On a table behind Miss Preston is a beaded buckskin bag that she says was a gift to her family from a Sioux chief. From what I know about folks I think it’s more likely one of her ancestors stole it. Rumor is that Miss Preston’s people had gone west to the Minnesota Territory before the war but came back when the undead got the better of them. There were whispers that Miss Preston had taken a Sioux lover while out west and that she kept a single eagle feather in his memory, but I don’t believe any of that. Seems a little too much like the “True Tales of the West” stories printed every week in the paper. Plus, there ain’t a feather to be found on her desk anywhere. I would know; I spend a lot of time in the headmistress’s office.
Miss Preston occupies the chair behind the desk while Miss Anderson sits in the chair in front of the desk. My instructor wears her lemon-eating face, so I know this ain’t going to be a pleasant chat.
I inhale deeply and drop down into a curtsy. “Miss Anderson, Miss Preston, good evening.”
“Save the pretty manners, Jane McKeene. You know why you’re here.” Miss Anderson is a widow, and even though her husband died in the War between the States—fighting for the Confederacy, no doubt—she still wears her widow’s weeds. Personally I think all black suits her. With her pale skin, hatchet-sharp nose, and constantly down-turned mouth, I can’t imagine her in any other color.
“Miss Anderson, I’m afraid I am ignorant as to the reason of this visit. Honest Abe,” I add when she opens her mouth to call me a liar. Momma used to tell me, “Deny it until they’ve got you dead to rights, sugar. If they can’t prove it, it never happened.” It’s good advice, and it’s served me well.
Miss Preston clears her throat, distracting Miss Anderson from whatever she is about to say. “You’re here because your progress in your etiquette training is inadequate. In addition, Miss Anderson tells me she found you sneaking in newspapers yet again. As you are already on probation for previous infractions, these latest shenanigans don’t bode well for your continued enrollment here.”
I nod and clench my hands in my skirts. I should have known that Miss Anderson would run to Miss Preston as soon as she found that newspaper under my bed. Most of the girls here can’t read, so sometimes I read out loud to them. But reading isn’t something an Attendant needs to learn, so it’s frowned upon. Newspapers and novels are considered unnecessary distractions. From the way Miss Anderson acted about us girls reading, you’d think it was something dangerous.
But the contraband was peanuts compared to my test. I wasn’t all that surprised that I’d failed my most recent etiquette examination. Seemed like a bunch of tomfoolery to me. Who could care what spoon was used for what or the proper address for a European noble? Still, I thought I might’ve had a bit of respite before I was going to be marched into Miss Preston’s office. I was already on academic probation on account of not caring enough about the importance of gravy boats. Now it looks like I’m about to get the boot.
And then where would I go? I don’t even know if Rose Hill still stands. I haven’t gotten a letter from my momma in nearly a year, though I still write faithfully. And Rose Hill and Miss Preston’s are the only two homes I have ever known.
I take a deep breath and let it out. “Miss Preston, I’ve been trying. You have to believe me when I say that I’ve been working my fingers to the bone trying to get better at drawing place settings. Why, I went through an entire box of chalk just last week.” I actually went through the chalk because a few of us girls were drawing unflattering pictures of Miss Anderson on our slates, but that is beside the point. “I daresay my efforts have been derailed not because of my difficulties with etiquette but because of Miss Anderson’s treachery.”
The smile that had been ghosting across Miss Anderson’s face while Miss Preston admonished me drops off real quick, and Miss Anderson’s usual sourpuss face reappears.
“Treachery? What treachery?”
I sniff, indignant. “Why, that last test wasn’t even fair. Questions on the proper address of European nobles? And European-style place settings? We ain’t even talked about that stuff in our lessons.”
Miss Anderson jumps to her feet, her face redder than boiled beets. “A ploy? Treachery? It was important etiquette, you ungrateful little brat! I’m preparing you for the noble endeavor of serving as an Attendant to polite society, but it’s like trying to teach manners to an animal. You think I don’t know what you say about me behind my back? That mother of yours—”
“Sarah, that is enough!” Miss Preston surges to her feet, a mountain of calicos and lace. “You will excuse yourself from this meeting. Now.” I’ve never heard Miss Preston yell before, never really even seen her mad. It is awe-inspiring, a woman of the headmistress’s considerable girth moving so quickly.
Miss Anderson stands, gathers her skirts (no small feat, she has to be wearing
