from taking the sugar in her tea that she loved but had declined while Marianne’s father, kind but ascetic, was alive?
Marianne’s thoughts always came back to food now. Surely that was a sign she was where she ought to be.
When Sally returned, arms full of the ingredients for the cheese sauce, Marianne was not sorry to turn to the stove. To the work she knew and understood as she did nothing else.
OCCASIONALLY, SHE PEEKED into the refectory as the young ladies took their dinner. She did so today, reminding herself that she was where she belonged: in the kitchen, as a cook.
She could have existed always apart from the upstairs, never seeing the young ladies or knowing whether they enjoyed the work of the kitchens. But she liked seeing them, liked knowing most of them bolted their food with healthy young appetites and took second helpings. The understandable hunger that a girl in her teens developed after racking her brain all day overlaid even the lessons in deportment and manners.
Before taking their food, the girls always said their prayers, then a chant, sort of a school motto, though Marianne had never seen it anywhere official.
I am an exceptional young lady. I deserve the best and am prepared for the worst. Whatever comes my way, I am equal to the task. I know that I am never alone, because my teachers and sisters will always watch out for me as I watch out for them.
They all wore the same outfit, a pretty if simple gown of a medium blue color that was almost universally flattering, but they were hardly birds of a feather. The young ladies were any age from eight to twenty, magpies and peacocks and sparrows and ravens. Some sang, some imitated, some flaunted. Some eyed their surroundings, biding.
All eating, though, and with relish.
And Marianne felt lonely as she watched them dine. She’d never gone away to school. But once, thus, she had sat with her sisters, and they had been so different, but all belonged together.
It had been too long since she’d written to them. Both well-dowered due to the sale of the family lands, they’d married—she assumed happily—and had some children. She’d never met them, but the news was good. It was good enough.
She hadn’t noticed the empty seat at the head of the table until a woman’s voice sounded at her side. “Mrs. Redfern. Come and speak with me in my office.”
Faintly Welsh-accented and not to be gainsaid, this was the unmistakable tone of the headmistress.
Unworried but puzzled, Marianne eased shut the servants’ door and followed her employer up the back stairs, then out into a wide and bright corridor along which Mrs. Brodie’s office was located. As the older woman eased behind her desk, covered with tidy stacks of correspondence and other administrative papers, Marianne stood with hands folded neatly behind her back.
A small woman in her middle forties giving an impression of great strength, the headmistress was dressed all in black. Her hair, black too, though shot with gray, was severely pinned back from a face that would never not be beautiful.
When she settled a few papers, she looked up at Marianne. “Sit, sit. If you wish. I need to discuss a few items related to the...” She smiled. “Donor Dinner, I believe the staff are calling it?”
Marianne returned the headmistress’s smile as she sat in the indicated chair. “Quickest way of reminding ourselves what we’re all working for.”
There was much more to the event than the food, though that was Marianne’s only concern. But she knew that the older students would be exhibiting their more conventional talents, with needlework and artwork on display, with recitations in French and English, with sentences parsed and history recited. The food was the backdrop; the girls were the performers. And all of it was to convince well-meaning, deep-pocketed sorts that Mrs. Brodie’s Academy was worth funding.
Mrs. Brodie jotted notes on a slip of foolscap that she slid across the desk to her. Certain wines to be served before dinner, along with the first of the exhibitions. This would require an adjustment to the wines served during dinner, which would in turn require a different order of dishes in the courses. Marianne nodded, understanding, already imagining the switch and slide of roasts and sides in her plan for the first course.
This office was another place she belonged, and her employer’s trust in her was proof. And because of that, she’d do anything in her power—and maybe a little