their pudding, she asked, “What are the teachers and classes like?”
A girl called Marjorie made a face. “Miss Wheaton is the only one who really matters since she has the power to let us go home.”
“I met her briefly this afternoon. She was…” Tory hesitated, unsure how to describe her. “Very quiet.”
“She is, but at least she isn’t mean,” Nell said. “Tomorrow you’ll be tested in French and figuring and other subjects so they’ll know what you need to be taught.”
“Why do they teach these things?” Tory asked, curious. “To keep us busy so we won’t get into trouble?”
Another girl, whose name Tory couldn’t remember, said, “The real reason is so we can get work as governesses if we can’t find husbands.”
“Governesses, or housekeepers,” Marjorie said gloomily.
Tory shuddered at the thought. “How often does that happen?”
The girls exchanged glances. “Too often,” Nell said.
“What should I know about the teachers?”
“Miss Macklin is dreadful,” Nell said. “Speak as little as possible.”
Other frank comments followed. Tory made mental notes. “What else should I know? Elspeth Campbell showed me around today. She said there are unofficial rules.”
“Avoiding Elspeth is one of them,” Marjorie said earnestly. “She’s nice enough, but you don’t want to be seen with that lot. They like having magic.”
Tory nodded to the angry group. “What about those girls?”
“Keep your distance,” Nell said. “If you can. They’re mean as snakes.” Her gaze moved to Cynthia. “Like us, they want to be cured as soon as possible so they can go home, but they’re fearful snobs. As if they were the only ones with lords for fathers!”
The serving girl came to serve a crock of bread pudding, so conversation ceased. Tory dug into the sweet. The pudding was quite good, with apples and cream.
She had survived her first day at Lackland Abbey.
Tomorrow would be worse.
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
A girl called Marjorie made a face. “Miss Wheaton is the only one who really matters since she has the power to let us go home.”
“I met her briefly this afternoon. She was…” Tory hesitated, unsure how to describe her. “Very quiet.”
“She is, but at least she isn’t mean,” Nell said. “Tomorrow you’ll be tested in French and figuring and other subjects so they’ll know what you need to be taught.”
“Why do they teach these things?” Tory asked, curious. “To keep us busy so we won’t get into trouble?”
Another girl, whose name Tory couldn’t remember, said, “The real reason is so we can get work as governesses if we can’t find husbands.”
“Governesses, or housekeepers,” Marjorie said gloomily.
Tory shuddered at the thought. “How often does that happen?”
The girls exchanged glances. “Too often,” Nell said.
“What should I know about the teachers?”
“Miss Macklin is dreadful,” Nell said. “Speak as little as possible.”
Other frank comments followed. Tory made mental notes. “What else should I know? Elspeth Campbell showed me around today. She said there are unofficial rules.”
“Avoiding Elspeth is one of them,” Marjorie said earnestly. “She’s nice enough, but you don’t want to be seen with that lot. They like having magic.”
Tory nodded to the angry group. “What about those girls?”
“Keep your distance,” Nell said. “If you can. They’re mean as snakes.” Her gaze moved to Cynthia. “Like us, they want to be cured as soon as possible so they can go home, but they’re fearful snobs. As if they were the only ones with lords for fathers!”
The serving girl came to serve a crock of bread pudding, so conversation ceased. Tory dug into the sweet. The pudding was quite good, with apples and cream.
She had survived her first day at Lackland Abbey.
Tomorrow would be worse.
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