It is Elizabeth, sir."
"Elizabeth," he said softly. "A fine name. Perhaps someone fancied that one day you would be a queen." He paused. "Do you know what is to be done with you, Elizabeth, now that your mother is ... no longer here?"
I met his steady gaze. My mother had taught me to use precision when answering adults, and I sought to do so now. "They say I am to go to an orphanage, sir."
"An orphanage!" He barked a laugh but it did not sound to me as though he was genuinely amused. "The workhouse, more like."
I did not know to what he was referring, but from his expression I guessed it was no place I would ever want to go.
"Tell me, Elizabeth," he said, his voice gentle once again. "If I gave you a choice between going to this ... orphanage place or coming back with me and the boy to live in my house, which would you choose?"
I bit my lip. I was not used to choosing anything for myself. I thought about the fact that the orphanage—or workhouse, as he called it—was a complete unknown to me while this man seemed kind, and the boy looked like he had the potential to be ... interesting.
Despite my mother's advice to always speak precisely, I still had trouble with my w's, so when I spoke, my words came out: "I 'ill go with you, sir."
Paul Gardener laughed. "I can see you have a bit of trouble pronouncing some of your letters." He looked at the boy with a twinkle in his eye, but when he next spoke, his words carried a jolly teasing in them and not a cruel one. "She has difficulty with w's, while you have trouble with words of too many syllables. But already, boy, she speaks better than you."
It was then—as I realized for the first time that I would never see my mother's face again, would soon leave behind the only home I had ever known, and for what, I did not know—that I started to cry. I don't think I had fully understood until that moment that my entire world had changed in irreversible ways. The shock of it filled me with sadness and fear like nothing I had ever experienced.
And so it was that Paul Gardener picked me up in his arms and carried me out of the study and through the foyer I had never seen. I did not see it then either, for my face was buried in his shoulder.
***
Grangefield Hall was a far larger home than the one we had come from, or at least that was what Will told me. Since I had never properly seen the outside of the home I had lived in before, I had nothing by which to gauge this new place, although the outside did look impressively large, with all its stone and turrets and ivy. The inside did seem a lot bigger than what I'd been used to; certainly the bedroom I was led to was bigger than the place I used to sleep.
That bedroom was on the third floor. On the floor below me, I was told, were Paul Gardener's rooms and Will's, while above me were the servants' quarters. It felt odd having a room all to myself; before, I had always shared. The room, which I was told had been one of the guest rooms, was decorated in a sober and masculine manner. Not that I minded; my old room had been decorated in a mostly empty manner.
"Do not worry," Paul Gardener advised, "I will have someone in to redecorate the room so it is more suitable for a girl." He regarded my brown dress. "And we will see that you get some new clothes as well."
Embarrassed at the idea that he might pity me, I tried to hide one worn boot by covering its top with the other. But I was too late.
"Shoes too," Paul Gardener added, leaving me to get used to my new surroundings.
If material possessions really did bring joy, then in losing my mother, I had gained a little bit of heaven.
But from where I was sitting, it did not seem to be an even trade.
***
Will had to teach me how to play.
I realize how odd that sounds. Imagine that: a child who didn't know how to play. But back at his parents' house, my "play" had only ever involved helping the servants with chores a small child was capable of helping with—standing on a stool and drying pots and pans, dusting the servants' quarters, polishing the silver. Of the last, I could remove the tarnish from a soupspoon so well that the queen could delight in viewing her image on its curved surface. But give me a ball or a proper toy or even a doll? I had no idea what to do with such things.
"Kick it, Bet!" Will shouted across the lawn at me as I stood there, watching the ball roll by. "You're supposed to kick it back to me!"
"Why?" I asked.
"So then I can kick it back to you!"
"And then I suppose I'll be expected to kick it to you a second time?"
Will nodded eagerly.
"What's the point?" I asked.
A puzzled look came over Will's face. "I dunno," he said. "Most people think it's rather fun."
"Fun. " The word seemed so foreign to me, the very concept unimaginable. "Fun."
Then, seeing Will's crestfallen look and wanting to please him, I trotted up to the ball, tentatively drew one leg back, and kicked it toward him.
My God, I thought, that was fun.
And when, sure as night following day, Will kicked it back to me, and it was once again my turn to kick it to him, I struck the ball with my foot much harder.
That harder strike felt even better.
It was as though all the anger that had been in me—and for the first time I realized that I was filled with anger, anger at the universe for taking my mother, anger over the unfairness of pretty much everything—was briefly released from my body with the force of that kick.
"You are good at this!" Will said, chasing after the ball, which had shot right past him. "I think maybe you have played this game before!"
"No!" I laughed, surprised at the sound of laughter coming out of my body, surprised at how good and joyful I suddenly felt. "But I think I like it!"
Will and I became friends that day.
For the next six years, we played together as friends—equals, even—with Paul Gardener often observing us from his study window or, on nice days, from the fieldstone patio out back.
Then, when I was ten, one of Victoria Gardener's relatives came to visit, as they did from time to time in order to check on Will's progress. She sat beside the master of the house on the patio in her wide-brimmed hat, the two of them sipping lemonade as Will and I played a spirited game of croquet under the hot summer sun. I never could figure out if she spoke at a near shout because she was hard of hearing or because she wanted to be overheard. Whatever the case, her words reached us with ease.
"I understand, Paul, your having permitted the children to play with each other when they were younger. And it is to your Christian credit that you were kind enough to take in that wretched child rather than let her go to the workhouse. But do you not realize how ... wrong it is to allow them to continue so casually in one another's company?"
If she was hard of hearing, the old man was not of a mind to accommodate her infirmity, because when he spoke—and I was sure he did, for I saw his lips move—it was impossible to hear what he said.
"No, you don't understand," the woman said. "Yes, Victoria was kind enough to let the maid continue in service, but you must realize, she never intended for the maid's child to be raised with her son."
More silent words from the old man.
"Surely you can see how ... unseemly this all is," the woman went on, growing more heated by the moment. "What's more, you are raising unrealistic expectations in that girl. Treat her like an equal, like one of the family, and she will grow up believing that one day a life like this could be hers. Now I ask you: Can you imagine any young man of Will's stature ever considering marrying a girl who was a maid's bastard? Really, P
aul, you do that girl no favors."
To this, the master of the house said nothing.
***
It was decided that since Will was ten, he would be sent away to school. He would still visit during semester breaks and over the summer, but he really was old enough to go now, his education paramount.
As for me, after six years of blissful playing, I was now to assume more responsibilities around Grangefield Hall. No, I was not to be moved to the servants' quarters, although I believe some of them felt I should be, but it was expected that I would take on chores: I would do mending, I would help out when any of the other servants was sick, I would polish the silver—I had made the mistake of admitting a proficiency at that task—and, of course, I would read to the master whenever asked.
My fortunes and Will's had been intertwined for six years, but now our lives diverged: he was to receive a proper education, while I was to assume a life somewhere between resident and servant.
Just as my bedroom was located on a floor between the entitled inhabitants of the house below me and the servants above, I lived between worlds, not quite family, not quite servant, neither fish nor fowl.
I was grateful to Paul Gardener, whom I always addressed as sir, never Mr. Gardener, and whom I always thought of by his full name or as the old man or the master of the house or simply the master. I even loved him a little. If not for him and the generosity he had shown me, I would have been sent to the workhouse.
But Paul Gardener was not my family, and neither was Will.
And Grangefield Hall was not my home.
Chapter three
"Are you insane, Bet?"
Not exactly the reaction I'd been hoping for when I made my proposal to Will, I'll grant you. Still, I tried to tell myself it was a start. At least my idea was now out there, loose in the world.
Turn the clock back a minute or two...
"Perhaps," I said, feeling the smile stretch across my face, "there is a way we can help one another out."
"Such as?"
"You will go into the military, while I will take your place at school."
"Don't be daft," Will scoffed. Then he added, in an effort to humor me or out of genuine curiosity, I couldn't tell: "I understand the part about me going into the military, which I suppose could be accomplished if I were willing to deliver unto Uncle an emotional deathblow, but how could you possibly take my place at school?"
"First off," I said, "you wouldn't be dealing him a deathblow. On the contrary, that would be the purpose of my taking your place at school. So long as someone named Will Gardener reports to school, your great-uncle will never know what you've done. As to the question of how I could possibly take your place at school, the answer should be obvious: by becoming you." I added smugly, feeling rather pleased with myself, "By becoming a boy."
It was this last that brought us to:
"Are you insane, Bet?"
He seemed so convinced of that possibility, I gave it a moment's serious consideration.
"No," I at last concluded. "Or, rather, I may be insane about some things, but I think I'm seeing this quite clearly. We each want something, and it's my belief that if we're willing to work really hard, we can both get what we want."
"And how do you propose to go about becoming a boy?" Will's exasperation with me was growing by the second. "What are you going to do? Cut your hair? Wear a suit?"
I reflected. "Yes, I suppose I'll have to do both those things eventually, won't I?" I didn't mind the suit part so much—the idea of wearing masculine clothing struck me as liberating—but giving up my hair would be hard. It was the only thing about myself I regularly thought pretty.
"Even if you do those things, people will still know you're a girl."
"How so?"
Will waved his hand at my body, toe to crown, blushing furiously all the while. "Your body, for one thing. You have a woman's body, Bet." More furious blushing. "Or at least a girl's."
Now it was my turn to blush. I had never thought of Will noticing that I was different from him in that manner. Still, I was determined. "Then I will find a way to ... disguise my shape."
"But then there will be the matter of your voice, and after that, the matter of your walk, and after that..." He paused. "Really, Bet, do you not see? No matter what you do, no matter how much you change, there will always be one more thing you haven't taken into consideration. I'm sorry, but this harebrained scheme of yours can't possibly work."
"All I see, Will, is a boy who is unwilling to do what it takes to get what he wants out of life."
"That hurts, Bet." It was impossible to tell whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. For my part, I chose to treat it as though it was the former.
"Not as much as going through life without getting the opportunity to live your dream. Not as much as knowing that there are things you could do to achieve that dream but choose not to."
"You are wearing me down."
"Good."
"It's not like I have anything better to do with my summer."
"Exactly! Look at it as an adventure! Look at it as a game! Your task, Will Gardener, is to help me transform myself into you."
He laughed then, recovering his good humor for just a moment before becoming sober again.
"It is impossible," he said. "This thing you want to do—it can never work."
What Will didn't count on was that I could be fierce when I wanted to.
"At least," I countered just as soberly, "we can try."
***
That night I stayed up late, thinking of all that would need to be accomplished over the next few months and making a list. The following day I hurried through my chores and then looked all over the house for Will. At last I located him on the lawn. He was sitting under a tree, his back against its trunk, reading a book and chomping on an apple.
I approached and stood nervously above him, waiting for him to notice me.
When he failed to look up, I cleared my throat. Loudly.
"I know you are there," he said, turning the page, "because you're blocking the sun, but I want to finish this chapter. I only have a page left."
I waited. Impatiently.
"There," he said at last, leaving a finger inside the book to mark his place.
"I am ready to begin," I said, feeling nerves overtake me again.
"Begin what?"
"Why, my transformation!"
"Into...?"
"Into you, of course. Into a boy."
Will groaned. "You're still going on about that? I thought for sure a night's sleep would bring you to your senses."
"Well, it has not. I am more determined than ever. In fact, I spent last night making a list of everything that needs to be done."
"You really aren't going to let this go, are you?"
I waved my sheet of paper at him insistently.
"Very well." He sighed, finally putting the book down and gesturing impatiently with his fingers for the paper. "Let me see what you have there."
I handed over the sheet and moved to stand behind him so I could read over his shoulder.
– Walking
– Talking
– Handwriting
– Clothes
"You left out the part about the hair," he pointed out.
"I keep forgetting that part. I will add it later."
He looked up at me, a disturbing, scathing expression on his face. "It took you all night to come up with four words?" he asked me.
I felt a flush reddening my cheeks. "A lot of serious thinking and planning went on between those four words."
"Yes, so much thinking and planning you forgot about the hair."
"I will remember when the time comes."
"Being a boy involves more than items on a list." He thrust the sheet back at me in disgust. "And even if you do manage to make all these changes, even if you manage to turn yourself into a boy, you will never exactly be me. When you go to school—I laugh at the very idea!—you will not be Will Gard
ener."
"But why should that matter?" I countered.
"Excuse me?"
"You are to start, yet again, at a new school this fall. Will Gardener is just a name to the people there until a body comes to attach itself to that name. But no one will have any expectations of what Will Gardener should look like. So what does it matter if I can't exactly become you, so long as I can persuade people that I am you?"
"Huh." Will looked dumbfounded. "I hadn't thought of that."
"You see?" I was extraordinarily pleased with myself. "Already I am smarter than a boy."
"Very well." Will sighed. "Where shall we begin?"
***
"That suit doesn't look like that when I wear it, does it?" Will asked, scratching his head.
"No," I admitted ruefully, regarding my reflection in the looking glass. "It does not."
Everything about it was wrong: the way the shirt accentuated my breasts, the way the shoulders of the jacket were too broad for my slimmer frame, the way the waistband of the trousers hung too low on my hips, even the length of the sleeves and trousers. I had always thought I was the same size as Will, but clearly, I saw now, I had been deluding myself. The sleeves were so long only the tips of my fingers showed, while the hems of the trousers pooled around my naked feet.
We were in my bedroom. Will had loaned me one of his suits to try on, waiting outside while I changed, of course.
"I figured," Will said, the tone of his voice suggesting that he was still merely humoring me and did not share my wholehearted faith in my plan, "that once I'm in the military, I won't need my suits, so you could have a few of them to take off with you to school." He could not prevent a laugh from escaping at the sight of me in the looking glass, my body looking ridiculous in his clothes. "No," he went on, having regained control of himself, "this will never do. I suppose you'll just have to give up."
"Give up?"
"Of course. What else can you do? I can't very well take you to my tailor, can I, and have him make a man's suit for you?"
The Education of Bet Page 3