life in the Frigidaire here,’ said a pretty American girl with black hair. ‘It’s a dump. Wait till Papa finds
out we’re stuck in the eighteenth century. I’m Sophie.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s better than my boarding school dorm in Scotland. We’ll survive. It should be summer soon. It’s rather a beautiful house . . .’ Callie
tried to sound cheery.
‘It’s a wreck; it needs a decorator,’ said another American girl, almost in tears. ‘I’m Vanessa.’
‘Darling, you should see some of the stately homes I’ve slept in . . . This is a palace. I’m Clementine but Madame insists I’m called Clemence,’ said a willowy
English girl, holding out her hand.
Another, plumper, girl stepped forward. ‘I think she’s fallen on hard times. She’s a widow from the war and I heard there were three sons to educate. She only takes us in to
pay the bills, but she’s good. My sister came two years ago. I’m Pamela, by the way, and what name has she given you?’ She smiled at Callie.
‘I’m Caroline, but I only answer to Callie. I think that’s French enough.’ Suddenly a gong rang downstairs, and Callie threw her case on the bed, pulled her stockings
straight and shoved her hair behind her ears, hoping she would pass muster.
Her disarray did not go unnoticed as Madame glared at her with contempt as she addressed the new intake. ‘You are an investment – your parents have invested their assets in your
welfare, an education fitting for society girls and those unfortunates among you who must earn a living. Now I will impart the finishing touches so that should one of you be so fortunate as to
marry the Prince of Wales, no one will say you don’t have the grooming and graces of a princess-in-waiting. You understand me?’
She eyed them one by one with a piercing glare. ‘I am looking for snake hips and fine bones, but alas,’ she sighed, ‘nothing do I see but slumped shoulders and puppy fat. You
must look like racehorses, not cart horses. I am looking for pearls and simple elegance, Vanessa, not glittery trinkets. We French are the masters of making the most of what we have. You see I am
petite, but if I lift my figure, my hair, my neck, I grow inches, and with heels I can be a gazelle.’
Callie was trying to keep a straight face at the thought of anyone round this table as a gazelle.
‘Three things I teach: how to walk, how to dress, how to conduct yourself with grace and charm. I allow no smoking in my salon – it spoils the skin; no Belgian chocolates or pastries
– they thicken what should be slender. I demand correct standing, fresh air and, above all, a curious mind. We plan many visits so that you can lace your conversations with interesting
anecdotes. Your parents will get value for their investment in you here,’ she smiled. ‘Now you may talk.’
Everyone was too shocked to say a word, but pulled themselves out of their chairs and tried to walk elegantly to the door before collapsing in giggles. The grooming marathon had begun.
There were visits to every museum in Bruges, which Madame said was the Venice of the North. They watched the lace makers at work; admired all the Dutch and Flemish painters. Mornings were
crammed with activity, but in the afternoons the countess disappeared to her room, leaving her pupils to read on the lawn, go riding or swimming. The food was delicious but Spartan. Callie had
never eaten so many eggs and vegetables. The two American girls complained bitterly about the portion sizes until they noticed their waistbands were slacker, feeling bones rather than flesh. Soon
the girls began to relax and share their experiences.
‘I was supposed to go to Miss Porter’s Academy, the best finishing school in the States,’ said Vanessa. ‘That was until they couldn’t take me . . .’ she
confided. ‘I had the wrong surname. There are no Greenbergs or Cohens allowed into the school so my pa decided Europe would be better. I love it here,
out we’re stuck in the eighteenth century. I’m Sophie.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s better than my boarding school dorm in Scotland. We’ll survive. It should be summer soon. It’s rather a beautiful house . . .’ Callie
tried to sound cheery.
‘It’s a wreck; it needs a decorator,’ said another American girl, almost in tears. ‘I’m Vanessa.’
‘Darling, you should see some of the stately homes I’ve slept in . . . This is a palace. I’m Clementine but Madame insists I’m called Clemence,’ said a willowy
English girl, holding out her hand.
Another, plumper, girl stepped forward. ‘I think she’s fallen on hard times. She’s a widow from the war and I heard there were three sons to educate. She only takes us in to
pay the bills, but she’s good. My sister came two years ago. I’m Pamela, by the way, and what name has she given you?’ She smiled at Callie.
‘I’m Caroline, but I only answer to Callie. I think that’s French enough.’ Suddenly a gong rang downstairs, and Callie threw her case on the bed, pulled her stockings
straight and shoved her hair behind her ears, hoping she would pass muster.
Her disarray did not go unnoticed as Madame glared at her with contempt as she addressed the new intake. ‘You are an investment – your parents have invested their assets in your
welfare, an education fitting for society girls and those unfortunates among you who must earn a living. Now I will impart the finishing touches so that should one of you be so fortunate as to
marry the Prince of Wales, no one will say you don’t have the grooming and graces of a princess-in-waiting. You understand me?’
She eyed them one by one with a piercing glare. ‘I am looking for snake hips and fine bones, but alas,’ she sighed, ‘nothing do I see but slumped shoulders and puppy fat. You
must look like racehorses, not cart horses. I am looking for pearls and simple elegance, Vanessa, not glittery trinkets. We French are the masters of making the most of what we have. You see I am
petite, but if I lift my figure, my hair, my neck, I grow inches, and with heels I can be a gazelle.’
Callie was trying to keep a straight face at the thought of anyone round this table as a gazelle.
‘Three things I teach: how to walk, how to dress, how to conduct yourself with grace and charm. I allow no smoking in my salon – it spoils the skin; no Belgian chocolates or pastries
– they thicken what should be slender. I demand correct standing, fresh air and, above all, a curious mind. We plan many visits so that you can lace your conversations with interesting
anecdotes. Your parents will get value for their investment in you here,’ she smiled. ‘Now you may talk.’
Everyone was too shocked to say a word, but pulled themselves out of their chairs and tried to walk elegantly to the door before collapsing in giggles. The grooming marathon had begun.
There were visits to every museum in Bruges, which Madame said was the Venice of the North. They watched the lace makers at work; admired all the Dutch and Flemish painters. Mornings were
crammed with activity, but in the afternoons the countess disappeared to her room, leaving her pupils to read on the lawn, go riding or swimming. The food was delicious but Spartan. Callie had
never eaten so many eggs and vegetables. The two American girls complained bitterly about the portion sizes until they noticed their waistbands were slacker, feeling bones rather than flesh. Soon
the girls began to relax and share their experiences.
‘I was supposed to go to Miss Porter’s Academy, the best finishing school in the States,’ said Vanessa. ‘That was until they couldn’t take me . . .’ she
confided. ‘I had the wrong surname. There are no Greenbergs or Cohens allowed into the school so my pa decided Europe would be better. I love it here,
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