Emilia frowned slightly. “I believe so.”
The footman opened the door and assisted them onto the recently swept pavement.
Approaching them, the woman asked, “Miss Sutherland?”
“Yes,” Emilia confirmed.
A warm, welcoming smile lit up the woman’s face, completely transforming it and putting Emilia at ease. “It is so wonderful that you decided to visit us today. The girls have talked about little else since they heard the news. They have never had the chance to meet a real lady before.”
The woman continued. “My apologies. Introductions are in order,” she said. “My name is Mrs. Anderson and I am your headmistress.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Emilia responded before gesturing towards Clarissa. “This is Miss Clarissa Livingston.”
“You are most welcome, Miss Clarissa,” Mrs. Anderson gushed as she led them inside.
The entry hall was modest, and the ivory-papered walls were adorned with a floral design. A set of stairs was positioned along one wall, leading to the upper level.
Mrs. Anderson led them into a room adjacent to the entry hall, which was set up as her office. A desk occupied the center of the small, square room, with two chairs facing it.
The headmistress took her seat behind the desk and gestured towards the two chairs. “Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss,” she said.
Emilia settled into one of the chairs and noticed that Clarissa looked deucedly uncomfortable as she sat down. “How are the girls?” she asked.
That was the right thing to ask because the smile returned to Mrs. Anderson’s face. “They are just delightful. Your father selected girls that truly need our help. Many of them came to us with tattered clothing and very few possessions. We have since clothed them and fed them.”
“That is wonderful to hear,” Emilia said.
“You are truly making a difference in these girls’ lives and I am grateful to be part of it,” Mrs. Anderson responded. “Your father would be very proud of what you are accomplishing here.”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “I daresay you are overexaggerating Emilia’s importance here, considering all she is doing is taking these poor girls off the street.”
If Mrs. Anderson was taken aback by Clarissa’s remark, she didn’t show it. Instead, she replied calmly, “Miss Sutherland is doing much more than that. She is giving these girls hope for a brighter future. Once they complete their studies, they could become a lady’s maid or possibly a housekeeper. She has opened doors that once were closed for these girls.”
Upon hearing the headmistress’ words, Clarissa fell silent, appearing to contemplate the significance of what had just been spoken.
With a glance at the wall clock, Mrs. Anderson asked, “Would you care to join us for our midday meal?”
“I would like that very much,” Emilia replied.
Rising, Mrs. Anderson said, “I should warn you that the girls can be rather talkative during meals but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Neither would I,” Emilia agreed as she also rose from her seat.
Noticing that Clarissa hadn’t risen, Emilia questioned, “Is everything all right?”
Clarissa looked up at her with a bemused look on her face. “Yes, I was just thinking, which is never a good thing.” She let out a light laugh, but it didn’t sound particularly convincing. “Shall we go meet the girls?”
“Yes, assuming all is well with you,” Emilia responded.
With a haughty tilt of her chin, Clarissa stated, “You do not need to concern yourself with me. Nothing is wrong with me, and you will be wise to remember that.”
Emilia couldn’t help but wonder why she bothered trying to decipher Clarissa’s ever-changing moods. She thought she had glimpsed something, perhaps a crack in her haughty façade, but it appeared she had been mistaken.
But one thing was for certain- being at this boarding school felt a bit like being home. She would do whatever it took for this boarding school to succeed.
With the morning sun streaming in through the windows, Fredrick sat at his mother’s bedside as she slept. He was a coward. It hurt him not to be recognized by his own mother. So he had waited until she was asleep to visit. Which was becoming much more often. Her body was withering away, right in front of him, and he knew he could do nothing about it.
It wasn’t his mother’s fault that her mind was slipping, but he wished he could have one conversation with her that wasn’t clouded in confusion. It would have been different if he had returned home sooner from the war, but he was doing what his conscience had dictated. He had fought with a purpose until he did something that was unthinkable. Unforgivable.
