Immortal with a Kiss

by Jacqueline Lepore

  The following morning, I traveled into the fells forest to meet with Miss Sloane-Smith, the headmistress of the Blackbriar School, armed with the falsified documents Sebastian had sent. These were necessary for the ruse I had in mind.

  People, I have found, rarely surprise us. One would expect a woman who ran a prestigious school dedicated to the education of young girls from the Quality to have a certain air, a certain look. Miss Glorianna Sloane-Smith surpassed all of my ideas of what these should be.

  She was a matron of perhaps two score and ten years, a tall, dignified personage with impressive posture and steel-gray hair pulled into a tight chignon. Small eyes darted sharply behind a pair of wire spectacles. I was sure those clever glances missed nothing. Her dress was high-necked, the penultimate of modesty and fashioned of good material and tailoring, plainly cut and in a color so drab it was only a step above mourning.

  I suffered a surprising attack of nerves as I was shown into her study and seated on the other side of a monstrosity of a carved mahogany desk. I have never been a good liar and I was going to have to tell a lot of lies now.

  With Sebastian’s help, every bit of documentation I placed into her hands had been manufactured: references, past experience, even my schooling had been enhanced. According to these papers, I was the epitome of what an instructor in such a well-known establishment should be.

  Miss Sloane-Smith perused the forged documents from behind her desk, peering disapprovingly at them, then at me. Her hand lifted, smoothing her hair with the lightest of touches, as if this were meant to keep any errant hairs in place. It was unnecessary; I doubted a lock would dare venture from its bindings. I clasped my hands together on my lap and composed myself as best I could while she read my fabricated qualifications.

  “How is it you were made aware of the position?” she inquired, not glancing up.

  “My friend is an acquaintance of Miss Markam’s sister. He told me of the situation and suggested I apply.”

  Miss Sloane-Smith pinned me with a discriminating glare. “Did he indeed? And what did he tell you of Miss Markam’s sudden departure?”

  “Troubles,” I replied vaguely. “Although I heard in the village it was consumption. How sad.”

  I had the most absurd sensation that the headmistress saw right through me. Laying down my papers, Miss Sloane-Smith sat back in her chair. “Her illness was the main reason she was dismissed. However, prior to her collapse, she became distressed about certain things and worked herself into something of a state, which of course became of concern to the trustees of this school. As you can imagine, we take utmost care with our professional staff to maintain the high standards our families expect. Behavior such as Miss Markam’s will not be tolerated. I trust there have been rumors, and you may have heard some of these. She was not always discreet, Miss Markam, and I would not like it if any gossip she spread had attracted curiosity-seekers.”

  “No, ma’am,” I replied dutifully. And then, absolutely out of the blue, I had the most ridiculous urge to laugh. It was not funny, not in the comic sense, but what could be more absurd? Miss Markam’s wild claims were exactly why I was here.

  Miss Sloane-Smith snapped the papers I’d provided and resumed reading them. “There is no place for flighty, imaginative women here. We have a solemn duty to see to the education of the daughters of the finest families of England, and to do this, one must be serious-minded and dedicated. I trust you are the practical sort, with a good head on your shoulders, and mindful of all the things young ladies need to be taught in order to take their places as dutiful wives.”

  My cheek twitched. “I assure you, Miss Sloane-Smith, I am exactly that.” The lie was like cotton in my mouth. How she did not see through me, I could not imagine.

  She nodded, frowning at the papers I’d provided her, but I knew I’d passed muster. It was not long before she sniffed and pronounced, “You will do,” with an air of resignation.

  “Thank you. I will give you my best on every level,” I promised, quite sincerely.

  She made a point to appear unimpressed. “You will begin at once. We have been without a literature instructor for some time, and require the post filled immediately. I will have Miss Easterly show you the school, where your rooms will be, and the classroom you will be using, all of that.” Her critical eye took me in from head to toe. “I trust you have suitable attire. We like to maintain a serious atmosphere here at Blackbriar.”

  I assured her I did, although I had not given any thought to my wardrobe. My tastes did not run to the somber sort of dress she was wearing, which must be what she had in mind for me. However, I did have a few items. A royal-blue skirt I wore with a white lace shirtwaist was quite plain. Also, my forest-green day dress would do for my new role, and perhaps the lavender muslin, which was made with a high neck and long sleeves. The rest of my wardrobe would prove too fashionable. I could rework a few dresses, if I had to, to make them functional.

  Miss Sloane-Smith rang a bell. “Good day to you, Mrs. Andrews. Ann Easterly will show you about. You may wait for her in the hall. I shall expect you to arrive with your belongings no later than Thursday so that you might acclimate. You are familiar with Dante? Good. You will be teaching The Inferno. I suggest you reacquaint yourself with it in the meantime and be prepared to discuss it with the students.”

  “I will be ready.” I rose, adopting a mien of subservience I had often used when my stepmother was alive. I had learned many tricks to appease Judith’s need to dominate me. “I feel I must ask, headmistress, although I assure you I am not doing so from salacious motivations. Were the girls much affected by the murders?”

  “Murders? I am not aware of any murders.”

  Deep in the pit of my stomach, a hot coal burned, and I sensed my mistake before my brain comprehended it. “The bodies, madam. The ones in the woods.”

  “As I’ve told you, Miss Markam was a troubled woman,” Miss Sloane-Smith said comfortably, all but laughing at me. “She imagined some dreadful things before her illness became apparent. One can only assume it was the result of some sort of fever associated with her consumptive disease.”

  I faltered, made uncertain by her lack of concern. “Then . . . there were no bodies found in the woods?”

  The headmistress narrowed her eyes and for a moment her placid face appeared quite cunning. “This is exactly the rumors, the gossip I mentioned a moment ago. Allow me to be quite clear, Mrs. Andrews—definitively no, there were never any bodies found.”

  “But I . . .” I trailed off, the words withered by the realization that I must sound a dupe. Worse, a fool who thrived on such lurid stories.

  And now the older woman, with an air of superiority that made that coal of humiliation blossom like a conflagration to flush my entire body with discomfort, confirmed my worst suspicion. “Miss Markam was mistaken. She had a frightening experience out in the woods, where she had wandered due to her illness. Her delirium made her imagine things that were not there.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, somehow making the slight movement menacing. “The authorities were taken to the spot where she had had her apparition, and found not a trace of anything untoward in the woods. And that is the end of it. Now, I hope you will never speak of this again.”

  “I see. My apologies, Miss Sloane-Smith. I should not have listened to such a fantastic tale.”

  She was not appeased by my contrition. In fact, by the way she peered angrily at me, I feared I might be sacked before I began. I’d made a terrible error in pressing the matter so soon, and with the wrong person. As I sat outside her office awaiting Miss Easterly to give me a tour of the school, I wondered how badly I had damaged my position.

  But then I realized something. I had almost missed it, what with Miss Sloane-Smith’s stern dressing down and the officious, stifling manner in which she had delivered my rebuke. Now that I reflected, however, I thought I’d seen a momentary flash of something cunning in her eyes when she’d slapped down my questions about
the bodies, and I knew she was hiding something.

  Chapter Four

  I waited in the dark hallway, the deep walnut wainscoting surrounding me like a drab monk’s cell. Obviously, the place had once been richly appointed, but the old house had lost its glory long ago. It was clean, but not charming. The wood was scored and dull with age. The scuff of girls’ shoes showed on the floors. The place was a demoralized testimony to the violence of impetuous youth rushing here and there within these walls. I was wildly curious to see the students Victoria Markam had written of in her diary. Vanessa, Margaret, and what were the other girls’ names?

  A woman rushed toward me with an ingratiating smile and a ready apology for keeping me waiting, which she had not done at all. She held out a hand. “I am Ann Easterly.” Perhaps a score of years older than myself, she possessed the kind of unfortunate figure that widens drastically as one’s gaze lowers. In her green dress, she gave the impression of an emerald pyramid.

  I took her hand. It was frail and cold. “Thank you for taking the time to show me the school.”

  “It is a wonderful establishment,” she said, turning efficiently on a heel and sweeping toward a doorway off the dingy main hall. We entered what I deduced was the dining hall. A faded Renaissance-style mural was the only decoration, its figures looming like ghosts above the long sideboard on the near wall.

  Ann Easterly gave me only enough time to peek inside before taking me back out again. “It is quite a modern idea of girls’ education,” she told me as she marched me down a whitewashed hallway leading off to the east wing, “and not without some controversy. We do have the extra subjects here, not just the elementary ones. I teach geography and history.”

  “Why controversy?” I asked, intrigued.

  She made a face. “You know quite well there are those who are against the formation of the female intellect.”

  “It does make for inconveniences, such as opinions and the like,” I said dryly.

  Miss Easterly did not laugh. “Our goal,” she said, “is to prepare the girls for marriage and the demands of the sophisticated society in which they are expected to travel. The art of intelligent conversation is the aim, conversation others should find amusing but not offensive.”

  Judith would have loved that sentiment. And although I secretly balked, I knew most people of society agreed with it.

  We peeked into the formal parlor where the girls received family on the rare occasion of visits. As we moved on to the cozy, almost masculine library, I became aware that we had a companion shadowing us. After three or so turns through the serpentine halls, I turned to face the spy. “Hello,” I said pleasantly.

  The girl should have been taken aback, and rightfully embarrassed at being so handily caught up. Instead, she merely stared quite boldly back at me without speaking. It was extraordinarily rude.

  “Margaret!” The word burst out of Ann Easterly as if she’d had a fright.

  Ah. This was the tormenting, unlikable Margaret. I studied her closely, taking in the long dark hair coiled in fat sausage spirals that reminded me of the perfect coif of a shiny new china doll. I judged her age to be thirteen or fourteen years, just over the cusp of adolescence. Her eyes were deep brown, unnaturally large and fitted with lashes so thick it appeared as if a small tiny moth perched on the end of each eyelid. Her nose was a tiny button, pushed up too much. Under this an exaggerated bow of her upper lip turned the corners of her thin lips down in a look of unhappiness or displeasure. She was almost beautiful—and the resentment that stared out at the world from her lush, glorious eyes gave away all; she knew her features had conspired too hard, missing their mark. And it infuriated her.

  “Margaret is one of our brightest students,” Miss Easterly said. “I am certain you will enjoy her insights and challenging questions, Mrs. Andrews.”

  Margaret did not reply. Those large, sullen eyes took my measure. I felt myself respond with something stronger than mere dislike. I mentally recoiled against her, as one would curl the tongue against the hint of sourness in milk just barely turned, that metallic tingle, the unrealized reflex to a foul taste.

  “What is this?” a new voice cut in. I saw a reedy woman sweep into the hallway, her pinched, intelligent face frowning fiercely. “Margaret Elizabeth Kingston, where are you supposed to be at this hour?”

  “I had to use the necessary,” the girl murmured.

  “Get along, now, then. You will see the new teacher in class. Go on, and do not pull a face at me, Miss Kingston, or I will see you in detention.”

  Margaret’s mien of rebellion dropped away and she turned, disappearing in a flash. She might hold Miss Easterly in contempt, but she feared this new arrival.

  “Thank you Miss Thompson,” Ann Easterly said tightly, not meeting her colleague’s gaze. “I was just showing Mrs. Andrews the school.”

  Miss Thompson addressed herself to me. “You are taking Markam’s place?”

  I inclined my head. “I am to start the end of this week, I believe.”

  She gave a sharp nod of her head. “Agatha Thompson. Mathematics.” She looked me over with approval. I felt at once the force of her personality, the kind of strong-willed, no-nonsense sort Miss Sloane-Smith had described as the ideal for Blackbriar instructors. “Welcome, then. And do not let the girls intimidate you. They are good girls from excellent families, but of course they are spirited, coming from impressive pedigrees as they do. That is a fine thing in its place, but we must have order here at Blackbriar. I find a firm hand best.” Her look to Miss Easterly was almost chiding.

  “Indeed,” Miss Easterly said with an injured air. “If you will excuse us, we must continue our tour.”

  We were about to leave when Miss Thompson surprised me by suddenly grabbing my hand. I started, and when I looked at her face, I saw something hidden in the plain, sturdy features, something I did not quite fathom.

  “Have a care in the school, Mrs. Andrews,” she said. “This house is old, and we are isolated up here on the Fell. Be sure never to go out of doors at night.”

  “Certainly, I shall not,” I assured her. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “No reason,” she said, but I thought of Miss Markam. Was that her meaning?

  After a beat of awkward silence, Miss Thompson added, “There are wolves hereabouts.” She abruptly dropped my hand and took her leave.

  “Let me show you the music room,” Miss Easterly announced. I was then taken next to the conservatory (ever since the Great Exhibition, all ladies of quality were expected to know their flowers) and then the informal parlor, which was used daily and contained neat rows of embroidery baskets bristling with colorful thread and handkerchiefs proudly sporting carefully stitched monograms.

  Mrs. Eloise Boniface, the dance instructor, met us in the hall and introduced herself. She was surprisingly old and plump and was dressed severely in widow’s weeds, but her smile was warm and welcoming.

  “Mrs. Boniface has been here the longest of us all, even longer than Miss Sloane-Smith,” Miss Easterly said.

  The dance teacher bobbed her head proudly. “That is true. Nearly thirty years. Dear me, it always surprises me.”

  I immediately wondered if she’d known my mother. I wanted to pull her aside that moment and ask her, but Ann Easterly led me away, this time at last to the classroom in which I was to teach.

  I was happy to find it brightly lit by large windows with eastern exposure. It contained a desk and chair for me and long tables with chairs for the girls. Along the wall, bookshelves teemed with novels and collections of sermons, poetry—Spenser and Tennyson, Milton, a volume of Keats—and a good many of Shakespeare’s plays, which was surprisingly modern, I thought.

  “I would love to teach this,” I said, grasping a copy of The Merchant of Venice. “I adore Portia’s speech on the quality of mercy. Do you know it?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Miss Easterly said. “But Miss Sloane-Smith chooses the assignments. You must speak with her.”


  I caught myself up. I was not here to share the passion of good literature. But I had been a lonely, isolated girl and books my only friends. And I had loved the fiery, rebellious Portia—she whose life had been trapped so singly by her father’s death wish. I had believed I, too, was blocked from finding happiness by thoughtless adults who did not understand me. I always loved how it was she—a woman—who finds the wisdom to save her beloved Bassanio from having to deliver a pound of flesh to Shylock. How clever she had been to determine that the moneylender could indeed collect his debt if he could do so without extracting a drop of blood.

  Shakespeare understood the profound metaphysical value of blood, its precious worth, its sacred embodiment of life. The remembrance of that sobered me. My heart squeezed lightly and I carefully put the book back in its place.

  Noises from the hallway alerted me that the class period must have ended, and indeed I saw several students crowding at the doorway to peek in at me. Word had apparently traveled swiftly that the new teacher was in her classroom.

  “I see I am going to be the object of some curiosity,” I observed to Miss Easterly calmly.

  She whipped her head about, a startled bird, then nodded, smiling nervously at the girls. “Oh.” With an effort, she did a poor imitation of Miss Thompson’s severe tone. “Vanessa Braithwait and Marion Tilman, get on with you.” She waved a shooing hand at them. “You girls should be in the conservatory with Miss Brown.”

  The girl with the pre-Raphaelite curls spilling down her back, a face like a Madonna, and the long, lithe body of a prima ballerina had to be Vanessa Braithwait. She stood poised like a painter’s model, her features composed in soft lines as she gave me a shy smile.

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied the plump, plain-faced girl with stringy brown hair, who stood beside her. She did not seem petulant as Margaret had, but neither did she seem in any hurry to obey Miss Easterly. No one did, it appeared.