Sophronia was impressed. She hadn’t noticed that the oddgob contained a printing press.
Something rattled in the machine and then whined.
“Stop that,” said Lady Linette to the oddgob, shaking the mysterious object in her hand at it again.
Oh, dear, perhaps the mini-prototype was vital, thought Sophronia.
The oddgob whined louder and began to shake.
“Stop cranking,” Lady Linette instructed the mechanical, shaking the object harder. “Miss Temminnick, I think we had better make haste.” The teacher gestured for Sophronia to precede her from the room.
Too late, however, for the oddgob exploded with a terrific bang. Hair ribbons fluttered up into the air, the tea service shattered, the fake tea cake bounced like a rubber ball, and ink squirted out from the printing press.
Sophronia and Lady Linette flattened themselves on the floor, heedless of crushed dresses and flipped petticoats.
“My goodness,” said Lady Linette into the resulting silence. “What did you do?” She stood and walked to the oddgob, now tilted to one side as if it had a limp.
“Me? Nothing at all!” insisted Sophronia, sitting up.
Lady Linette tutted as she brushed ink spatter off her well-powdered cheek with a handkerchief. “Where’s the new valve gone?”
“What valve?” Sophronia blinked wide, confused eyes at her.
Lady Linette gave her a long look. “Probably rolled free during the explosion. I told Professor Lefoux it wasn’t tight enough in the cradle. And I said it wouldn’t work properly regardless.” Sophronia didn’t say anything. “I wish we could have tested it on a less valuable machine. Never mind, we’ve got your results.” Lady Linette waved the oddgob’s printed paper.
Sophronia stood and innocently offered her teacher the additional handkerchief she’d acquired during the test. Lady Linette took it absently, then paused, pondering it. She did not apply it to the remains of the ink on her face, instead handing it back with a little smile.
“Oh, very good, Miss Temminnick. Very good indeed!” She examined the printed sheet. Closely.
“Let us begin your review. The painting, time period?”
“Eighteen fourteen, by attire,” said Sophronia. “Give or take a year. Evening party.”
“Dress color?”
“Blue on the central subject, green and cream on those in the background.”
“Bonnet style and decoration?”
Trick question! “None of the ladies were wearing hats. The subject had cornflowers in her hair. As I said, it was an evening party.”
Lady Linette arched an eyebrow over her spectacles. “And have you any additional thoughts?”
Sophronia straightened. “A great many.”
“About the painting, Miss Temminnick. Don’t be coy.”
Sophronia forbore mentioning that Lady Linette had said only yesterday that there was always time for coyness in young ladies of quality. “The painting was well executed, but the artist was probably poor.”
Lady Linette looked nonplussed. “Why do you say that?”
“No expensive pigments, like red and gold, were used. Either that, or the painter feared toxicity. He did not sign it. There were approximately twelve people in the image.” Sophronia paused delicately for effect. “And one cat. The wallpaper was striped, and the garden through the window had a Roman feel.”
Lady Linette nodded, dislodging her spectacles. She reseated them on her nose with a sniff of annoyance. Lady Linette always dressed younger than she was. Spectacles, under such circumstances, might be considered a fate worse than knitwear.
“Moving on to the tea service, Miss Temminnick. The tea was cold. Why did you still serve it?”
Sophronia nibbled her lip. It was another habit her teachers were trying to eliminate. “If you must draw attention to the lips, a small lick is superior. It is too academic to nibble” was Lady Linette’s customary admonishment. “It’s all very well to be an intellectual, but one shouldn’t let others see. That’s embarrassing” was Mademoiselle Geraldine’s opinion.
Sophronia stopped nibbling. “I did consider dumping it entirely, but I thought the instructions indicated I was to be evaluated on the act of serving. Had there been other people present, I would have sent it back.”
“Milk first, the lower-class way?”
“But necessary if the cups were lined with an acid-based poison. The milk would curdle or discolor. Also, one of the cups smelled of lavender.”
Lady Linette said, unguardedly, “It did?”
“Yes. I don’t know of any poisons with that smell, but it might be used to cover over another scent or, of course, it might have been your cup, Lady Linette.”
“My cup?”
“You always smell of lavender.”
“The tea cakes?”
“One was fake. Of the other two, both smelled of bitter almond—one because it was an almond cake, I believe. The other was powdered in cyanide.” Sophronia had been saddened by the cyanide lesson with Sister Mattie. For the rest of her life—unless she learned to bake—almond cake was right out. There was no surefire way to guarantee lack of cyanide in any almond-smelling confection.
“Moving on to the ribbons.”
Sophronia explained, “I selected the one that matched my outfit and tied it in a Bunson’s knot.”
“There’s a piece missing.”
Sophronia grinned. “I must beg your patience in that matter, my lady.”
Her teacher was taken aback but continued. “Why the Bunson’s knot?”
Sophronia parroted a recent article she’d translated from the Parisian fashion papers. Vieve, of all people, had given it to her. Vieve might dress like a newspaper boy, but she took an interest in current styles, particularly hats. This article had delighted the young girl. “It has a pleasing military feel. I read recently that the juxtaposition and power of masculine elements can inspire confidence in the wearer, and the accompanying aura of authority is never a bad thing,” Sophronia paraphrased.
Lady Linette looked impressed. This was not part of any lesson. “And do you feel more confident and authoritative, Miss Temminnick?”
Sophronia touched the ribbon. “Actually, I do.”
Lady Linette nodded. “It would be a good style for you to pursue. I suggest you encourage your mother to have at least one new dress made up with military detailing.” She gave Sophronia a pitying look.
Sophronia blushed. She and Dimity did their best to make over her dresses. But her older ones had such a narrow silhouette, and with skirts getting progressively wider, there wasn’t much they could do. It was impossible to add volume to a dress. And this was a finishing school—everyone noticed such things. Still, if Lady Linette thought more masculine fashions might suit her, perhaps gold tassels and epaulets were in order. Dimity would be over the moon.
Lady Linette interrupted her reverie. “You chose the sewing scissors and one of the handkerchiefs from the next test. Why?”
“We have not completed knife training with Captain Niall, so I wasn’t confident in the letter opener, but I know I can work scissors to my advantage, and it is always good to have an extra handkerchief.”
“Why not the fan or the gloves?”
“White kid is impractical for a lady of covert activities. We have not had any fan training yet.”
“The crumpet?”
“Oh, no, I’m not worthy.”
“Lastly, we had you send a coded message. Give it to me.”
Sophronia presented her with the bag of sweets tied with the bit of ribbon.
Lady Linette nodded her approval. “Ribbon used to indicate character of the sender. Nice touch, Miss Temminnick. You made use of the scissors from the previous selection.” She opened the bag and poured out the contents, including the one carefully broken sweet with the blood inside.
Lady Linette sniffed it and examined the stain. “Show me your hand.”
Sophronia removed one glove to display the finger she
had pricked.
“You would have had to set up the code ahead of time. Nevertheless, an innovative method of getting a message across, and virtually untraceable, particularly as your recipient can eat the sweet.” Lady Linette looked once more down at the printed paper, then produced a stick of graphite and made some notes at the bottom.
Sophronia could feel her shoulders tensing and fought to keep them down. Were my choices correct? Do they want the expected route, or is it better if I did something out of the ordinary? Will they send me down? Sophronia was in ever greater fear that her sojourn at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s might come to a premature end. Only half a year ago she had resisted finishing school with every fiber of her being, until she realized Mademoiselle Geraldine’s offered no ordinary education. Now she dreaded the possibility of returning home to her former life.
Lady Linette said, “Everyone’s results are given together. You will receive your final marks in front of your peers.”
Sophronia’s heart sank. This explained the pale faces of the other girls—anticipated trauma. Agatha, in particular, hated public exposure.
“However, my initial assessment is that your capacities are suited to our institution. You are overly independent. I suggest focused study in social congregation and deportment. Groups, Miss Temminnick, are your weakness. Generally speaking, most lone intelligencers are men, not women. We ladies must learn to manipulate society.”
Sophronia could feel herself flushing. It was a fair assessment, but she did not like criticism. She knew she was good. Better than many of the other girls of her age-group. True, Sidheag could beat her in physical combat, Dimity and Preshea were more ladylike, and Monique was better at social graces, but Sophronia was the best at espionage. Nevertheless, she held her tongue and stared at her hands, forcing herself not to clasp them tightly. Lady Linette had only said that most lone intelligencers were male. Perhaps once in a while there was room for a female.
“Thank you, Miss Temminnick. You are dismissed.”
Sophronia bobbed a curtsy. It was just shy of being too high and too brief and thus rude. But before Lady Linette could comment, Sophronia swept from the room in a manner so grand that no teacher at Mademoiselle Geraldine’s would critique the action.
The 2nd test
RESULTS DISORIENTATED
Sophronia found Dimity waiting in the hallway. Her friend’s face was white, and her lower lip trembled.
“Oh, Sophronia,” she cried. “Wasn’t that perfectly ghastly?”
She’s getting more and more dramatic, thought Sophronia. Overexposure to Mademoiselle Geraldine. “It certainly was odd.” Sophronia’s gift for understatement was almost as good as Dimity’s gift for overstatement.
“I poured the cold tea,” admitted Dimity. “Did you?”
Sophronia nodded.
“Oh, good, I thought you might. You’re usually right about these things.”
“Not always.”
Dimity was crestfallen. “Oh, dear. Your assessment wasn’t wholly positive?”
“Not by half!”
Dimity brightened. “Really? Neither was mine. That’s good, then. Perhaps I won’t fail.”
“I thought you wanted to be sent down. I thought you wanted to be put into a real finishing school, to become an ordinary lady with a respectable parliamentary husband and no concerns beyond planning the next dinner party.”
“I did. I mean, I do. But Mummy would be so very disappointed, and I would have to leave you. And Sidheag. And Bumbersnoot.”
Sophronia could only agree with Dimity’s logic. “True.”
“Speaking of which, I must talk with you about this letter I received.” Dimity flashed a suspiciously embossed missive.
Sophronia grabbed for it.
Dimity was faster. “No, you can’t see it until we are with the others.”
Sophronia stuck her tongue out but waited obligingly until after luncheon. Due to the presence of Monique and Preshea in the drawing room, Agatha and Sidheag joined Sophronia and Dimity in their private room for a gossip.
Dimity produced the letter, both embarrassed and excited. “It’s from Lord Dingleproops!”
“Dimity,” objected Agatha, “should you be getting private correspondences from an unattached gentleman friend?”
“No, but this is the first. I didn’t write to him! And it can’t be that bad; our families are acquainted.”
Agatha was properly concerned. “Has he permission to court you?” Agatha Woosmoss was small, round, and redheaded, with a freckled face that wore a perpetual expression of distressed confusion, not unlike that of a damp cat.
Dimity flushed even redder. “No, but I’m certain he would.”
Sidheag was reading the hastily scrawled note. “It’s worse than simply a letter. He wants to meet with you, in private and secretly!”
“Dimity!” Sophronia said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dimity was truculent. “Because I knew you’d be all Sophroniaish about it. That’s why. It’s not that bad, is it? He probably only wants to chat a bit about the weather or something.”
Sidheag, still in possession of the shocking missive, said, “Since it says here that he intends to come to you on this airship, it can’t be that banal.” Sidheag Maccon was an overly tall young woman, almost of an age with Sophronia. She had a long, proud face and a general attitude of indifference to both manners and dress that drove their teachers to distraction.
Sophronia was having none of it. “Dimity, he’d have to steal an airdinghy and then try to find us. I’ve no idea where we are over Dartmoor, do you? I’m sure he doesn’t. Besides, I don’t think Bunson’s has airdinghies. The whole idea is foolhardy.”
Dimity liked Lord Dingleproops rather more than she ought and was disposed to think well of him. “It must be important, then, mustn’t it? Perhaps it’s a declaration!”
“Oh, Dimity, really!” said Agatha.
Sophronia added, “You’re only just fourteen, and he’s what, sixteen?”
Dimity protested, “My birthday was weeks ago!”
Sidheag, the blunt one, said, “He isn’t even holding yet. He can’t declare without his parents’ permission.” Sidheag could be quite crass, the result of having been raised by men, or Scots, or soldiers, or werewolves, or all four. Since she was also Lady Kingair, her crassness would have been an accepted eccentricity—in a much older aristocrat. In a fourteen-year-old, such vulgarity was as odd and uncomfortable as last season’s hat.
Sophronia took the missive out of Sidheag’s hand and examined it. It under the Earl of Dingleproops’s heading, which gave it a certain weight. But she did wonder what the son was doing with his father’s stationery. Probably using it to write angry letters to poor tradesmen in his father’s name and to torture decent young ladies like Dimity.
“He wants to meet with you on the back squeak deck in a week and a half?”
Dimity nodded. “Isn’t that romantic?”
Agatha protested. “You’re not going?”
“Of course I’m going! He will have come all this way.”
“It’ll all end in tears,” foretold Sidheag morosely.
Sophronia said nothing further; Dimity could be awful stubborn. Privately, Sophronia vowed to follow Dimity. Lord Dingleproops was up to something.
They were made to wait until the end of the week for their test assessments. At long last, after supper, instead of the customary parlor games and card counting, their age-group was separated from the others. Agatha looked like she might faint, or cry, or palpitate, or all three—which would be a real feat. Preshea—small, dark, and unreasonably lovely—looked like she intended to kill someone. But then, Preshea always looked that way. Dimity’s round porcelain face was set. Monique, having been through this before, swept her skirts behind her with an air of determination. Sidheag loped along as though she hadn’t a care in the aether. Sidheag could be irritating like that.
Sophronia wondered how she herself was showing tension. Not
at all, to those who did not look at her shoulders. She would have been surprised by how impressed Lady Linette was with this accomplishment. Lady Linette had also been impressed when Sophronia ate only the vegetables from the meal provided after the exam. Sophronia was the only student to have considered that the test might include the meal. Even Monique, who should have known better, had eaten seven bites of her meat and all her pudding.
Lady Linette led them to her own teaching quarters. These were decorated as if a boudoir had procreated with the set of She Stoops to Conquer. There were red curtains, a good deal of gold, and chaise longues instead of chairs. Several fluffy cats with funny scrunched-up faces and possessive attitudes to hassocks lounged about.
Lady Linette left the six girls there.
They sat in expectant silence. Agatha stared at her feet. Sidheag slouched. Both knew better but were regressing into bad habits out of anxiety.
Professor Lefoux entered the room.
An almost audible groan met the appearance of this, the harshest of their teachers.
Professor Lefoux was not so much a battle-ax as a pair of pinking cutters—sharp, toothy, and uneven in temper but very useful. They hadn’t any lessons with her yet. Rumor had it she was deemed too fierce for the younger girls. Tall and bony, with a stiff face and hair scraped back into a bun, she looked mean. She also had a French accent, which hundreds of years of animosity had trained nice young Englishwomen to suspect as evil.
Professor Lefoux did not bother to explain her presence. “Monique de Pelouse, your assessment is not really one of six months, as you have now been in attendance at this school for four years and eight months. Nevertheless, due to your attempted theft of the crystalline valve prototype last year and your regression in status as a result of that failure, you are undergoing public review along with the others of your rank.”
Monique sat silent, her gaze straight forward, her attitude one of superiority rather than penance.
“Your marks are as expected. You are a fair intelligencer but prone to lack of creativity, which could get you killed. You are ladylike but favor overt manipulation, which could get you ostracized. Given your age, it is the recommendation of the staff that you marry with no second attempt at finishing.”
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