Page 27 of The Light Between Worlds

Tom nods, resting both arms on the fence’s top rail. “’Course. But I’ve got an uncle in London I always visit at the end of hols. That’s why we ended up on the train together at start of term. I’m coming down the day after New Year’s, and we could meet up atthe station again if you like.”

“I would. Tell me what you’re looking forward to about going home.”

I never really care so much about going back to London, myself. It’s not that I don’t love my parents, but we were sent away so often during the war that their house has just been a stopping place ever since. The Woodlands only finished a job that had already been started. London, and my parents’ house, are the places I leave to journey elsewhere.

Tom stares past the cattle and the pen, past market day, seeing something that I can’t. “Waking up to the rooster instead of the bell at school,” he says. “Our kitchen, and the way my mum always sings when she works. The sound of my sisters laughing about something—they’re terrors, but they’d take a shine to you. The way my dad keeps quiet but he’s always listening and no one gives better advice if you can pry it out of him. Being back on the dales and able to go wherever I want, whenever I want.”

He stops, as if surprised by all the words that have come out of him.

“Why aren’t you going to farm?” I ask. “If you love your home so much, what are you doing at St. Joseph’s?”

Tom grins. “Meg, my older sister, is over the moon about the farm. And my London uncle, Uncle Morris, hasn’t got any children, so he’s set his heart on me learning the law. He pays for my place at St. Joe’s. I don’t mind so much—I’m clever when I need to be, and everything works out neatly for Meg.”

I squint up at him through the rain. “Will you be happy?”

Tom’s grin widens. “I’d imagine once Uncle Morris passes on,I’ll make him spin in his grave and turn country solicitor rather than London barrister. I could be happy then. And I’m happy now, with you.”

Across the pen, Hobb shakes hands with the farmer. Then he stumps over and hands me the Jersey’s lead rope. The calf doesn’t need one—she’ll follow her mother anywhere. We make our way back to the lorry, and Hobb has already filled the bed with hay. Those must have been his mysterious arrangements. The cow, Buttercup, and the calf, Bluebell—named by the farmer’s florally inclined daughter—settle themselves down immediately. Before either Hobb or Tom can protest (Hobb would, Tom wouldn’t, but I give neither of them the opportunity), I climb up into the hay with the cows.

“Suit yourself, Miss Evelyn,” Hobb grumbles, and Tom gives me a wink.

On Monday, a prefect appears in the doorway to English Lit and passes a note to Max. She takes it, reads the contents, and calls my name.

“Evelyn Hapwell, come here, please.”

I walk up to her desk reluctantly. “Yes?”

“The Curmudgeon wants to see you,” Max says. “I’d tell you why, but her note doesn’t say. Is there something I should know?”

I shake my head in confusion. “No. I’ve got no idea what this is about.”

“Best run along then.” Max waves a hand. “Doesn’t do to keep her waiting.”

When I glance back over one shoulder at Georgie, she gives me a reassuring smile.

The school’s rambling corridors are empty and eerie in the middle of classes. I wander through the building, going from the Old Quarter, where Max’s class is housed and which is all stone hallways and narrow, grated windows, to the New Quarter at the front of the building. There, renovations have been done to impress the parents of potential students, and the hardwood of the front hall’s parquet floor glows softly in the afternoon sun.

The Curmudgeon’s office is just off St. Agatha’s imposing entrance hall, and I knock timidly at the door. I’ve never been called up by her before, and can’t imagine why I have been now. A quiet, careful voice tells me I’m to enter, and I slip inside.

To all intents and purposes, I might have stepped into a room in an English country house. There are ornate end tables and wingback chairs, a side table with a silver tea service, a well-mannered fire on the hearth, and even a fat pug dog I’ve never laid eyes on before curled up in a basket.

The Curmudgeon herself sits behind a desk of mammoth proportions and gestures to a chair across from her. “Miss Hapwell. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a visit in my office. Do sit down.”

I perch on the edge of the chair, not daring to make myself comfortable. Our headmistress is a formidable sight, figure pulled in by a corset, hair done up in last century’s fashion, peering at me through a pair of pince-nez. “I suppose you know what this is about?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” I answer.

The Curmudgeon looks thoroughly unimpressed by my inability to read her mind. “Theboy, Miss Hapwell. It’s about the boy.”

“Oh, Tom?” I say with a smile. “What about him?”

The Curmudgeon’s expression suddenly shifts to one that could freeze oil. “Not about him. About your conductwithhim. Are you comporting yourself as a St. Agatha’s girl ought to?”

I stare at her blankly. I’m not entirely sure how a St. Agatha’s girl ought to behave, with boys or otherwise. It’s not something I’ve ever troubled myself about.

“I’d hoped not to be forced into this conversation with you, Miss Hapwell. You may have your own set of difficulties, but this, at least, has not been one of your failings until now. However, I’ll tell you what I had reason to remind your sister of on many occasions: any girl who disgraces the honor and good name of this school will be promptly expelled. Are we quite clear?”

I ought to nod meekly. I ought to do anything other than bristle, but I can feel myself growing prickly as a briar. Sitting up very straight, with my shoulders steady, I fix the Curmudgeon with a frigid stare even Philippa would envy. “Thank you, yes. Am I free to go?”