Etiquette & Espionage (Finishing School)
Page 2
Down the hall, something exploded with a bang. Sophronia thought she heard her mother shriek. Both she and the visitor ignored the disruption.
“Strong?” Sophronia edged toward the tea trolley, eyeing the sponge.
“From all the climbing.” A pause. “And the machine lifting, I suppose.”
Sophronia blinked. “I’m not weak.”
“You’re certainly good at prevarication.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“That depends on whom you’re asking.”
Sophronia helped herself to two pieces of cake, just as though she had been invited to do so. The visitor forbore to remark upon it. Sophronia turned away briefly, in the guise of finding a spoon, to tuck one piece in her apron pocket. Mumsy wouldn’t allow her any sweets for the next week once she found out about the dumbwaiter.
The woman might have seen the theft, but she didn’t acknowledge it.
“You run this finishing school, then?”
“Do you run this finishing school, Mademoiselle Geraldine?” corrected the crow.
“Do you run this finishing school, Mademoiselle Geraldine?” parroted Sophronia dutifully, even though they had not been properly introduced. Odd, in a finishing school teacher. Shouldn’t she wait until Mumsy returns?
“It is called Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality. Have you heard of it?”
Sophronia had. “I thought only the very best families were allowed in.”
“Sometimes we make exceptions.”
“Are you the Mademoiselle Geraldine? You don’t seem old enough.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Temminnick, but you should not make such an observation to your betters.”
“Sorry, madam.”
“Sorry, Mademoiselle Geraldine.”
“Oh, yes, sorry, Mademoiselle Geraldine.”
“Very good. Do you notice anything else odd about me?”
Sophronia said the first thing that came to mind. “The gray in your hair. It’s amiss.”
“You are an observant young lady, aren’t you?” Then, in a sudden movement, Mademoiselle Geraldine reached and pulled out the small throw pillow from behind her back. She tossed it at Sophronia.
Sophronia, who had never before had a lady throw a pillow at her, was flabbergasted, but caught it.
“Adequate reflexes,” said Mademoiselle Geraldine, wiggling her fingers for the return of the pillow.
Bemused, Sophronia handed it back to her. “Why—”
A black-gloved hand was raised against any further questions.
Mrs. Temminnick returned at that juncture. “I do apologize. How incurably rude of me. I can’t comprehend what has happened to the dumbwaiter. It’s making the most awful racket. But you don’t want to hear of such piddling domestic trifles.” She put a great deal of emphasis on the word trifles.
Sophronia grimaced.
Mrs. Temminnick sat down, rubbing at a grease spot on her formerly impeccable gloves. “How are you and Sophronia getting on?”
Mademoiselle Geraldine said, “Quite well. The young lady was just telling me of some history book she was recently reading. What was the subject?”
So, she doesn’t want Mumsy to know she’s been throwing pillows at me? Sophronia was never one to let anyone down when fibs were required.
“Egypt. Apparently the Primeval Monarchy, which follows directly after the Mythical Period, has been given new dates. And—”
Her mother interrupted. “That’s more than enough of that, Sophronia. A headmistress isn’t interested in education. Really, Mademoiselle Geraldine, once you get her started she’ll never stop.” She looked hopeful. “I know she’s a terrible mess, but can you do anything with her?”
Mademoiselle Geraldine gave a tight smile. “What do you say to a probationary period? We’ll return her in time for that coming-out ball of yours in a few months and see how she gets on until then?”
“Oh, Mademoiselle Geraldine, how perfectly topping!” Sophronia’s mother clasped her hands delightedly. “Isn’t this thrilling, Sophronia? You’re going to finishing school!”
“But I don’t want to go to finishing school!” Sophronia couldn’t help the petulance in her voice as visions of parasol training danced through her head.
“Don’t be like that, darling. It will be very exciting.”
Sophronia grappled for recourse. “But she threw a pillow at me!”
“Oh, Sophronia, don’t tell fibs—you know how unhappy that makes me.”
Sophronia gawped, swiveling her gaze back and forth between her now-animated mother and the crowlike stranger.
“How soon can she be made ready?” Mademoiselle Geraldine wanted to know.
Sophronia’s mother started. “You wish to take her away now?”
“I am here, am I not? Why waste the trip?”
“I didn’t think it would be so soon. We must shop for new dresses, a warmer coat. What about her lesson books?”
“Oh, you can send all that along later. I shall provide you with a list of required items. She’ll be perfectly fine for the time being. A resourceful girl, I suspect.”
“Well, if you think it best.”
“I do.”
Sophronia was not accustomed to seeing her mother railroaded so effectively. “But Mumsy!”
“If Mademoiselle Geraldine thinks it best, then you had better hop to it, young lady. Go change into your good blue dress and your Sunday hat. I’ll have one of the maids pack your necessities. May we have half an hour, mademoiselle?”
“Of course. Perhaps I will take a little tour of the grounds while you organize? To stretch my legs before the drive.”
“Please do. Come along, Sophronia, we have much to do.”
Frustrated and out of sorts, Sophronia trailed after her mother.
Accordingly, she was given an old portmanteau from the attic, three hatboxes, and a carpetbag. With barely enough time to ensure a nibble for the drive—to goodness knows where, at a distance of goodness knows how far—Sophronia found herself being shoved hastily into a carriage. Her mother kissed her on the forehead and made a show of fussing. “My little girl, all grown up and leaving to become a lady!” And that, as they say, was that.
Sophronia might have hoped for a grand send-off with all her siblings and half the mechanical retainers waving tearstained handkerchiefs. But her younger brothers were exploring the farm, her older ones were away at Eton, her sisters were busy with fripperies or marriages—possibly one and the same—and the mechanicals were trundling about their daily tasks. She thought she spotted Roger, the stable lad, waving his cap from the hayloft, but apart from that, even her mother gave only a perfunctory waggle of her fingertips before returning to the house.
BEWARE FLYWAYMEN, FOR THEY ARE ILL-DRESSED AND ILL-MANNERED
The carriage was amazing, outfitted with the latest in automated roof removal, retractable footstool, and collapsible tea caddy. It was a hired transport but decked out like a private conveyance, with walls of midnight-blue quilted velvet to reduce road noise, and gold-fringed blankets to ward off the chill.
Sophronia barely had time to take it all in before Mademoiselle Geraldine banged the ceiling with the handle of her parasol and they lurched forward.
More startling than the decoration was the fact that the carriage was already occupied—by two other students. They had, apparently, been sitting patiently the entire time Mademoiselle Geraldine took tea and Sophronia fell out of dumbwaiters and packed all her worldly goods into a portmanteau.
Directly across from her sat a bright-eyed, lively looking young lady, a little younger than Sophronia, with masses of honey-colored hair and a round porcelain face. She wore an enormous gilt and red glass brooch pinned to her bright red dress. The combination of the hair, the jewelry, and the dress made her look quite the scandal, as though she were in training to become a lady of the night. Sophronia was duly impressed.
“Oh, goodness!” said she to Sophronia, as though S
ophronia’s appearance in the cab were the most delightful thing to happen all day. Which, for one left to sit idle in a carriage with no distraction or entertainment, it might well have been.
“How do you do?” said Sophronia.
“How do you do? Isn’t this a spiffing day? Really, quite spiffing. I’m Dimity. Who are you?”
“Sophronia.”
“Is that all?”
“What, isn’t it enough?”
“Oh, well, I mean to say, I’m Dimity Ann Plumleigh-Teignmott, actually, in full.”
“Sophronia Angelina Temminnick.”
“Gosh, that’s a mouthful.”
“It is? I suppose so.” As though Dimity Ann Plumleigh-Teignmott were a nice easy sort of name. Sophronia dragged her eyes away from the girl to examine the final occupant of the carriage. It was difficult to make out what kind of creature lurked under the oversized bowler and oiled greatcoat. But, if pressed, she would have said it was some species of grubby boy. He had spectacles that were very thick, a brow that was very creased, and a large dusty book occupying the entirety of his lap and attention.
“What’s that?” she asked the girl, wrinkling her nose.
“Oh, that? That’s just Pillover.”
“And what’s a pillover, when it’s at home?”
“My little brother.”
“Ah, I commiserate. I have several of my own. Dashed inconvenient, brothers.” Sophronia nodded, perfectly understanding the outlandish hat and coat.
Pillover glanced up from behind his spectacles and issued them both a look. He seemed a few years younger than his sister, who was, Sophronia guessed, about thirteen.
“He’s slated for Bunson’s.”
“For what?”
“Bunson and Lacroix’s Boys’ Polytechnique. You know, the other school?”
Sophronia, who had no idea what Dimity was talking about, pretended to follow out of politeness.
The girl prattled on. She seemed to be a bit of a prattler. Sophronia was comfortable with this after living with her own family. They were big talkers, but with a lot less interesting things to say than Dimity. “Mummy and Daddy want him to be an evil genius, but he has his heart set on Latin verse. Don’t you, Pill?”
The boy gave his sister a nasty stare.
“Pillover is terribly bad at being bad, if you take my meaning. Our daddy is a founding member of the Death Weasel Confederacy, and Mummy is a kitchen chemist with questionable intent, but poor Pillover can’t even bring himself to murder ants with his Depraved Lens of Crispy Magnification. Can you, Pill?”
Sophronia felt as though she was progressively losing the thread of the conversation. “Death Weasel Confederacy?”
Dimity nodded, curls bobbing. “I know—can you countenance it? I tend to look on the bright side; at least Daddy’s not a Pickleman.”
Sophronia’s eyes popped. “Uh, oh yes, rather.” Pickleman? What in aether is a Pickleman?
“But Pill here is a sad disappointment to poor old Daddy.”
The boy in question put down his book, clearly driven to defend himself. “I made the articulated hassock that moved when someone went to sit on it. And there was that custard pot that never got cool enough for the pudding to set.”
Dimity provided parenthetical information against this defense. “The hassock always ended up moving forward helpfully. And Cook simply used the Custard Pot of Iniquity for keeping her buns warm.”
“Oh, I say. That’s not on. Telling family secrets like that!”
“Face it, Pill, you’re disappointingly good.”
“Oh, I like that! And you’re so evil? Why, you want to get married and be a lady. Who ever heard of such a thing in our family? At least I try.”
“Well, finishing school should help with being a lady. Shouldn’t it?” At least this was something Sophronia knew about.
The boy snorted derisively. “Not half. Not this finishing school. Wrong kind of finishing altogether. Or should I say right kind, but only on the surface? I’m sure you follow.” Pillover made a funny little leer at Sophronia, then, seeming to have embarrassed himself, resumed his book.
“What could he possibly be implying?” Sophronia looked to Dimity to explain her brother’s behavior.
“You mean, you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Oh my goodness. You’re a covert recruit? No family connection at all? I knew they took them, of course, but I didn’t think I would get to meet one. How charming! Have you been under surveillance? I heard they do that sometimes.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine interceded at that juncture. “That’s enough of that, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle Geraldine.”
The headmistress went back to ignoring them.
“So where are we traveling to?” Sophronia asked, figuring that was a safe question, since they clearly weren’t allowed to talk about the school itself.
“You don’t even know that much?” Dimity’s tone was full of pity. “Why, to Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality.”
Sophronia shook her head. “No, I mean, where is the location of this school?”
“Well, no one knows exactly, but to the south. Dartmoor, or somewhere around there.”
“Why so mysterious?”
Dimity shook her head, curls flying. “Oh, no, you see, I’m not meaning to be. It isn’t, you understand, at a fixed location.”
“What isn’t?”
“The academy.”
Sophronia imagined a building, filled with shrieking girls, scooting about the moor on tracks, like some massive, overexcited mechanical. “The school is mobile? What, on hundreds of tiny little legs?”
“Legs? Well, yes, moving, only not on legs. I think it’s, you know.” Dimity tilted her head back and looked to the ceiling.
Sophronia was about to inquire further when a terrific jolt shook them where they sat and the carriage came to a stop so abruptly that it pitched Dimity on top of Sophronia, and Pillover on top of Mademoiselle Geraldine.
Mademoiselle Geraldine screamed, probably upset by extended contact with Pillover’s grimy coat, and flapped her arms and legs to get the boy off.
Sophronia and Dimity untangled themselves, giggling.
Pillover extracted himself from the headmistress with remarkable dignity for a boy of his age and dress and retrieved his bowler from the floor.
“What on earth is going on?” Mademoiselle Geraldine banged on the ceiling of the cab with her parasol. “Coachman? Coachman!”
The carriage remained still. Or at least it didn’t appear to want to move forward. Every so often it would bob upward, as though it were afloat on the open sea.
The door to the carriage was yanked open to reveal not the coachman, but a bizarre-looking gentleman. He was dressed for the hunt in tweed jodhpurs, boots, red jacket, and riding hat, but he also wore goggles, with a long scarf of the type donned by arctic explorers wrapped around the lower part of his face.
The carriage lurched again. One of the horses neighed in alarm.
The strange man had a massive brass onion pinned to his cravat and was pointing a wicked-looking pistol at the occupants of the carriage. Sophronia’s eyes, once caught by the weapon, remained fixed upon it. Never before had she come face-to-face with an actual gun. She was shocked. Why, that thing could go off. Someone could get hurt!
“Highwaymen!” squeaked Pillover.
“No,” corrected Mademoiselle Geraldine, her teeth gritted. “Worse: flywaymen.” There was something in her tone, felt Sophronia, that suggested she was not surprised. Sophronia was instantly suspicious of both Mademoiselle Geraldine and the flywayman.
The headmistress batted her long eyelashes. “Why, sir, what could you possibly want from us? I’m simply a headmistress transporting these children to their final destination.”
Laying it on a bit thick, isn’t she? thought Sophronia.
“We have nothing of great value. We—”
“I have absolutely no idea what you are on about.” The headmistress’s trembling smile was well executed, but apparently not convincing.
“ ’Course you do. Where is it?”
Mademoiselle Geraldine shook her head, eyelashes lowered prettily.
“Well, perhaps we’ll simply have a look for ourselves.”
The man stuck his head, briefly, back out the door and yelled something indistinguishable up to the sky.
There came a thump on the top of the carriage. Sophronia and the others could do nothing but watch, mutely, as their trunks, bags, and hatboxes were thrown from the roof to crash to the ground. There they fell open, littering the dusty road with clothing, hats, and shoes.
Two more flywaymen, dressed much like their leader, jumped down after and began rifling through the spilled contents. Whatever they were looking for appeared to be relatively small, as every piece of luggage—no matter what the size—had to be emptied. One of the men even used a knife to slash the bottoms of the trunks, searching for hidden pockets.
This was all highly embarrassing, to have one’s private possessions strewn about in public! Sophronia was particularly mortified that Pillover could see all her underthings—a stranger, and a boy! She also noted that Mademoiselle Geraldine’s trunks included some very salacious night garments. Why, there was a nightgown of purple flannel. Imagine that!
The flywaymen’s movements became increasingly frenzied. Their leader, while still guarding the occupants of the carriage, glanced frequently behind him at the activity in the road.
After a quarter of an hour, the man’s hand, the one holding the gun, began shaking from fatigue.
“Where is it?” he hissed at Mademoiselle Geraldine.
“I told you, young man, you will not find it here. Whatever it is.” She tossed her head. Actually tossed it!
“Impossible. We know you have it. You must have it!”
The headmistress looked off to the far distant horizon, nose elevated. “Your information would appear to be faulty.”