either.
âShe is a princess,â Georgiaâs mother interjected. âThis school seemed more appropriate.â
Ms Defarge beamed. âYouâre not our first titled student,â she said. âAnd what kind of course are you thinking of doing, Georgia?â
No use beating around the bush. Hit them with the truth.
âCarpentry.â
Ms Defarge flashed a look of alarm at Georgiaâs parents. They registered nothing. Georgia had been the top student in Year 8 Woodwork. Her CD rack had been the best in the class, and sheâd been given an A++ for it. She stretched back in the chair and put her hands behind her head. If she couldnât do carpentry, she wouldnât enrol.
Ms Defarge tapped her lips thoughtfully. âA non-traditional subject.â Her sparkle was fading fast. âWe would perhaps have to arrange a school-based apprenticeship. We have a wonderful careers adviser.â
âGeorgia is her own person,â her father said.
Ms Defarge leant across her desk. âYou wouldnât be interested in architecture?â
Georgiaâs mother supported her. âShe wants to use her hands.â
Her father, elegant in a mauve tie and matching mauve handkerchief, interrupted the headmistress. âThe mottoâ â he was looking behind her at the gilded shield on the wall â âif my schoolboy Latin still serves me, seems to say something like: I despise awful and profane people ?â He looked at Ms Defarge in surprise.
The headmistress giggled wildly and glanced at the large crest. â Odi profanum vulgus et arceo is a trifle dated, I must admit, but we find the translation Shun really unpleasant people a little more appropriate in the twenty-first century. The school is a hundred and thirty years old, Maharajah. We have inherited things from the past that are now a little quaint, but we donât discard them. Judges still wear wigs.â
âQuite right, too,â nodded her father. âAnd the devices?â Ms Defargeâs gaze fell lovingly on the school crest. âThe crest bears the devices of a mirror in the top right, coins to the left and a hearth below, for beauty, wealth and a comfortable home.â She paused. âIt still speaks volumes to our girls.â She clasped her hands and looked delighted. âWe are a wonderful school. Our girls never want to leave.â
Georgiaâs father remained silent.
âWell ⦠perhaps youâd like to see Mary Magdalene, Georgia?
Iâve asked Tamsin Court-Cookson to take you on a short tour. Sheâs captain of Gwen Meredith House and â youâve probably guessed from the surname â the Deputy Prime Ministerâs daughter. We have a rich cross-section of the community here, Maharajah. One of our scholarship girls is the daughter of a postman.â She laughed. âHe used to pick her up from school on his little yellow postmanâs motorbike until we stopped it.â
Ms Defarge got up and went to the door. âTamsin,â she tinkled, âplease come in and meet the maharajah, the maharani and their daughter, the Princess Georgia.â
A tall girl with a shock of hair combed from left to right just like a boyâs stepped into the room. She had the most beautiful clear skin and the most defiant look in her grey eyes. In a whisper, Ms Defarge told Tamsin Court-Cookson to curtsy.
She didnât.
âI wonder if youâd mind taking Georgia on a short tour of the school? There will be flavoured milk and Tiny Teddies waiting for you both here in my office when you return in half an hour.â
âCertainly,â said Tamsin, looking coldly at Georgia.
Georgia followed Tamsin as she led the way into the windy afternoon. Tamsin was certainly imposing.
Without looking at Georgia, Tamsin announced, âWeâll visit the chapel first; you may need to pray. Why on earth did you come here from India? You must be
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