never have troubled you with the information had you not made a mockery of the Reckoning,” Vesalius Munt hissed. “Your parents have told you they publish books, I presume? That they are among the literary set?”
Clarke said nothing.
“I believe in the value of education for every child, including even
females
, a position which has garnered me much criticism!” Mr. Munt cried with an arm raised. “And here this beggar at the gates of paradise accuses
me
of misconduct! Her parents print lurid erotic fiction, which it pains me to say in your company, ladies,” he added, flushing nicely before the rapt teaching staff. “They donated beyond Clarke’s fee to consign their daughter to my care; I accepted, hoping to save the child from heinous influences; and now she—the viper!—tells me that I have made Miss Lilyvale the subject of my
unwanted attentions
?”
“Oh my
God
,” breathed Taylor, morbidly fascinated.
We watched as Miss Lilyvale clutched at her voiceless throat and fled the room. When I think of the anger I felt, I will always recall ice and not fire, the way snow sears into one’s flesh.
Clarke’s face was rigid save for the tremor in her tiny lips.
“Yes,” said she, “that’s exactly what I mean to tell you.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Munt, enjoying himself again. “You can confine yourself to porridge at breakfast for the foreseeable future. Next confessor?”
NINE
“I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead you must be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. . . . By dying young I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault.”
W ithin a fortnight, Clarke was a shade haunting hallways where no one saw or spoke to her, carrying such slight weight that the desk seats must have thought her a spring breeze. Her skin grew ashen, her lips cracked, her eyes mirrors.
“I am so ashamed of myself,” Miss Lilyvale whispered.
We were in the choir room on a Sunday before the service, only she and I, for I had left a note in her drawer demanding she meet me. Outside, the merry May breezes wanted only blithe girls with ribbons for their dance to be complete, and I pitied Miss Lilyvale for the necessity of my company a little; she had already endured unwanted attentions, veiled threats, and now a scheming schoolgirl. The choir room was neat and orderly, save for a dainty rug under the practice piano which had been gnawed by mice and reminded me of my music teacher.
“What can be done?” I urged, outwardly calm and inwardlyfrantic. “And what did you think
would
be done, anyhow? You must have wanted us to find them, but I can’t imagine what—”
“And I can’t either!” she cried, eyes wild, before her mouth pressed into a tormented dash. She hugged her own arms. “You must forgive me. No—no, you mustn’t, I’ve no right to even ask. My father is a country parson, my mother an industrious invalid, and they are happy when they’ve oxtails for their soup. Their parish is just outside London, but poor and plain for all its proximity. I learnt piano, thinking I could give private lessons. Well, I’m an utter shipwreck at music, and Mr. Munt when visiting our parish lecturing hired me anyhow, I arrived just a year before you did though I was far older, and this position pays—oh, don’t look at me, I can’t bear it.”
“You think you’re lucky to have the place.” I tentatively touched her forearm.
“I think he wanted me and not my music—who could want my music! He courted me for years without ever proposing before the letters started, and now I’m trapped, for what decent woman would have kept a job of all things with such correspondences plaguing her?” She shuddered. “Last month, he stopped me in a deserted corridor to, to
pray
for me, and he put his palms on my brow and here, over my heart.”
I required answers, and so increased the
Clarke said nothing.
“I believe in the value of education for every child, including even
females
, a position which has garnered me much criticism!” Mr. Munt cried with an arm raised. “And here this beggar at the gates of paradise accuses
me
of misconduct! Her parents print lurid erotic fiction, which it pains me to say in your company, ladies,” he added, flushing nicely before the rapt teaching staff. “They donated beyond Clarke’s fee to consign their daughter to my care; I accepted, hoping to save the child from heinous influences; and now she—the viper!—tells me that I have made Miss Lilyvale the subject of my
unwanted attentions
?”
“Oh my
God
,” breathed Taylor, morbidly fascinated.
We watched as Miss Lilyvale clutched at her voiceless throat and fled the room. When I think of the anger I felt, I will always recall ice and not fire, the way snow sears into one’s flesh.
Clarke’s face was rigid save for the tremor in her tiny lips.
“Yes,” said she, “that’s exactly what I mean to tell you.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Munt, enjoying himself again. “You can confine yourself to porridge at breakfast for the foreseeable future. Next confessor?”
NINE
“I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead you must be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. . . . By dying young I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault.”
W ithin a fortnight, Clarke was a shade haunting hallways where no one saw or spoke to her, carrying such slight weight that the desk seats must have thought her a spring breeze. Her skin grew ashen, her lips cracked, her eyes mirrors.
“I am so ashamed of myself,” Miss Lilyvale whispered.
We were in the choir room on a Sunday before the service, only she and I, for I had left a note in her drawer demanding she meet me. Outside, the merry May breezes wanted only blithe girls with ribbons for their dance to be complete, and I pitied Miss Lilyvale for the necessity of my company a little; she had already endured unwanted attentions, veiled threats, and now a scheming schoolgirl. The choir room was neat and orderly, save for a dainty rug under the practice piano which had been gnawed by mice and reminded me of my music teacher.
“What can be done?” I urged, outwardly calm and inwardlyfrantic. “And what did you think
would
be done, anyhow? You must have wanted us to find them, but I can’t imagine what—”
“And I can’t either!” she cried, eyes wild, before her mouth pressed into a tormented dash. She hugged her own arms. “You must forgive me. No—no, you mustn’t, I’ve no right to even ask. My father is a country parson, my mother an industrious invalid, and they are happy when they’ve oxtails for their soup. Their parish is just outside London, but poor and plain for all its proximity. I learnt piano, thinking I could give private lessons. Well, I’m an utter shipwreck at music, and Mr. Munt when visiting our parish lecturing hired me anyhow, I arrived just a year before you did though I was far older, and this position pays—oh, don’t look at me, I can’t bear it.”
“You think you’re lucky to have the place.” I tentatively touched her forearm.
“I think he wanted me and not my music—who could want my music! He courted me for years without ever proposing before the letters started, and now I’m trapped, for what decent woman would have kept a job of all things with such correspondences plaguing her?” She shuddered. “Last month, he stopped me in a deserted corridor to, to
pray
for me, and he put his palms on my brow and here, over my heart.”
I required answers, and so increased the
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