Death of a Schoolgirl by Joanna Campbell Slan

Author:Joanna Campbell Slan [Slan, Joanna Campbell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101568927
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2012-08-06T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

After singing, the students lined up with their proctors at the head of the queue. Rufina, the head Senior, led the way to the dormitory. Her face wore an expression of tense resignation. The dragging of the Seniors’ feet, the abject silence, and the general aura told me they were all terrified.

Once in the Senior dormitory, I checked on Adèle while the three other young ladies untied their pinafores, hung them up, and washed their faces. I was tucking the blanket up under Adèle’s chin when Miss Miller knocked on the door.

“This is our schedule, and a roster of our students. Here is the German primer we use. There’s a notebook, a sketchbook, and several pencils in the muslin bag. The classrooms have slates and chalk for each student.” She pressed the pile upon me and asked, “Have you considered where and how to begin?”

“My first task will be to assess where the girls are in their learning.”

“Good idea. Fräulein Hertzog wasn’t with us long. Perhaps three months? So I imagine the girls have retained little, if any, real skills.”

She leaned close and whispered, “Remember, I am across the hall from you if you need me. The walls do not muffle noises as much as one might like.”

Setting the book and bag on top of my dresser, I returned to my charges. All had undressed and were climbing into bed. I stepped behind the modesty panel and removed my dress, shivering as I did. After pulling my night rail over my head, I slipped my arms into my white lawn wrapper. Tying the belt caused me to stop and look down. This would never do. Both my night rail and wrapper were trimmed with deep ruffles of lace, an embellishment totally out of keeping with the post of a humble governess.

It is only lace, and nothing more, I thought as I ripped the frothy trim from the garments.

I turned the lace over and over in my hand. Feeling the pattern of holes and stitching, I recognized this torn fabric as a metaphor for my life—I had ripped myself from my husband and son, from the life I loved, a world rich and fine. Now I pretended to be something less than what I was.

I tucked the trim into a pocket of my wrapper. Perhaps no one would have noticed the extravagant embellishment, but I couldn’t take any chances.

No, I had made my choice. I was committed to this course of action. I sighed and prepared myself. I surmised that the girls would watch my every move, the way a frightened dog watches his master for proof that all is well.

My instincts were correct. When I stepped out from behind the screen, three sets of eyes stared at me. Their expressions ranged from curious to cautious. Adèle snored lightly and rolled over.

“That was her bed,” ventured Rufina, pointing to the empty cot beside mine, with covers twisted ’round and ’round like a stork’s nest. The pillow appeared to be missing, but a glance told me it rested awkwardly between the wall and the floor, as if it had fallen there.

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