The Frenchwoman stepped forward to loom over the girl. “You manipulative baggage, I ought to—”
The dumpy nun put a hand on her arm.
“Now, Beatrice, don’t fuss. We have new girls here, don’t forget.”
Beatrice glanced at Sophronia and Dimity, and then snorted.
Gosh, thought Sophronia, the French are every bit as rude as Mumsy always said they were.
The painted woman said, “Beatrice, take Miss Pelouse away and see if you can’t come to an arrangement.”
Monique looked militant. “I’ll summon reinforcements if I have to.”
“Are you threatening me, girl? We shall see about that.” The Frenchwoman did not look cowed.
Sophronia shuddered—she wouldn’t want to be alone with either of them for any length of time.
She heard Miss Tall say, as the two walked away, “Properly finish, my dear? What makes you think there is any way for you to finish at all, now?”
Sophronia decided to forget Monique for the time being.
“Well, it certainly appears that you two have had a very exciting journey,” said the nun.
“We didn’t faint!” protested Dimity. “Or, rather, Sophronia didn’t faint. I did, but only after we rescued Monique from the flywaymen! She told it all backward!”
“Do you have witnesses?”
“Well, my brother was there.”
The teachers exchanged looks. Apparently Pillover’s reliability was questionable. “A boy? I don’t know.”
“And there was the coachman.” Dimity would not let the matter rest.
“He was insensible for most of the event,” Sophronia pointed out.
“You’re a funny one, aren’t you?” The painted lady looked at Sophronia closely. “Why aren’t you defending yourself?”
Sophronia shrugged. “I have sisters. I know how this works.”
“Do you indeed?”
Sophronia said nothing else. Monique was covering up her trail as well as self-aggrandizing her own actions. Perhaps she’d given the prototype away to someone else beforehand. Sophronia intended to find out. What was the prototype, and where was it, and why did everyone want it so badly? Some new kind of device for producing tea inexpensively? In the Temminnick household, nothing was valued more than good quality tea.
Dimity opened her mouth to protest further, but Sophronia elbowed her in the ribs.
The painted lady said, “Shall we get on with official business? Where was I?”
The nun whispered something in her ear.
“Yes, of course! Welcome to Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies of Quality. I understand one of you is a covert recruit?”
Sophronia raised up a tentative hand.
“Welcome, welcome! I’m Lady Linette de Limmone. I’ll be instructing you in music and several of the finer creative arts. This is Sister Herschel-Teape. She’s head of household management. And you are?”
“Sophronia Angelina Temminnick,” said Sophronia with a curtsy.
“Oh, dear,” said Lady Linette. “We are going to have to work on that curtsy.”
“Dimity Ann Plumleigh-Teignmott,” said Dimity, with a better curtsy.
I’m going to have to ask her to teach me the way of it. It seems a powerful weapon, thought Sophronia.
“Ah, yes, Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott, we have been expecting you. Sister, if you would kindly get Miss Plumleigh-Teignmott settled. She knows everything already. Miss Temminnick, you’re with me, please.”
Dimity squeezed Sophronia’s hand. “Good luck.” She followed the dumpy nun out of the cavernous room.
The painted woman raised up the lantern and looked Sophronia over.
“Well, well, let me see. You’re… how old, girl?”
“Fourteen, my lady.” Sophronia couldn’t believe that a woman with that much face paint was a real lady. Mrs. Barnaclegoose had a teacup poodle named Lord Piffle; perhaps Lady Linette’s was a similarly spurious title?
“Good bones, average height. I suppose there’s no hope of your growing into that chin?” Sophronia said nothing. “No? I thought not. Eyes, indifferent. Hair”—she tsked—“you’ll be wearing curling rags the rest of your natural life, poor thing. The freckles. Well. The freckles. I’ll have cook order extra buttermilk. But you are confident. Shoulders back, girl, when you’re facing inspection. Confident is something we can work with. And Captain Niall likes you.”
Sophronia withstood the criticism with only a slight frown. She put her shoulders back as ordered. What she wanted to do was comment on Lady Linette’s appearance. So far as Sophronia was concerned, the woman’s hair was too curly and her skin too white, and she smelled overwhelmingly of elderflowers. I wager she wouldn’t like it if I told her that to her face!
What she said instead was, “How do you know what the captain thinks of me?”
“If he didn’t think you’d suit, he wouldn’t have jumped you up. He has very good judgment, for a, well…” She paused, as though hunting for the right word.
“Werewolf?” suggested Sophronia.
“Oh, no. For a man. Now, child, come along. We have much to do, and it is getting late. I suppose you’re famished, and, of course, we’ll need to settle your luggage and such.”
“No luggage, my lady.”
“What?”
“Had to leave it behind with the flywaymen.”