Jenny was smiling, and Polly nodded. "Well, don't worry, Jenny. I won't let anyone bother you, if I can prevent it."
It was Thursday. The week had been long and tedious. Polly stood at the window, dismally staring out at the rain that seemed to be increasing in intensity by the minute.
"I think you are more homesick than I am," Jenny said, looking up from the desk in the corner of the room.
Polly turned away. "Perhaps you're right. Geoffrey said to write. I think I will."
"Who is Geoffrey?" Jenny's face lit up suddenly. Your suitor?"
Polly frowned, screwing up her face in thought. "The truth is. I don't know. But he did say to write, and I haven't yet." She reached into the drawer of her bedside table to retrieve a leather-bound journal and pulled a few sheets from it. The inkwell, she opened and set on the bedside table. Leaning back against the headboard, she put one of her heavy schoolbooks in her lap to use as a desk. She looked out the window once again and frowned, before dipping the pen in inkwell and beginning to write.
"Dear Mr. Wellington,
You mentioned that you wanted me to write. I don't know exactly what you wish to hear, but I'll describe what's going on here at school."
She sat there, frowning. She could see his dear face in front of her, with his concerned eyes, could hear the way he had said to be good, just before lifting her up into the carriage. She dipped the pen again.
"The truth is, it's quite lonely here. I miss Cissy, and I miss my parents. And I miss you. There, I've said it. Of course, don't get too excited. I even miss Phebe, of all people, and she's quite a royal pain."
"Polly? Are you going down for supper?" It was Jenny's voice.
"Mmm. I'll be there in a few minutes. Don't worry."
She heard the door click closed and then began again to write.
As she finally closed up the inkwell and blew across the papers to make sure they were dry, she heard the clock strike a single gong.
She looked up. Five-thirty? Already? She folded the papers, tucked them into the envelope, and put a seal on the back of it before stamping it. It was too late for dinner. She'd already missed it. Perhaps she'd have time to run the letter down to the post across the campus to be mailed and get back. She could always pretend she hadn't felt well when Miss Tuttle came in to see why she'd not been at dinner.
She frowned, even as she thought of doing that. Geoffrey wouldn't approve of her lying.
She pulled her cloak out of the wardrobe and wrapped it around her shoulders, glancing out the window. It was still pouring outside. She'd better get this out while she could. The days were getting shorter, and in the rainstorm, it was barely light enough to see. She pulled the hood of her cloak close over her head and tucked the letter into her bodice. The hall was clear, and she made the journey out to the door, closing it behind her.
She was unprepared for the clap of thunder that seemed to happen right over her head. Was it a pronouncement of her stupidity for getting out in the storm to mail a letter, when she could have waited until the next day and mailed it during the light? She could easily have dropped it off on her way to class. But the desire to get it to Geoffrey as soon as possible was overwhelming. The sooner she dropped it into the slot, the sooner he would hold it in those wonderful, masculine hands of his.
The slot from the outside of the mail room was visible now. Girls were scurrying around, trying to make curfew, from building to building. She reached the building that served as their post with the slot on the side and pulled the letter out, dropped it in, and turned to run back before the bell.
A lightning bolt, followed by another clap of thunder, occurred in the middle of the downpour. Polly jumped. But as she made the corner around the building, she slid and landed face first in the mud.
"Damn!" she muttered under her breath. She pushed herself back upward and looked down with dismay. She was not only drenched, she was muddy all the way down to her feet. She rubbed her cheek; even her face was muddy.
It was then that the bell rang.
Curfew!
She jumped to her feet and ran in the rain to the steps of the hall. But her gown was dripping. Going down the hall with it would leave a trail to her room, certainly. She stopped. Taking hold of the tail of her gown, she squeezed as much water from it as she could, making a steady stream of water on the steps. She turned to the door and tugged.
It was locked.
"Oh no!" Pulling on the door again brought the same results. She couldn't sit out here on the steps in the rain all night. Finally, she took a deep breath and knocked.
No one came.
A second knock, and a third, brought the same results. Surely, Miss Tuttle couldn't be that far away from the door, if she had just locked it. She turned and counted the windows on the side of the hall, knowing from experience that her room was the tenth room.
No. She stopped. There was a room on this end used for meeting family. It was the eleventh. She counted again and ran.
The window was too high for her to climb into from the ground. She looked around for a small rock, until she found one up next to the building. Not too large, that was good. God forbid, she should break the window. Throwing it upward gently, she waited.
Nothing.
She threw it again and waited, thankful when it opened outward. Thank God for windows that opened!
"Jenny! Take the sheet off my bed and tie the other end of it to the bedpost and drop it out the window!"
She heard scurrying around in the room and waited until the end of the sheet was tossed over the base of the window. Tying the bottom of it in a knot, she grabbed hold and began to pull herself up.
"Thank you, Jenny! I came to the front door and it was locked." She gave the sheet another tug and pulled up further, "I can hear Miss Tattletale now." Her voice changed to the familiar whine of the woman in charge of the hall. "Where have you been, young woman! You know the rules of the women's hall. Yet you continually—"
She froze. There, just inside the window of her room, was the face of the woman she mocked.
"Oh God," she whispered.
The force holding the sheet let go, suddenly, and Polly found herself on her bottom, outside, in the mud.
"God won't get you out of this one, Mary Polly Andrews," quipped the woman's voice above her. "Meet me at the front door." The rest of the sheet, along with her quilt, came flying down at her and landed in the mud out of her reach, just before the window above snapped shut.
Polly sat there shivering in the mud, with the thunderous deluge continuing to soak her to the skin, until she heard Miss Tuttle's voice calling from the doorway. With a hard gulp, she turned. Her hands sunk down into the ground to above her wrists, and she managed to make it to her knees and push herself up, walking slowly to the doorway. Almost, she forgot her sheet and her quilt, but grabbed the end of them and rolled them up, tucking both under her arm.
At the steps, she stopped, staring at Miss Tuttle, who almost closed the door in front of her.
"You can't come in like that," she barked. "You'll leave mud all the way down the hall. Strip."
Polly felt her eyes grow wide. "Excuse me?"
"I said to strip."
Polly's shoulders straightened. "No, ma'am. I will not disrobe out here."
"You are defying me?"
She took a deep breath, lifting her chin in indignation. "Yes, if you must call it that. It would be indecent."
"Nonsense. There are only girls in this compound."
Polly stood there, staring back at her, but refused to obey her command. The woman took a step toward her. But suddenly, her eyes scanned the windows of the halls that were opposite them. Polly followed her line of vision. Girls' faces were seen in every window, watching.
Deep lines etched Miss Tuttle's face, and her hands clinched tight at her sides.
"Very well, then. Come in. But you will bring a towel down and clean the trail of mud and water you leave."
Polly was growing more furious b
y the moment at the way she was being treated. There was no reason for it. Her back straight and shoulders stiff, she marched down to her room and opened the door.
Jenny sat inside, her eyes round with apprehension, as Polly entered. But Miss Tuttle had followed her in.
"Go down to the bath and clean yourself up. Then go up and down the hall and clean up the trail you left. You'll get no more clean sheets or blankets tonight. Or breakfast in the morning. And you will be outside Director Stenson's office in the morning at eight o'clock sharp. And, Jenny, you may not share your bedding with her tonight. She deserves to be cold." She reached forward and pulled the sheet and blanket from Polly's grasp before she realized what was happening.
Polly glared at her. Her green eyes were no longer worried or dismayed. They were angry now. "I would like my bedding back, please," she said through clenched teeth.
"You'll get it back when it's laundered. Not before."
"There was no reason to throw my quilt outside in the mud." Polly was hissing now. "These rooms are cold at night."
Miss Tuttle could almost have had a smile on her face as she turned and left with it, letting the door bang shut behind her.
"I'm sorry, Polly." Jenny's small voice caused her to look up.
Polly shook her head. "It wasn't your fault. If I hadn't fallen in the mud on the way back from the post, I would have made it before curfew." She sighed. "I suppose there is no help for it." She went to the wardrobe and brought out a change of underthings, along with her nightgown and robe, and took her soap with her to the bath.
The water was cold, as she expected. By the time she finished, she was shivering all over. The nightgown was not warm enough for a chilly night, but it was all she had. She put on the leggings and walked back to her room.
Then she remembered the hallway and went back to the bath to retrieve the wet towel she had just used. Shivering all the way to the end of the hall, she finally accomplished her task.
Her cloak drenched and muddy, she was left with only the option of putting on a warmer day gown over her undergarments and leggings. With that, exhausted and cold, she climbed into bed. She pulled her feet upward close to her so she could wrap the longer skirt around them. Still, there was no warmth to be had.
"Goodnight, Jenny," she whispered, closing her eyes. She didn't know when Jenny took the quilt from her own bed and spread it over her, to warm her.
"Goodnight, Polly."
It was cold. She was standing on the edge of a ship's plank, being forced off into a sea full of icebergs.
"No, no. Don't, please. I'll die! Please!" She was looking back up at three people who prodded at her to try to push her over the side. They wore black hoods and capes, and behind the hoods, she could see their eyes. They hated her. Shivering, she looked back toward the sea below her. Her breath began to come in rapid gasps as the prods from behind her pushed her closer to the edge.
She turned, trying to avoid them, and felt the ship shake as someone from behind approached. Whimpering in fear, she shrieked as someone gave her a violent shove and the treacherous sea rose up to meet her.
She was sitting straight up in bed, when she opened her eyes and blinked. Jenny was sitting on the side of her bed. It was dark out, and the lantern was lit on the desk in the corner.
"Polly? Are you all right? You're so hot!"
"No. I'm freezing."
"You're feverish. Shall I go get the nurse?"
Polly shook her head "She'll kill me."
Jenny's eyes grew even wider, and Polly put trembling fingers on her arm. "No. Just let me sleep." Not realizing she had Jenny's quilt over her, she closed her eyes again.
Racing to Save Polly
Cicely sat straight up in bed, breathing hard.
"Abel?" She reached for him, thankful that his arms were already about her. But she resisted when he tried to pull her back against him. "No, Abel. It's Polly. Something's wrong. She's in trouble."
He straightened up and tugged on the blankets. Slowly, he wrapped them around her. "Stay here, sweetheart. I'll get the lantern."
A moment later, he set it on the bedside table.
"Now. Tell me. What is it?"
"I don't know." Her eyes were full of alarm. "But I know something's wrong. She could be ill or—I don't know. Since we were little, we've each known when something was wrong with the other. I can't explain it. I have to get up."
"Here, my darling. Let's get you dressed."
Mrs. Morgan was in the kitchen, working, when they entered it from the hallway. They could smell coffee brewing.
"Just make breakfast for yourself, Mrs. Morgan," Abel said softly. "But Cicely could probably use some coffee." He kissed his wife on the forehead. "I'll get the carriage, sweetheart."
They were at the Andrews' house within ten minutes. Cicely's mother was not at all surprised to see them. "Come in quickly, both of you. I dreamed of your sister last night, Ciss."
Cicely stared. "So did I. Something is wrong, Mother. I know it."
Cicely's father was still blinking as he entered the room. Miss Betsy was passing around cups filled with steaming coffee. A scowl etched his brow and creased both sides of his mouth.
"I've had a bad feeling ever since leaving her there this time," he growled, between sips. He turned toward her. "You all right, Ciss?"
She nodded. "But I'm afraid Polly isn't."
On the next sip, the sound of pounding on the front door was heard. Her father paused, swallowed, and handed his cup over to Cicely's mother. "I'll get it."
Geoffrey Wellington stood outside the front door. "I came in early and saw Abel and Cicely racing over in the carriage and rushing into the house. What is it?" His voice sounded demanding, as if he had every right to know. "Is it Polly?"
"We don't know. All of us seem to have a feeling that Polly needs us. Ciss has it the strongest, and we've learned not to ignore it. She always knows when something's wrong."
Geoffrey turned to Abel. "Go to the house and have Isaac bring the Wellington coach to the school. I'm on my way. I know where she is."
Abel turned to reply, but it was too late. Geoff was gone.
"Polly, wake up. It's seven. Didn't Miss Tuttle said you were supposed to be at the director's office by eight o'clock?"
Slowly, Polly opened her eyes and tried to focus. When she closed them again, Jenny lightly shook her arm. "You've been feverish all night. Can't I go to the office for you and tell them you're ill?"
"No." Polly shook her head fiercely. "Jenny, thank you, but you don't want to do that. Please believe me." She forced herself to sit up in bed and pushed her hair back over her shoulder.
She felt awful. Her shoulders and her neck hurt, her knees and hands ached, and her chest felt as if there was a horse sitting on it. When she took a deep breath, she coughed. It hurt.
"Jenny, can you bring me something to put on? I must admit, I feel terrible."
An hour later, she sat outside the director's office in a hard, wooden chair. Within minutes, she could hear Miss Tuttle's voice coming from the inside, rising and falling. She caught the words 'fractious' and 'insubordinate', but could not understand anything else.
Her head was pounding. She just wanted a place to lie down. Leaning back in the chair, she put her head against the wall and closed her eyes.
The door jerked open suddenly, and she jumped.
"Enter, Miss Andrews." Mr. Stenson stood in the doorway, looking down at her. His face was grim.
Polly rose to her feet unsteadily, and he reached out to grab her arm.
"Are you all right, Miss Andrews?"
She blinked and nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Then come into my office."
Miss Tattletale stood to the side of Mr. Stumpelstiltskin's desk with her arms crossed, her expression smug. A thick oak paddle sat on his desk, mocking her, as if it was waiting.
"Stand before the desk, Miss Andrews. I have a list of offenses brought before me by Miss Tuttle. I shall read them to you and give
you a chance to rebut them. Are you ready?"
Polly took a breath and unexpectedly began to cough. A moment later, she regained her composure. "Sorry, sir. Yes, sir. I'm ready."
He eyed her.
"Are you not well, Miss Andrews?"
She straightened. "I am, sir."
He looked down at his list. "Miss Tuttle says you did not come to dinner last night and that you missed curfew. Is that true?"
"I was writing an important letter and went to the post—"
"True or false, Miss Andrews."
Polly stared at him. She was not going to be allowed to explain? They had always allowed her to explain her offenses before.
"True, sir."
"She said she then saw you sneaking down to the window under your room. True or false?"
She said, through clenched teeth. "But I knocked. No one—"
"I said, true or false, Miss Andrews."
Polly stared at him, blinking. There was no way she would allow either of them to see tears or weakness. "True, sir."
"She said that you threw rocks at the window, and when it was opened, you instructed your roommate to tie your sheet to the bedpost and lower it out the window."
Polly stood, mute. When she didn't answer, he looked up. "I'm waiting, Miss Andrews."
She gulped. "True, sir."
"And when you were discovered and told to come to the front door, you disobeyed instructions."
This was ridiculous. Polly turned to Miss Tuttle. "Disrobing in public is against the law, and the rules of the school, if I am right."
This time, the director turned to Miss Tuttle. "Disrobing in public?" Then he looked back toward Polly. "Explain, please."
Polly swayed, slightly, and leaned forward, catching herself on the desk. "After she threw my sheets and my quilt out in the mud, I went to the door. She started to close it and said to disrobe. She did not want me tracking in mud and water down the hall."
Mr. Stenson was blinking and looked down at his desk. Making a note, he looked up toward Miss Tuttle. She raised her chin. "She's lying, Director."
Judging Cicely Page 12
