Chapter 2
The house was larger than any she had ever lived in—but certainly nothing to Rosings Park. But it had little decoration and what furnishings she could see were quite plain and worn. They may as well have sent her to a workhouse.
"We have twelve pupils including yourself at present. All the students are in the east wing of the house. The teachers and I are quartered in the west wing. You are not to go there, unless in company of one of the staff. Neither are you to enter another student's room, except that you are invited by both the room's residents."
Lydia gulped. She had never been forbidden in so many places all at once. Was she to be welcome anywhere?
Mrs. Drummond paused and pointed. "There are the school room and the music room, both of which you will have free use of. Downstairs, the morning room and back parlor are for students. The drawing room is not, unless you are receiving a visit from someone outside the school, which I think highly unlikely. My study is likewise forbidden unless I have called you there."
Why would she ever want to go there otherwise?
Mrs. Drummond continued on her way. "The dining room is for meals. No trays will be sent to your room unless there is verifiable illness. Unless it is mealtime or you are doing chores there, stay out of the dining room and the kitchen, as well. Meals are served promptly and if you are late without acceptable reason, you will not be admitted."
How surprising—Mrs. Drummond would allow her to go hungry. She seemed the type to starve young ladies.
"This is your room." She pointed to an open door on the left side of the hall.
Lydia peeked in. The chamber was bright and tidy, but with little color. The walls were plain and white with only a few pencil drawings and the odd magazine fashion plate pinned up. What a wonder Mrs. Drummond allowed such a luxury!
Two small beds filled most of the room, neatly made with plain, sturdy coverings. The edges of a thick wool blanket peeked out from the edges—perhaps she might not freeze.
A dressing table with a small mirror, a small chair and writing table near the window, and a chest near the closet completed the furnishings. Even the room she had shared with Kitty, though no larger, had been much better appointed than this drab little cell.
"The room is not to your liking?" Mrs. Drummond glared every bit as imperiously as Lady Catherine might have.
"No .., not …, it is…"
"Better than you deserve. I hope you will come to understand that soon." She strode to the pile of trunks near the window. "Now, show me what you have brought and we shall determine what is appropriate for your station as a student here and if there is anything else you might need."
Now her trunks were to be searched? Would the humiliation never end?
"Do not dawdle girl! You are not my only concern today." She clapped sharply. "Move along now."
Lydia jumped and scurried to her trunks. The first held her body linen, stockings, night dresses and dressing gown. Mrs. Drummond inspected every one of the pieces Jane and Aunt Gardiner had carefully packed.
"Serviceable and appropriate. You are fortunate to have been provided with so much. Fold them and put them in the bottom drawers of the dresser." She handed over a chemise with a pretty lace trim along the edge.
Lydia laid it on the bed and folded it into quarters.
"Not like that."
Of course. But what could she expect? She had folded little linen in her home. That was a servant's job.
"I see we must begin at the beginning with you. Your mother truly did you a disservice. I hope you are quick to learn. Watch." Mrs. Drummond smoothed the linen garment and drew it up into neat, regular folds that no doubt would fit perfectly into the drawer. "Understand?"
Lydia nodded.
Mrs. Drummond shook it out. "Now you."
Lydia's hands quaked as she tried to force the stubborn linen into the required shapes.
"Better," Mrs. Drummond flicked the chemise in the air, shaking out all her efforts.
No! That was unkind!
"Again."
Three more attempts and the chemise was finally accepted.
"Now this." A petticoat took the place of the chemise.
Lydia attempted to groan, but a raised eyebrow from Mrs. Drummond stopped her cold. The harridan would probably not hesitate to beat her for a badly folded petticoat.
It took five attempts to please her captor with a properly creased one.
"Finish the rest of your things. I will examine your gowns. Have you brought any wraps?"
"The…the larger trunk has the gowns and the other has wraps and warm things." She would probably take her nicest frocks away and leave her with only a single dress. Her eyes blurred, but she blinked fiercely. She would not give Mrs. Drummond the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
A pile of body linen appeared on the bed. Lydia turned her back to the trunks. Watching would only make it worse.
"Day dress, day dress, morning, walking. Whomever packed for you saw you were well equipped. This," she walked to Lydia and held up a white muslin dinner dress, Lydia's favorite garment and the only truly pretty thing stuffy Aunt Gardiner had allowed her to bring. "Is the only thing you have little need of. We do not dress for dinner here."
She held her breath and fought the urge to snatch the dress away.
"But I shall allow you to keep it, for there is the rare occasion it may be appropriate."
"Thank you." She took the dress with trembling hands. Mrs. Drummond would probably not approve if she clutched it to her chest.
Mrs. Drummond carefully laid out her dresses on the end of the bed. "Put these in the closet when you have finished the linens. Now for the rest." She opened the final trunk and laid out the shawls, bonnets, gloves, spencers and shoes.
A flash of red! What was that? Lydia whirled. Her red cloak—the one her Wickham had bought her.
A sob welled in her throat. She stuffed her fist in her mouth, but it was not enough to contain the despair of the day. She sank into the thin carpet, fighting to silence the cries that wracked her chest.
A warm hand soothed her back. "There, there now girl. It has been a trying time for you no doubt. Let yourself have a good solid cry and you will feel much better for it."
She could not have done otherwise had she been a mind to. Gut wrenching sobs tore through her. All the while, Mrs. Drummond crouched beside her, hand on her shoulder, muttering soothing sounds.
At last, she hiccupped and lifted her head. Mrs. Drummond pressed a handkerchief into her hand. "Dry your eyes now and we will finish settling you in."
Lydia folded linen while Mrs. Drummond arranged her things in the closet.
"I will leave you to finish the rest on your own. The girls will be returning soon and I shall tell Miss Morley of your arrival."
Lydia sniffled. "Yes, madam."
She pulled something white and fluffy out of her pocket. "One final thing. Put this on. All our new girls are required to wear one."
"A mob cap?"
"You will have no maid to do your hair. Best you are not distracted by what it looks like as you learn your place in our little society."
"Miss Fitzgilbert did not wear one."
"She did when she first came. She earned the privilege to remove it. In time, you might as well. I very much hope that will be the case." Mrs. Drummond nodded and left, closing the door behind her.
Horrid woman! Lydia threw the cap at the door, but it floated daintily to the floor, well short of its intended target.
Dreadful, awful, terrible place! She kicked the cap. How could Mrs. Drummond demand she wear such a thing—to dress as a servant, or worse, as though she were on the shelf? She was only seventeen—she was not a spinster, and she would not be one either. But how could she find a husband when she was confined to this…this asylum?
Two years, Mr. Darcy said, two years—that was nearly forever. But he said he wanted to see improvement. If she 'improved', perhaps he might commute her sentence. Mrs. Drummond might write him of her virtues and he would instruct Mrs. Drummond to release her.
It would take a great deal of effort to make Mrs. Drummond think her improved, but with no money, nor any suitor to support her, it was her only choice. The key question was, though, what did improvement mean?
She snatched the cap off the floor. She would wear the stupid thing, slave like a servant over chores, study her lessons and make charitable visits with a smile. That should be enough. Enough to convince Mrs. Drummond anyway, the stupid old bat. In fact, she would perform so well perhaps she would see her freedom in just six months. She might not be as clever as Lizzy, but she was determined and that should count for even more.
She folded the remainder of her linen with great care. Mrs. Drummond would probably be writing letters to Mr. Darcy about the state of her drawers even today. Gah!
A sharp rap on the door made her jump. The door opened and Miss High-and-Mighty Fitzgilbert poked her head in.
"Are you unpacked now?"
"I…yes…"
"Good. I am to help you take your trunks to the attic, then we may go down for dinner."
Where were the servants to do such work? She bit her tongue. Miss Fitzgilbert would probably report any complaints to Mrs. Drummond. "Very good."
Miss Fitzgilbert cocked her head and lifted her eyebrow. Why did she have to look so very much like Lizzy?
The attics were surprisingly airy and tidy and their task was completed in short order.
"The house is so quiet." Lydia muttered, fighting to keep her steps quiet on the stairs.
"Do not become accustomed to it. With so many young ladies in residence, that is rarely the case."
"Then why—"
"Did you not notice? Everyone has been out. You really must begin paying attention to something beyond yourself."
Perhaps someone should tell her more of what was going on. It was, after all, only her first day there. How was she to know what to attend to? She clamped her jaws very tightly.
"Where have they all gone?"
"Usually, we would be visiting the alms houses, but once in a while, the vicar's wife invites all of us to tea. I had to miss out because of your arrival."
No wonder she was in so foul a temper. What had she done to be punished by missing such a treat and why did Lydia deserve to be punished right along with her by enduring her ill-temper?
"Do you hear that—they are returning. Come along—you can be introduced in the parlor before dinner."
If they were all as bossy as Miss High-and-Mighty, she would just as soon keep to herself. But Miss Fitzgilbert had been punished by missing the tea, perhaps because she was so disagreeable. It was entirely possibly that there were some merry girls awaiting her downstairs. She brushed the dust from her hands and hurried downstairs.
Soft voices and the sounds of moving bodies filtered through the hallway. Miss Fitzgilbert paused at a doorway, looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. Could she not take pity on Lydia's poor nerves?
Lydia peeked into the parlor, full of young ladies, most sporting ugly mob caps like hers. A hard hand on her back shoved her inside. Lydia nearly tripped over the edge of the rug.
The noise in the room stilled and Lydia felt every gaze turn to her. Reflex dropped her into an unsteady curtsey. From the corner of the room, Mrs. Drummond nodded, though her severe features bore no evidence of approval. Two women sat beside her. Those must be the other teachers.
Mrs. Drummond stood. "Our new student has arrived. May I present Miss Lydia Bennet."
"Good afternoon, Miss Bennet." The entire room responded.
Lydia curtsied again. What else was one to do in such an awkward circumstance?
The woman to Mrs. Drummond's right stood. The heavy chatelaine at her waist clattered. She must have every key to every lock in the school on her chains. Just like a jailor. Lydia shuddered. Did she lock the students in their rooms every night?
"Miss Honeywell teaches sewing, writing and drawing for our school."
Miss Honeywell's round face sported the closest thing to a smile she had seen since she had arrived.
"Have you had any instruction in my subjects, Miss Bennet?"
"A little."
"And you have practiced?" Her voice high and sweet, not nearly so awe inspiring as Mrs. Drummond's.
"Not very much."
"I feared as much." Miss Honeywell sat down with a sigh. She folded her hands in her lap, a mild look of disappointment on her face.
Crosspatch!
The other woman stood, the tallest, most gaunt of the three. Her hollow cheeks and prominent collarbone lent her a skeletal air that did not improve with her thin raspy voice. "I am Miss Thornton and I guide my students in reading, geography and sums." She sat down, not seeming to care for Lydia's potential accomplishments. Just as well, because there were not more in Miss Thorton's subjects than in Miss Honeywell's.
"Dinner is ready. You may introduce yourselves at the table." Mrs. Drummond led the teachers out.
So they would be permitted conversation at dinner. Happy thought indeed.
Miss Fitzgilbert led the students out, capless girls leading the way. Lydia hung back. Though it was fitting for a newcomer to lead the procession to the dining room, somehow it did not seem to be a good idea to insist upon it now.
The last two girls in the room looked at her.
"I am Joan Colbrane." The blonde girl with a beauty mark on her cheek said.
"And I am Amelia Easton." The dark haired girl with a foreign look about her curtsied.
"You can sit with us." Miss Colbrane took her arm.
"The dining room is this way." Miss Easton led them.
Miss Colbrane lifted her head, nose in the air. "We are the lowest—"
"I thought there was no talk of rank here."
"Not rank in society you silly thing, rank in the school," Miss Colbrane said.
"When you are a good little girl and do everything as Missus says you should, you move up in rank. The highest girls are permitted to style their hair with no cap." Miss Easton touched her own mob cap.
"They are dreadful things, are they not?" Lydia whispered.
"Horrid, absolutely horrid." Miss Colbrane tittered.
"I hate it, walking around like a servant or old tabby." Miss Easton shuddered.
"Hurry, they are waiting!" Miss Colbrane dragged Lydia into the dining room and propelled her toward a chair at the center of the long table, the most ignoble spot in the room.
Lydia nearly stumbled, but caught herself on the back of the chair. She nearly sat down, but Miss Easton hissed at her. Oh botheration, no one else sat. She pulled herself to stand beside the table.
Mrs. Drummond nodded. She and Miss Thorton at the head of the table and Miss Honeywell and Miss Fitzgilbert at the foot sat down. The students followed suit.
How odd, two seats, one at Mrs. Drummond's left and one near the foot of the table remained vacant.
Miss Easton handed her a bowl of roasted potatoes. "Serve yourself ,dear; we have no footmen or gentlemen to do the job. Do it quickly and pass the plate. None of us like to wait."
She dumped a spoonful on her plate and handed it to Miss Colbrane.
"The food here is decent enough." Miss Colbrane whispered.
"Mercy that it is, you know." Miss Easton handed her a dish of peas and lettuce.
"We work hard enough most days. I dare say we would starve to death quite easily if it were not for the cooking here."
"But do not be late for meals. Missus does not tolerate that. You come late, you do not get food at all." Miss Easton
"How cruel! Is that why those seats are empty?"
"The one by Missus is odd indeed. I do not know why Miss Long has moved down. She is not wearing a cap, though, so she cannot have fallen too far from favor. The other is Juliana Morley's seat. She has special permission to be late on Fridays. She is the only one." Miss Easton cast a knowing look at Miss Colbrane.
"Why?"
"You will see." Miss Eason smirked.
Lydia chewed the inside of her cheek. "You do not like her? I am to share a room with her."
"You poor dear." Miss Colbrane patted her arm.
"You may come visit in our room whenever you like."
"Is she so very terrible?"
"Oh, not at all. Dear little Juliana is very, very good. She is the sweetest, nicest, kindest girl among us." Miss Colbrane batted her eyes.
"I do not understand."
"You will." Miss Easton handed her a bowl of oat pudding.
It plopped wetly on her plate. Her stomach churned. Just her foul luck to have a horrid roommate who was some favorite to Mrs. Drummond. She would probably be some sort of moralizing tell-all who bent the headmistress' ear with reports on all her fellows. Why could she not share with gay companions like Miss Colbrane and Miss Easton.
Mrs. Drummond rang a small crystal bell and the room stilled. "You have all noticed an extra place at our table tonight. Tonight, we welcome a new member of our staff. Come in please." She looked over her shoulder and beckoned to someone just beyond the doorway.
A lean, almost awkward young man, all elbows and knees, pale skin and a shock of black hair ambled in. His face was very plain, not worthy of note at all, except for his eyes which were a rich, deep, vibrant blue. He stopped beside Mrs. Drummond.
"Mr. Amberson has taken the position as our music master."
"Old Mr. Clearly died last month." Miss Colbrane whispered.
"He will teach you on Fridays and take other students from the village the rest of the week. He is my nephew and shall take the room across the hall from mine. The staff shall manage the maintenance of his rooms without your assistance. Any of you found in his quarters will be dismissed from school immediately. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Mrs. Drummond."
"Oh, she is horrible." Lydia muttered.
"He's probably a gentleman of good reputation but little fortune. His dearest aunt does not want us tainting him." Miss Easton snickered behind her hand.
Mr. Amberson bowed and stammered. "A pleasure to make your acquaintances. After dinner tonight, I should like all of you to play for me that I might take a measure of your proficiency." He sat down beside Mrs. Drummond.
Awkwardness descended upon the room like a summer thunderstorm. A few girls basked in the news: two girls in caps, Miss Fitzgilbert and Miss Long. Obviously, they were proficient and happy to show off for their new master.
The rest looked aside or squirmed in their seats. The awkward, ginger-pate across from Lydia sniffled and blotted her eyes with the back of her hand.
"That is Emma Greenville." Miss Easton rolled her eyes. "She is quite the dunce at music. Made Old Clearly ever so cross. He would always cane her hands when she fumbled but it made no difference. She plays no better now than before. We think it was her playing what gave him the apoplexy that killed him."
"I bet she will fall into a grand swoon or have a hysterical fit to get out of playing."
"I think not—remember what Missus did to the last girl who had a fit?" Miss Easton turned to Lydia. "Let us just say we do not recommend it."
"I …I will keep that in mind." Papa had little tolerance for hysterical fits in his own daughters. Though he was happy to treat them in other families. "Do you think he will be so terribly strict?"
Miss Colbrane shrugged. "There is no way of knowing. But he is young and that is to our material advantage."
"I have heard that they grow stricter with age and bad pupils. Perhaps we might be very lucky and he might fall in love with one of us." Miss Easton giggled.
"Do not let Old Lady Drummond hear you say that. I wager she would cane us for the very thought!"
"Does she do that often?" Lydia
Miss Colburn shrugged. "Not so much—"
"Not so much! Do not fabricate tales to make her feel better. It happens most every day I should say. There is a reason why the chairs in the dining room are padded."
Lydia shuddered.
Miss Colbrane leaned in close. "Do not listen to her. She is a dreadful tease."
Perhaps, but Mrs. Drummond did look ever so mean—just the type who would take great pleasure in punishing a girl for almost no reason at all. How would she ever survive?
Miss Easton elbowed her. "Do not fear, you will get used to it. It is not so bad after the first eight or ten times."
"Stop being so mean!" Miss Colbrane hissed.
"Oh, look!" Miss Easton sat up very straight and twitched her head in the direction of the door.
A young woman in a dull grey dress, cap, and apron waddled in and made her way to the remaining open chair. Her face was pudgy-round and she was very fat.
"That is Juliana Morley."
What joy was hers. She had the ugliest girl in the school for her roommate.