with the two new books, although the ribbons had disappeared, never to be mentioned again.
At first, Sophy had been unable to believe she would never seeBridget and her parents again, but when it had sunk in that they had gone for good, she had been bereft. She had only really begun to recover from the heartbreak of losing the only people in the world she loved and who loved her, when she had come to the school and Charlotte had befriended her. Charlotte had been her protector in those early days too; although her hair had begun to grow back, Sophy had still had to wear a mop cap for some time, which had been explained by saying she had been very ill and her hair had fallen out. Some of the girls had teased her most spitefully until Charlotte had let it be known that anyone who upset Sophy upset her too, and Charlotte was a favourite with everyone.
She had never told anyone the truth about the loss of her hair, not even Charlotte. It wasn’t out of any sense of misguided loyalty to her aunt, but because the whole episode had made her feel painfully debased and ashamed. It still did.
Sophy raised her hand to her hair, neatly secured in a shining chignon at the back of her head. All of Miss Bainbridge’s young ladies wore their hair in this fashion from the age of fourteen – it was part of their preparation for womanhood; although when she was at home her aunt insisted she scrape her hair back into a tight plait. She had complied with this order thus far, but had vowed when she was sixteen and had left the school, she would tell her aunt she was wearing her hair how she liked. And her sixteenth birthday had passed two weeks ago.
Sophy’s beautiful eyes narrowed. There were going to be battles ahead. She didn’t know exactly when she’d ceased fearing her aunt, but gradually her dread of the woman who had treated her so cruelly had been replaced by hatred, and lately contempt had been added to the mix. Her aunt hadn’t touched her since that day six years ago, but Sophy knew now that if she attempted to do so again, she would fight her tooth and nail. She’d been a slight child at ten, finely boned and thin. She was still finely boned, but now slender rather than thin, and she was tall for her age. Moreover, she knew she was strong inside, where it counted. She’d had to be. She nodded mentally to the thought. Her aunt would notsubjugate her again; she would kill or be killed first. That was how strongly she felt about it.
Dear, dear. Suddenly Sophy’s irrepressible humour came into play. Whatever would Miss Bainbridge do if she knew that one of ‘her girls’ was capable of thinking such things? Expire on the spot, most likely, or certainly indulge in a ladylike fit of the vapours.
Sophy glanced round the crowded refectory where excited girls were running hither and thither or clustered together in chattering groups, their faces alight with the anticipation of going home for Christmas.
She wasn’t like any of these girls, she was different. Not just because she was an orphan, but deep inside, in her heart and mind. From when she’d first set foot in this place with Patience, Miss Bainbridge had taught them that a woman’s place in life was to be a decorative and useful asset to her husband. Furthermore, expensive objects were to be coveted, representing as they did, symbols of status and lifestyle. Miss Bainbridge had been adamant that gentility and morality were one and the same, and a woman’s identity lay firmly in the man whose wife she was. A woman, any woman, rich or poor, could only be happy fulfilling her sacred role of pleasing her husband in everything. These were the precepts Miss Bainbridge and her team of spinsters drummed into each girl from her first week at the school until her last, and it was true to say that all her classmates, even dear Charlotte, accepted such pri nciples without too much trouble.
Sophy frowned, turning to gaze out of the window which overlooked the square of lawn and
At first, Sophy had been unable to believe she would never seeBridget and her parents again, but when it had sunk in that they had gone for good, she had been bereft. She had only really begun to recover from the heartbreak of losing the only people in the world she loved and who loved her, when she had come to the school and Charlotte had befriended her. Charlotte had been her protector in those early days too; although her hair had begun to grow back, Sophy had still had to wear a mop cap for some time, which had been explained by saying she had been very ill and her hair had fallen out. Some of the girls had teased her most spitefully until Charlotte had let it be known that anyone who upset Sophy upset her too, and Charlotte was a favourite with everyone.
She had never told anyone the truth about the loss of her hair, not even Charlotte. It wasn’t out of any sense of misguided loyalty to her aunt, but because the whole episode had made her feel painfully debased and ashamed. It still did.
Sophy raised her hand to her hair, neatly secured in a shining chignon at the back of her head. All of Miss Bainbridge’s young ladies wore their hair in this fashion from the age of fourteen – it was part of their preparation for womanhood; although when she was at home her aunt insisted she scrape her hair back into a tight plait. She had complied with this order thus far, but had vowed when she was sixteen and had left the school, she would tell her aunt she was wearing her hair how she liked. And her sixteenth birthday had passed two weeks ago.
Sophy’s beautiful eyes narrowed. There were going to be battles ahead. She didn’t know exactly when she’d ceased fearing her aunt, but gradually her dread of the woman who had treated her so cruelly had been replaced by hatred, and lately contempt had been added to the mix. Her aunt hadn’t touched her since that day six years ago, but Sophy knew now that if she attempted to do so again, she would fight her tooth and nail. She’d been a slight child at ten, finely boned and thin. She was still finely boned, but now slender rather than thin, and she was tall for her age. Moreover, she knew she was strong inside, where it counted. She’d had to be. She nodded mentally to the thought. Her aunt would notsubjugate her again; she would kill or be killed first. That was how strongly she felt about it.
Dear, dear. Suddenly Sophy’s irrepressible humour came into play. Whatever would Miss Bainbridge do if she knew that one of ‘her girls’ was capable of thinking such things? Expire on the spot, most likely, or certainly indulge in a ladylike fit of the vapours.
Sophy glanced round the crowded refectory where excited girls were running hither and thither or clustered together in chattering groups, their faces alight with the anticipation of going home for Christmas.
She wasn’t like any of these girls, she was different. Not just because she was an orphan, but deep inside, in her heart and mind. From when she’d first set foot in this place with Patience, Miss Bainbridge had taught them that a woman’s place in life was to be a decorative and useful asset to her husband. Furthermore, expensive objects were to be coveted, representing as they did, symbols of status and lifestyle. Miss Bainbridge had been adamant that gentility and morality were one and the same, and a woman’s identity lay firmly in the man whose wife she was. A woman, any woman, rich or poor, could only be happy fulfilling her sacred role of pleasing her husband in everything. These were the precepts Miss Bainbridge and her team of spinsters drummed into each girl from her first week at the school until her last, and it was true to say that all her classmates, even dear Charlotte, accepted such pri nciples without too much trouble.
Sophy frowned, turning to gaze out of the window which overlooked the square of lawn and
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