A School for Unusual Girls (10 page)

Tess stopped scooping eggs onto her plate and glanced guiltily toward a bank of cupboards on the south wall, giving away the answer.

“Ah, yes, through the cupboard. I'd forgotten.” Miss Stranje nodded and pointed to the trays of food on the sideboard. “Do help yourself to kippers and eggs, Georgiana. We've much to discuss this morning.”

My stomach growled enthusiastically at her suggestion, thus thwarting my desire to remain dignified. I hurriedly filled a plate with several slices of hothouse oranges, three sausages, a serving of curried eggs, and a whortleberry scone dripping with butter and honey.

The tantalizing smells nearly drove me to madness. It had been a full day since my last real meal. Forgetting my manners altogether, I dove into breakfast with the enthusiasm of a stable lad. Only after several mouthfuls did I regain sanity. They were all looking at me. I rested my fork properly and dabbed at the berry juice and butter on my lips. “Lovely scones. Quite good.”

“I shall convey your praise to Cook,” Miss Stranje said coolly, and turned her attention to the other girls. “You may all attend your various pursuits this morning. Except you, Jane. The steward would like a word with you, something about which fields ought to remain fallow.” She waved her hand airily, dismissing the details.

Jane simply nodded, as if fallow fields were a perfectly normal topic of conversation for young ladies.

Miss Stranje spread jam on a slice of toast and leveled a scolding gaze at Tess. “Miss Aubreyson, It has come to my attention that you have not been as circumspect during your morning exercise as one might hope. Have you forgotten the terms of our agreement? You are not to be observed.”

Tess dropped her spoon. It clattered to her plate. “How did you find out?
He
told you?”

“Lord Ravencross? Heavens no.”

“Then how?” Tess collected her spoon and stared at her food as if the answer must be hidden in her curried eggs.

We all leaned forward like eavesdropping Nellies awaiting Miss Stranje's reply. She took a bite of toast before answering. “You nearly got yourself trampled to death. Did you actually think that fact would escape my notice?” She gazed pointedly at each of us. “As mistress of Stranje House, it is my duty to be aware of all that passes here.
All
.”

It struck me that Miss Stranje moved about this house with more skill than even Tess. Given the knowing slant of her eyes, I doubted even the secret room above our bedchamber was a secret from her.

The shrewd hawk-like expression evaporated from her features. “I trust you will be more discreet in the future?”

With a terse nod, Tess stabbed a sausage.

Our headmistress read from a note in her hand. “Maya, your music instructor begs leave to arrive a half hour late.”

She set the note on a silver tray bearing several other missives. She sorted through the pile and abruptly snatched one from the bottom of the stack. She broke the seal, quickly unfolded the letter, and read intently. The contents seemed to unsettle her. She said nothing but refolded the paper into a tight square and tucked it in her pocket.

Selecting another card from the pile, she tapped her finger against the gilt edge. “Enjoy your day today, ladies. For tomorrow, it looks as though we must entertain guests. Our neighbor, the delightful Lady Pinswary, intends to pay us a visit.”

Sera dragged a piece of potato around her plate. Maya sighed mournfully. I judged by the tight press of our headmistress's lips and everyone else's sagging countenances that Lady Pinswary was not actually delightful.

“Here's another treat for you, a visit from friends your own age. She will be accompanied by her daughter, Miss Pinswary, and her niece, Lady Daneska.”

Sera winced.

Maya heaved an even deeper sigh.

Jane pushed back her chair, and brushed against Tess as she rose. I would've sworn she whispered into Tess's ear on her way to the sideboard where she scooped another kipper onto her plate.

“I saw that, Jane.” Miss Stranje frowned and tossed the card onto the tray. “Really, my dear.” She sniffed. “A little subtlety would not go amiss.”

Jane's shoulders straightened and she spun around. “My apologies. It was clumsily done. I shall endeavor to improve.”

Tess set down her cup with a jarring clunk. “Jane has a point. She wonders why you're allowing them in the house? Frankly, so do I. Especially that conniving little traitor. Why don't you tell Lady Pinswary and her devious niece that we are not at home? Countess or not, you know Daneska is trouble.”

The force of Tess's outburst shocked me. I expected Miss Stranje to fly into a stern rebuke, or Madame Cho to thrash Tess with her stick. Instead, everyone in the room just sat there looking glum. Everyone except our headmistress.

“I can think of three very good reasons why that tactic would be a mistake.” Miss Stranje cracked the shell of her boiled egg with a swift whack of the spoon. “Seraphina, would you care to speculate as to my reasons?”

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 picked 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.