Authors: Carol Goodman
Before we left her establishment, Miss Janeway and Agnes
slipped into “the office” to settle the bill and, I suspected, finish
in private whatever they’d been arguing about earlier. Perhaps
they were discussing my chances of getting into Blythewood
with such a checkered past. Even if Caroline Janeway had also
been a factory girl she probably didn’t have a mother who drank
laudanum.
We went from Miss Janeway’s to Ladies’ Mile, where we
ordered a puzzling assortment of items, including a bow and
quiver and set of arrows, a falconer’s glove, and a hand bell.
Many of the establishments we visited seemed to be owned by
Blythewood alumnae, but Agnes was careful to squelch any
conversation concerning
old ways
in my presence and contrived
to have a private word with each of the Blythewood women before we left.
We spent the next two days “swotting” for my exam, as Agnes put it. We had the mansion to ourselves. My grandmother
had been called upstate on a “delicate matter.”
“But I leave you in capable hands. I am sure you will acquit
yourself as befits a Hall.”
The last bit sounded more like a threat than a hope. She
was right about Agnes, though. She drilled me in Latin declensions, historical dates, passages of English literature, and, most
curiously, collective nouns. My mother had had a fondness for
these that I had always thought strange, and now it turned out
that they were part of the Blythewood tradition.
“It’s part of the archery program,” Agnes said vaguely.
“Ladies are expected to attend the hunt. Thank goodness that
Evangeline taught them to you.”
“I don’t see how knowing the collective noun for
badgers
is going to make me fit in at Blythewood,” I said the morning
of the interview as Agnes gave me a last-minute drilling over
breakfast. “Perhaps Miss Janeway would consider taking me on
as an apprentice?” I’d been thinking since our visit to Miss Janeway’s that I’d feel more at home among the girls at their sewing
machines than on the archery fields and in the tearooms of Blythewood.
Agnes frowned with disapproval.
“I
can
sew,” I said defensively. “My mother taught me that.
Not everything she taught me was useless. She just somehow
neglected archery.”
Agnes reached across a platter of kippers and squeezed my
hand, her kind, honest face stricken. “Oh, Ava, it’s not that Miss
Janeway wouldn’t have you, it’s that you’re destined for so much
more!”
“I hope I’ll never think myself better than a dressmaker . . .
or secretary,” I added, sneaking a look at Agnes, who smiled at
the inclusion of her profession. “Is it really so important I go to
Blythewood? Do I have to go? From how you and Miss Janeway
were talking it sounded like not everyone is entirely happy with
the school.”
“We shouldn’t have been arguing about those things in
front of you. Please don’t tell your grandmother—or the admissions board—that I said anything against the school.”
“Of course not,” I assured Agnes, surprised and alarmed to
see her so rattled. “But if Blythewood is so mired in tradition,
will they really accept a a girl who’s worked for a living . . .”
“Blythewood does not disapprove of work,” Agnes cut
in, her freckles standing out on her face as they did when she
was angry. “We’re all encouraged to find our proper role in the
world—whether as the wife of an earl or a dressmaker or a secretary. We all serve Blythewood in our own way.”
“Even a woman who bore a child out of wedlock and took
her own life?” I asked, my voice trembling. “That’s what you’ve
been talking about with all those women, isn’t it? Whether Blythewood will take me after my mother disgraced herself. Well,
maybe I don’t want to go to a place that wouldn’t have my mother.” I didn’t know that I felt that way until the words were out of
my mouth.
“Oh,” Agnes said, her mouth a round O and her eyes wide.
“My dear, that’s not what we’ve been talking about at all! There
are other things happening at the school which I’m not at liberty to tell you. I’d never gossip about your mother behind your
back like that. It’s perfectly natural for you to feel aggrieved
on your mother’s behalf. I don’t blame you at all.” She looked
down, her brow knotted and her head bobbing as she silently
mouthed something to herself, something she did, I’d noticed,
when she was trying to work out a problem. Then with a final
nod that whipped the feather in her hat to attention, she looked
up and nudged her chair closer to mine.
“By George, if you don’t want to go to Blythewood you
shan’t go! I won’t let anyone make you, not even Mrs. Hall. If
needs be we can live with Carrie Janeway above the shop and
we’ll
all
trim hats for a living! Don’t worry, Ava, you and I shall
be great friends whether you go to Blythewood or not. That is,
if you’ll have me as a friend after I’ve behaved like a fool.”
“I’d be honored to have you as a friend, but you haven’t behaved like a fool.”
“Yes, I have. I didn’t even consider that you might not want
to go to Blythewood after how they treated your mother. And I
don’t blame you. It wasn’t fair. Other girls have . . . well, let’s just
say that other girls did far worse than Evangeline and weren’t
asked to leave. I’ve always thought that Evangeline must have
said something to the Council that made them want to be rid of
her or that she knew something that frightened them.
“You see, Blythewood is full of mysteries, and because of
that, the Council thinks they have to keep us in the dark. Things
can get . . . complicated. Rumors, whispering campaigns, even
factions
. But in the end we’re all loyal to Blythewood and all the
layers of traditions and secret rites that are slowly revealed to the
new girl as she makes her way through her years there. I can’t
tell you them.” She tapped her ring. “We all take an oath by the
Bell and Feather not to reveal the secrets of Blythewood, nor do
I know the very deepest secrets. Those are always reserved for
the Dianas—the chosen girls. But I wonder if Evangeline learned
something even beyond what the Dianas were told. And I suspect it was a secret that had something to do with your father.”
“My father? Do you know . . . ?”
“No, I don’t know who he was. I don’t think Evangeline ever
told anyone. But hasn’t it occurred to you that your best way
of finding out who he was—and why your mother was really
expelled—lies in going there yourself?”
I didn’t answer right away. The secret of my father’s identity was one so long veiled in mystery I had long ago given up
ever penetrating it. Whenever I had tried to ask my mother any
question about him she looked so pained that I had learned to
shy away from any reference to
fathers
at all.
“Do you really think I might learn who he was at Blythewood?” I asked at last.
“I think,” Agnes said, gripping my hand tightly, “that if
you put your mind to it you will be able to learn everything you
need to know there.”
I covered Agnes’s freckled hand with mine and looked into
her deep brown eyes. “What time is the interview, then?”
The next morning I wdressed in the French blue serge dress
with inserts of white lace and matching hat and veil that Caroline Janeway had made for me. Agnes escorted me to the Italian
Renaissance palazzo on Forty-Second Street, not far from the
new public library, which housed the Bell & Feather Club.
“A lot of Blythewood alumnae, including Mrs. Hall, belong to this club,” Agnes told me at the doorway. “The selection
committee conducts their interviews in the Oak Library on the
second floor. The secretary at the front desk will be able to
direct you to it.”
“You’re not coming in?” I asked, suddenly feeling frightened.
She shook her head. “I’m not a member. But here, I know
what will help.” She reached into her pocket and took out the
black feather that had belonged to my mother. She ran her fingers along the long curved vane of the black plume so that it
gleamed in the sunlight and then tucked it into my hat. “You
saved this for a reason—I imagine because it reminds you of
your mother. Think of how proud she would be of you today.”
I thanked Agnes and gave her a brave smile. When I turned
to go in I felt a breeze tug at the feather, lifting my chin, which
did
make me feel braver. But as I turned to enter the building, I
thought of how I’d found the black feather beside my mother’s
lifeless body and wished that Agnes had chosen something else
to remind me of her.
I stepped into an elegant entrance hall paved in pink marble,
the walls painted a soothing dove gray. An elaborate gilt-edged
desk stood opposite the front door, behind which sat a Chinese
man in a gold silk embroidered jacket. I crossed the foyer toward him, holding my head up high, and explained why I had
come. He bowed and, without a word, got up and motioned
that I should follow him up the curving staircase. I did, staring at the long braid that hung down his back and marveling at
how little sound his feet, appareled in thick sandals, made on
the marble steps. Halfway up the stairs, I switched my attention
from him to the oil portraits of stern-looking women that lined
the staircase.
“Is the Bell & Feather only for women?” I asked when we
reached the top.
But he only bowed again and opened a heavy wooden door
that was labeled “The Oak Library.” I stepped through the
doorway and gasped. The room, which must have taken up the
entire second floor of the palazzo and was three stories high,
was lined with books. Brass balconies ran around the second
and third stories allowing access to the upper levels of books.
I was immediately drawn to the shelves and to the gilt titles
stamped on old leather bindings.
Travels to Faerie and Back Again
,
Arbarrati’s Atlas of Other
Worlds
,
The Great Sky Castle of Doctor Ashe—
each title was
more alluring and fanciful than the next. Were the members of
the Bell & Feather fans of the scientific romance made popular
by Mr. Jules Verne and Mr. H. G. Wells?
“Ahem .”
The sound of someone rather exaggeratedly clearing her
throat drew my attention away from the books. I turned, feeling the feather in my hat snap at the movement, reminding me
to lift my chin, which was good because I might otherwise have
cowered at the sight before me. At the far end of the library was
a long black-and-gilt table, behind which roosted a murder of
crows.
I blinked, and the giant crows resolved themselves into
three women in black attire. The impression of crows came
from their hats, which sported not just a few black feathers but
the bodies of entire birds, their preserved heads peering over
the hat brims with hard, glittering eyes.
The woman seated in the middle cleared her throat. “While
we admire your enthusiasm for the written word, the Council does not have all day. We have other interviews to conduct.
Many young ladies are eager to attend Blythewood, though few
are chosen.”
I started forward with lowered eyes until the feather tugged
my chin up and I found six sets of eyes on me—those of the
women and those of the birds atop their hats. I wasn’t sure
which were more intimidating. The women wore dresses that
might have been in style at the turn of the last century: stiff,
glossy black silk encrusted with lace, embroidery, and beading.
Were they all in mourning, I wondered, perhaps for the same
lost relative? They looked, with their pale skin, light-colored
eyes, and silver hair, as if they might be related; only the woman in the center was larger and more formidable than the two
women flanking her.
As I got closer I noticed a fourth woman sitting in a chair to
the right of the table. She was younger, blonde, and dressed in
a navy-blue suit and a flat tricornered hat trimmed with yellow
feathers. When I looked in her direction she smiled at me and
then looked down at the notebook in her lap. Perhaps she was
a secretary. Her smile gave me courage. I looked back at the triumvirate of crows. The middle one indicated I should sit in the
low straight-back chair in front of the table.
“Avaline Hall?” she asked, looking down at a sheet of paper
before her.
“Yes,” I said, “only I go by Ava—”
“Here you will go by your correct name. I am Mrs. Ansonia van Hassel and these are my associates, Miss Lucretia
Fisk . . .” The needle-nosed woman on the left slightly inclined
her pointy chin. “And Miss Atalanta Jones.” The woman on the
right scowled at me. “Miss Vionetta Sharp, who has lately been
hired to teach English at Blythewood, will be observing the
proceeding and taking notes.”
I glanced at the slim blonde in blue and received another
shy smile.
“However, she will have no vote,” Mrs. van Hassel added,
glaring at poor Miss Sharp. “Together we three will decide if
you are suitable for Blythewood. The school is most selective.
Family legacy alone will not gain you admission, nor will consideration for your recent bereavement, although I personally
would like to say that you have the Council’s condolences for
your loss.”
The three women briefly bowed their heads, which left
me looking into the hard beady eyes of the three crows atop
their hats, who didn’t look the least bit sorry that my mother
had died.
“Now,” Mrs. van Hassel said, “we will move on to the examination. At Blythewood we follow a rigorous regimen of
classics and athletics. As you appear to be physically fit—”
“She’s a bit thin,” Mrs. Jones said with a hungry look in her
eyes that suggested she might like me fattened up a bit before
having me slaughtered for dinner.
“And pale,” Miss Fisk added, tilting her head at me like a
robin listening for worms in the ground.
“I’m sure she’ll tone up with a regular regimen of archery and
bell ringing,” Mrs. van Hassel asserted. Clearly she was in charge
here. She might even be the one to decide whether I went to Blythewood. “Would you like to ask the first question, Lucretia?”
Miss Fisk cleared her throat and asked me to conjugate
the verb
incipio
in all tenses, moods, and voices. I took a deep
breath and launched into the conjugation, grateful my mother
had quizzed me on my Latin every day over tea. When I was
done Mrs. van Hassel informed me that I had
slaughtered
the
pluperfect subjunctive and instructed Miss Sharp to award me
a seven out of ten. Then she asked me to recite the story of Niobe as given by Ovid. And so the examination went on, containing a great deal of Latin, Greek, mythology, English poetry,
and etymology, including an entire section on collective nouns.
“An exaltation of larks. A parliament of owls. A cete of badgers,” I responded, glad and surprised that my mother’s strange
fascination with “the language of the chase,” as she’d referred
to such terms, was finally coming in handy. As I answered each
question successfully it came to me that she had spent my lifetime preparing me for this exam. Did that mean she had wanted me to attend Blythewood?
After I answered the last question, Mrs. van Hassel
asked to see Miss Sharp’s notebook. She ruffled through the
pages, Miss Fisk and Miss Jones peering over her shoulders,
their heads bobbing so that it seemed again as if the three
crows were picking over my answers like seeds of grain.
“Not bad,” Mrs. van Hassel concluded, handing the notebook back to Miss Sharp, “but there’s more to being a Blythewood girl than intelligence and learning. There’s character.
Miss Sharp, would you mind stepping outside for a moment?”
Miss Sharp looked up from her notebook, an expression
of surprise on her face that was immediately extinguished by
what she saw in Mrs. van Hassel’s face. She glanced at me and
then quickly turned and knelt to gather some books that lay beside her chair on the floor. A sound drew my attention behind
me. Only as I was turning did I realize that the sound came
from inside my own head. It was the bass bell tolling danger.
Were the three women in danger? But when I turned I found
that they were no longer women.
Three enormous feathered creatures perched on the long
black-and-gold table. As I watched, one of them spread its
wings and launched itself at the tender white nape of Miss
Sharp’s neck. Without knowing I was going to, I leapt to my feet
and threw myself between the bird and Miss Sharp. I heard the
sound of wings thundering in my ears, felt the brush of feathers against my cheek and the scrape of talons on my wrist . . .
and then I felt nothing but air. I stumbled into Miss Sharp, who
looked up, surprised, and steadied me with her hand. I whirled
around to face the creatures, but found the three women again,
sitting sedately, their eyes coolly watching me.
“Excellent, Miss Hall. We think you will do very nicely at
Blythewood. We’ll expect you on campus the day after tomorrow at noon sharp.”