Dark Mirror

by M. J. Putney

  CHAPTER 8

  The wake-up bell clanged so loudly that Tory jerked awake, wondering if she had fallen asleep in a church tower. Then she remembered she was at Lackland. Yawning groggily, she sat up in her bed. The other girls had told about the bells the night before. Students had half an hour to rise, wash, dress, and walk to the chapel for the morning service. Then to the refectory for breakfast.

  Tory hadn’t slept well in the strange room, and Lady Cynthia had snapped at her for tossing and turning. At home, the day started when one maid carried in hot water for washing while another brought her a tray with steaming hot chocolate, fresh-baked bread, fruit preserves, and sweet butter.

  She blinked back incipient tears. Why hadn’t she appreciated those comforts when she had them?

  Reminding herself that at least there was a maid—and Peggy had brought up pitchers of water the night before—Tory swung from the bed. The floor was cold. But she would not complain. She would be a model of good behavior, so cooperative and nonmagical that they would send her home within a fortnight. But in case that didn’t happen, she’d write her mother and ask for a small bedside carpet, like Cynthia’s.

  After washing up in the cold water, Tory went to her clothespress and studied the contents while she shivered in her shift. First her stays, a light comfortable set that laced up the front.

  She considered what gown she should wear, given that she wanted to look demure and nonmagical. Not the dark blue morning dress; it made her eyes look too brilliant. Nor her rose muslin, which made her complexion look too fine. The brown linen would be best. Though the dress was well cut, brown wasn’t her best color and the effect was subdued.

  She pulled the gown on, glad she’d followed Molly’s advice and brought clothing she could don without help. She’d rather ride naked through Coventry like Lady Godiva than ask Cynthia for help.

  Well, maybe not that, but the less she had to do with the duke’s darling daughter, the better. She released her hair from the braid she wore to bed and began to brush it out.

  Cynthia was only now sliding from her bed, her movements languid. As she drew on a warm wrap that had been draped over a chair, she said, “What is it like to go through life looking like a plain brown wren?”

  Tory froze, shocked by the other girl’s meanness. Cynthia had a gift for finding a weak spot. Tory had always been aware that her sister, Sarah, was the family beauty, though Sarah had never flaunted that. She’d always been quick to say that Tory was just as pretty in a different style, which was kind if not true.

  But Cynthia was not kind, and she’d placed her dart well. Knowing it would be fatal to show the words hurt, Tory said coolly, “Wrens are quite pretty and charming. What’s it like to go through life as a sharp-tongued shrew?”

  Cynthia gasped with fury. “How dare you!”

  Tory coiled her hair in a knot on her nape and stabbed pins in with more force than necessary. “I dare because I will not allow you to insult me with impunity.” She turned and stared at her roommate. “Treat me rudely, and I shall return that. Treat me with civility, and I will return that, too.”

  Cynthia looked like a teakettle on the verge of boiling over, but she was spared having to answer when another girl entered the room. Tory recognized her as one of Cynthia’s dinner companions. She looked like a rather pretty rabbit, with light brown hair and blue eyes that blinked too fast. Like Cynthia, she wore clothing that was too elaborate for a school day.

  The newcomer studied Tory. “This is the girl they forced on you?”

  “It is,” Cynthia said brusquely. “She’s just leaving now. You’re late, Lucy. You’ll have to hurry to dress my hair before chapel.”

  Guessing that Cynthia had bullied the girl into acting as her personal maid, Tory said with her most charming smile, “How lovely to meet you, Lucy. I’m Victoria Mansfield. Please call me Tory. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

  Lucy blinked. Cynthia’s description of her new roommate had surely painted Tory as dreadful. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Mansfield,” the other girl said with a shy smile. “Tory.”

  Pleased to see Cynthia fuming, Tory collected her plainest shawl and left the room. As she neared the stairs, two girls emerged from the last room on the corridor. Penelope and Helen had been part of the group she’d dined with the night before, and they greeted her pleasantly.

  After greeting them in return, Tory asked, “Can I go to the chapel with you? Elspeth Campbell pointed out the tower yesterday, but I haven’t been there.”

  “You’re in for a treat,” Helen said dourly. “It’s cold as a crypt even in high summer. Come January, we’ll be huddled together like sheep for warmth.”

  “I don’t suppose we get heated bricks for our feet like we do in my family’s church at home,” Tory said as she fell into step with the other girls.

  Penelope sighed. “Conditions at Lackland are rather better than a workhouse, but this is not what any of us are used to.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, they turned left through a door that led behind the building. Fog from the sea lay over the grounds. The chapel was barely visible, floating uncannily in the mist. “I feel like I’ve wandered into a Gothic novel,” Tory murmured.

  “But no handsome count named Orlando will rescue us,” Helen said with a smile.

  Chuckling, the girls joined the stream of students entering the chapel. Yet despite the biting cold inside, Tory found the chapel more appealing than the main abbey. Nuns had prayed and sung here for centuries. Perhaps the walls remembered their devotion.

  Tory sat at the end of a wooden bench next to her companions. As the chapel filled, she saw that the girls separated into groups as they had at dinner.

  Elspeth was one of the last to enter. Her gaze met Tory’s and she raised an ironic eyebrow as if saying, “Now you understand why it’s best not to be seen with me.” She took a seat in the last row, her face composed.

  Tory felt a twinge of guilt. She would like to become better acquainted with Elspeth, but since she wanted desperately to be cured and leave Lackland as soon as possible, she should be with girls who shared her goals.

  A sour-faced cleric entered the chapel and scowled at the students. The group quieted obediently. “His name is Mr. Hackett,” Penelope whispered.

  His gaze swept the congregation and settled on Tory. “A new student,” he said harshly. “Give thanks, girl, that you are able to attend this fine school and have the evil purged from your filthy soul!”

  Tory blanched at his venom. Luckily, his attention moved away as he began intoning a prayer. That was followed by the vicar’s condemnation of magic and mages, descriptions of how the girls would suffer in hell if they didn’t renounce their evil natures, and orders to pray for deliverance.

  Tory felt whipped by Hackett’s words. If she dared, she would have walked out. She was what God had made her, and while her magic was unacceptable, she wasn’t evil. Letting Jamie die when she could have saved him—that would have been evil.

  A few girls were nodding agreement with the curate, but most wore blank expressions. They must be used to Hackett’s virulence. Realizing that she must learn to ignore the man’s venom, Tory gazed straight ahead and tried to think of better things.

  The image of a swift, powerful athlete came to mind. Allarde. Dreaming of the Marquis of Allarde would make the time fly.

  * * *

  When the service ended, a hungry herd of girls poured out into the foggy morning and headed to the refectory. Tory fell in alongside Elspeth Campbell. Speaking softly so as not to draw attention, she asked, “Is Mr. Hackett always that bad?”

  “Often worse,” Elspeth replied. “Especially on Sundays, when he has more time to chastise us.”

  “If he despises magic and those who have it, why does he work here?”

  “I think he enjoys screaming vile threats at a roomful of attractive young ladies.”

  Tory thought of the cleric’s feverish intensity as he lashed out
with his words. “I suspect you’re right. How do you bear it every day?”

  “I run through magical control exercises in my mind.” Elspeth grinned. “It’s excellent for my discipline because for half an hour, there’s nothing better to do.”

  Telling herself that was a better use of time than daydreaming about a young man she’d barely glimpsed, Tory said, “I’ll do that tomorrow. Anything is better than listening to Mr. Hackett.”

  Outside the door to the refectory, Elspeth said quietly, “Good luck with your evaluations.” Then she crossed the room to join her friends.

  Tory scanned the long room. The tables had steaming teapots, tableware, and small jars of preserves and butter. At the far end a long table was set crosswise to the others. Two kitchen maids presided over the food while students lined up to be served.

  As Tory started toward the serving table, a tall girl with a haughty nose approached. Tory had noticed her the night before as part of Cynthia’s group.

  “I’m Margaret Howard, the head girl,” the girl said curtly. “After breakfast, go to Miss Macklin’s office in the classroom building.”

  Before Tory could ask for better directions, Margaret was gone. Head boys and head girls were traditionally older students chosen to have authority over the their fellows. Tory’s brother, Geoffrey, had said the head boys at his school, Eton, were usually dreadful prigs. Margaret Howard seemed that sort.

  Remembering that the night before the other girls had labeled Miss Macklin particularly difficult, Tory joined the line for breakfast. She was the last girl, and by the time her turn came, the hot porridge had run out. Only bread rolls were left, so she took one and headed to Nell Bracken’s table.

  Nell poured a cup of tea and slid it toward Tory. “Good morning. How did you sleep?”

  “Well enough.” Tory stirred sugar and milk into her tea before taking a deep gulp. Grateful for its warmth, she said, “I’ve been ordered to report to Miss Macklin’s office after breakfast. Where is it?”

  “When you enter the school building through the main entrance, it’s the first room on the right,” Helen said. “Good luck with the evaluation.”

  Tory frowned. “You’re the second person to wish me luck. Why do I need it?”

  “Miss Macklin believes that students come here too full of pride because of our birth,” Nell replied. “And that it is her duty to knock the pride out of us.”

  Miss Macklin hadn’t succeeded with Cynthia Stanton, but Cynthia was probably a hopeless case. Tory said, “I shall be the most humble student she has ever evaluated.”

  “That might help,” Penelope said, but she didn’t look optimistic.

  Since Miss Macklin couldn’t be avoided, Tory reached for the pot of gooseberry preserves. Facing a difficult teacher would be easier on a full stomach.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Come in,” Miss Macklin barked in response to Tory’s knock.

  Tory’s heart sank when she saw the teacher, who was thin, prune-faced, and practiced in disapproval. Looking as meek and nonmagical as she knew how, Tory said, “I’m Victoria Mansfield, Miss Macklin. I was told that you wish to see me.”

  Miss Macklin pursed her lips as she studied Tory. “Most girls who come here have the so-called ladylike accomplishments like music and watercolors and embroidery, but are appallingly ignorant of academic subjects. Have you studied the globes? Literature? Mathematics?”

  “Yes, Miss Macklin,” Tory said, clamping down on her distaste for the woman. “My father believed girls should be educated, so we had a very accomplished governess.”

  Miss Macklin did not seem to find that gratifying. She kept Tory standing as she rattled off questions about geography, Shakespeare, and several poets, then tested Tory on her sums. Tory found the questions easy.

  Looking even angrier, Miss Macklin switched to French and asked if Tory could speak the language. Like most children of aristocrats, Tory had learned French early, and her tutor had been born in Paris. “Oui, Mademoiselle Macklin.”

  After several minutes of conversation, Miss Macklin said grudgingly, “Your French is passable. Do you speak Italian?” After Tory shook her head, the teacher said, “Hold out your hands palm up.”

  Obediently, Tory held out her hands. The teacher raised a brass ruler and smashed it viciously down on Tory’s palms.

  “Why did you do that?” Tory gasped, blinking back tears.

  “You are arrogant, Miss Mansfield,” the teacher said triumphantly. “Arrogant and full of pride. Girls like you think your birth will protect you from unpleasantness. In the world outside that may be true, but not at Lackland Abbey. Your family sent you here because you are tainted by magic, and it is the school’s duty to do whatever we deem necessary to make you fit for decent society.”

  Tory stared at her hands, where welts were forming. “But I didn’t do—”

  Her protest was cut off when Miss Macklin lashed out with the ruler again, this time across Tory’s fingers. “That is enough, Miss Mansfield!” the teacher snarled. “Do not ever talk back to me!”

  Hands in agony, Tory stumbled back from the desk and banged against the door. She wanted to strike back any way she could, but defiance was exactly what Miss Macklin wanted. The teacher craved an excuse to cause more pain.

  Forcing herself not to lash out, Tory stammered, “I … I will remember not to talk back, Miss Macklin. Do you wish to test me on any other subjects?”

  The teacher looked disappointed by the meek answer. She lifted her quill pen and wrote several lines on a piece of paper. Handing it to Tory, she said, “These are your classes. You’d best work hard. For a girl like you who is both plain and cursed with magic, being governess to a family of the middling sort is the most you can hope for.”

  Even life as a governess would be better than staying in this horrible school. Fighting to keep from breaking down, Tory said, “Good day, Miss Macklin.”

  She bolted out into the corridor, her hands hurting so much she could barely grasp the doorknob. As she turn to flee, she crashed into another person. Before she could take off again, a quiet voice said, “Come into my office, Miss Mansfield.”

  Tory blinked back her tears and saw that it was Miss Wheaton, the mage teacher who’d examined her the day before. Though she was again drably dressed, her eyes were compassionate as she held open the door on the opposite side of the corridor.

  Warily, Tory stepped into Miss Wheaton’s office. The room was small but welcoming. Pretty watercolors of flowers brightened the walls, the floor was softened by a worn but cheerful rug, and the small bookcase was full to overflowing.

  Miss Wheaton frowned at the welts caused by the ruler. “Your hands must hurt.”

  “All I did was answer Miss Macklin’s questions.” Tory tried to keep her voice from shaking. “I was trying to show her that I was cooperative and wouldn’t cause any trouble. But she hit me with her ruler. T … twice.”

  “Lackland students are used to wealth and privilege, and sometimes they need to be reminded of their changed situation,” Miss Wheaton said in a neutral voice. “Some teachers feel that point must be made very emphatically.”

  “So they want to break us as horses are broken to the saddle,” Tory said bitterly.

  “Not everyone agrees with that approach.” Miss Wheaton took gentle hold of Tory’s hands. “Let me see if I can do something about the pain.”

  Tory winced as the teacher carefully straightened her swelling fingers but managed to avoid whimpering. Miss Wheaton moved her hand through the air above Tory’s. “Fortunately no bones are broken.”

  “Does that beastly woman break bones?” Tory gasped, forgetting that she shouldn’t criticize one teacher to another.

  “Sometimes, usually when a girl does particularly well on her academic examination. Perhaps she believes that a good education makes one prideful.” Miss Wheaton cradled Tory’s right hand between her palms. “Let’s see what I can do.”

  Warmth began flowing into Tory’s palm and finger
s. After a minute or two, Tory exclaimed, “The pain is going away! You must be a healer.”

  Miss Wheaton nodded and transferred her attentions to Tory’s left hand. “I could do more away from Lackland, but I have some power even here.”

  “Are students beaten regularly?” Tory asked warily. Though she’d been spanked sometimes as a little girl, her parents thought it unseemly to spank an older child.

  “The boys are, but not usually the girls,” Miss Wheaton replied. “I can’t say I approve, but all boys’ schools allow caning.”

  “My brother said that at Eton, students were told caning builds character. I suppose girls are caned less because we aren’t thought to have much character.”

  “Which is the sort of thing males say when they don’t know any women.” Miss Wheaton chuckled, looking younger and much prettier. “The fog has lifted, so I’ll take you to the village for your magical evaluation.”

  “Away from Lackland?” The prospect cheered Tory. She brushed at her face, hoping there were no tear tracks. “That would be lovely.”

  Seeing Tory’s gesture, Miss Wheaton said, “I’ll lend you a shawl and bonnet so you don’t have to go back to your room.”

  Miss Wheaton was so nice! This was like talking to Tory’s sister, Sarah. Yet despite her kindness, Miss Wheaton held ultimate power over the girls of Lackland.

  As the teacher retrieved shawls and bonnets from a clothes peg, Tory studied her class schedule. All her academic classes were marked as advanced, except for Italian language and literature with Miss Macklin. Though Tory had always wanted to learn Italian, she did not look forward to having such a beastly teacher. She’d sit in the back of the class.

  There was also a note that her “accomplishments” would be evaluated. Nell had mentioned this at dinner. A governess must teach drawing, music, and needlework, but virtually all girls sent to Lackland had such skills, and Tory was no exception.

  Academic subjects were another matter. Some girls arrived at Lackland ignorant of anything beyond reading, writing, and basic arithmetic. Though Tory was still angry with her father, at least he believed in educating his daughters as well as his son. Tory and Sarah had learned Latin as well as watercolors and how to play the pianoforte.