Mary Ann and Miss Mozart (10 page)

The two teachers exchanged a glance, and Mrs. Neave said, more kindly, “I understand. But it is not in your power to raise that money, Mary Ann. Nor in mine. Now go to bed. You may sleep in the sick room tonight. I don’t want you disturbing the other girls. Mrs. Corelli will take you up.”

The sick room was an annexe attached to Mrs. Neave’s suite of rooms by a connecting door. It contained a narrow bed and a washstand and looked, Mary Ann thought, like a prison cell.

Mrs. Corelli saw her look, and seemed to guess what she was thinking. She gave Mary Ann a hug. “Don’t worry. It won’t seem so bad in the morning. Go to sleep now.”

She shut the door, and Mary Ann lay down alone in the little room and cried with her fist pushed hard against her mouth. It wasn’t only her own disgrace that distressed her; it was knowing that she’d brought trouble on Jenny. She couldn’t forgive herself for that.

Soon she heard the first birds chirping outside. There was a pale, cold light in the room.

I’ll never sleep, she thought. But she did.

She woke late. There was no sound from the other side of the connecting door. She got out of bed and, still in her chemise, cautiously opened the door to the corridor. Smells and sounds of breakfast rose from below: a distant clatter of cutlery, a hum of voices.

Breakfast. That meant it was at least half past seven. The maids would have been up for hours. And Mrs. Neave had told Jenny to report to her first thing.

With a sense of foreboding, Mary Ann darted barefoot out of the room and upstairs to the attic.

“Jenny…?”

She’d never been up here before and didn’t know which room Jenny slept in. She pushed tentatively at a door. It opened to reveal a long, low-ceilinged room containing three beds. Two were made up. One had been stripped.

“Jenny!”

She ran out, and collided with a maid coming in: Ellen, the kitchen maid, a skinny girl with a hunted expression – always in trouble.

“Oh, Miss! You scared me!” She looked hangdog. “Been sent to change my apron.”

The apron was filthy with hand-wipings. Mary Ann shuddered. “Where’s Jenny?” she asked. “Is she downstairs?”

“She’s gone!” The girl’s eyes lit up at the prospect of gossip.

“Gone?”

“Yes! Got her wages, packed, and left. Been dismissed!”

“But she can’t –”

Mary Ann ran to the dormitory, found clean clothes, dressed, and raced downstairs. She arrived in the front hall as everyone was coming out of the dining room. Mrs. Neave, carrying some books, was shepherding a group of older girls towards the front classroom. Mary Ann burst into their midst and confronted the teacher.

“Mrs. Neave! It wasn’t Jenny’s fault! Let her come back – please!”

Mrs. Neave paused, and Mary Ann quailed at her expression.

The girls watched with obvious interest. Mrs. Neave waved them towards the classroom. “Go and sit down and begin reading Chapter Two.”

She drew Mary Ann away from the busy hall, into her office.

“
Never
run and shout like that in public, Mary Ann,” she said.

“But, Mrs. Neave, why did you dismiss Jenny?” Mary Ann felt overwhelmed with guilt.

“I should have thought that was obvious. She is untrustworthy, dishonest, and quite unfit to work in an establishment such as this.”

“But it was
me
!
My
fault!” Mary Ann twisted her hands together and struggled not to cry.

“Jenny is an adult, Mary Ann. You were certainly at fault, but you must not blame yourself for what has happened to her.”

“But she won’t be able to get another place!” She knew Jenny must have left without a reference.

“That is not my concern,” said Mrs. Neave. And she added, “I’ve had my eye on Jenny Bolt for some time.”

Mary Ann wondered what she meant; whether it was something to do with the pillowcases. Perhaps Jenny
had
taken them.

“Her sister is ill – dying,” she said. “And her mother drinks, and Jenny buys medicine for Dinah and looks after them all. I know. I went to their house. If she…if she
took
anything it would have been for her sister.”

Mrs. Neave sighed. “I know she was your friend, Mary Ann, and your concern does you credit, but believe me, I was obliged to dismiss her. Go off to your class now. Arithmetic, isn’t it? I’m afraid you have missed breakfast. If you feel hungry perhaps it will remind you to be more careful of your behaviour in future. And I must consider what your punishment is to be. We’ll speak later this morning.”

In the garden, during the break after lunch, Sophia, Lucy and Phoebe clustered round and clamoured to know everything. They were astonished at Mary Ann’s adventures and hugely impressed by her account of how much she had earned.

“You
sang
at Ranelagh and earned all that!” exclaimed Sophia. “And you never told us what you were going to do! You
toad
!” she added, affectionately.

“I wish we’d known!” said Lucy.

“You’d have been in trouble, then, like me.” Mary Ann bit her lip. “And Jenny.”

“Oh! About Jenny…” Phoebe looked important: the bearer of news. They all turned to her. “Charlotte Cross told me she overheard Mrs. Price and Cook talking about Jenny. They said she’d been stealing: things had been disappearing from the linen room for months.”

“
Months?
”

So that was what Mrs. Neave had been hinting at. Was it true? And what things? They couldn’t all have been for Dinah, surely? Mary Ann’s trust in Jenny began to waver. And yet Jenny had been kind to her, and honest; she couldn’t believe she was no more than a common thief. And even if she was, did that make it right for Mary Ann to betray her?

Her confusion over Jenny was bewildering. But at least the other girls were full of sympathy for
her
. On Mrs. Neave’s orders Mary Ann was confined to the house for the rest of term, obliged to read and copy out improving texts, and banned from the garden and from taking part in Saturday outings. Only church on Sundays was permitted. She was quite a heroine, however – escaping from robbers, admired by the grand people at Ranelagh. And the school still had her earnings. Perhaps, Mary Ann thought, when her punishment was over, Mrs. Neave would allow her to stay another half a term for three and a half guineas?

Lucy brought her back to earth. “Will Mrs. Neave tell your parents?”

“I don’t know.” She had thought of this, but hadn’t dared ask. Her parents would be so angry if they found out. They would probably beat her.

Lucy pondered her own question. “I don’t think she will. I don’t think she would want them to know that you had been so badly supervised.”

That was a cheering thought – and probably true, Mary Ann thought.

But next morning, during French Conversation, Mrs. Price called for Mary Ann and said that she was wanted in the office.

“You have visitors,” she said.

Chapter Fourteen

Mary Ann on Trial

Mary Ann knocked timidly on Mrs. Neave’s door.

Visitors, Mrs. Price had said. It could only be her parents, summoned by Mrs. Neave, come to chastise and humiliate her. Even worse, they would be angry with Mrs. Neave, as Lucy had said. Suppose there was an argument? Her father would be sure to shout. I shan’t be able to bear it, she thought, if my father makes a fuss and people hear.

“Come in,” said Mrs. Neave.

Two women sat in the visitors’ chairs. One was Mary Ann’s mother. For a moment Mary Ann did not recognize the sharp-faced older woman wearing an elegant but slightly old-fashioned hat. Then she exclaimed, “Grandmama!” and dropped a curtsy. Her mind was racing. Why was her grandmother here? Was the whole family to be involved in her disgrace? It would be too dreadful to bear.

She was surprised when her grandmother looked her up and down with evident approval.

“You’ve grown,” she said.

People always said that. But Mary Ann realized that her grandmother had not seen her for…how long was it? Two years? Three? Mrs. Causey looked much the same, but Mary Ann realized that she herself must have changed greatly.

Mrs. Causey stood up. “Let me look at you. Walk over there.” She turned to Mrs. Neave. “Well, she is quite the young lady! Is this your work, Mrs. Neave?”

“We encourage good deportment and manners,” said Mrs. Neave, smiling benignly at Mary Ann.

“Mary Ann is very happy here,” added her mother, also with a fond glance.

Mary Ann was bewildered. This was not at all what she had expected. Why was everyone so amiable? Had Mrs. Neave not told them, after all? Was she about to do so?

Mary Ann composed her face into a mask of demure submission – suitable, she hoped, for whatever might come next.

“The child’s happiness is not essential,” said Mrs. Causey, in response to her daughter – and Mary Ann tensed – “but nevertheless I am glad to hear it. Do you work hard, Mary Ann?”

This remark, addressed suddenly to her, startled Mary Ann. “Yes!” she said breathlessly. “Yes, of course, Grandmama.”

“No ‘of course’ about it,” retorted her grandmother. “Your mother was as idle as a cat at your age.”

“Mama!” protested Mary Ann’s mother.

Mary Ann gazed at the floorboards and Mrs. Neave intervened smoothly, “We are all very pleased with Mary Ann. She works hard at her lessons, and is particularly gifted at music.”

“Ah, yes, the music!” said Mrs. Causey. “I must hear you sing, Mary Ann.”

Mary Ann experienced a moment of panic: here? Now? But it seemed not, for Mrs. Neave said, “Mrs. Causey, I suggest that I take you and Mrs. Giffard on a tour of the school, and show you Mary Ann’s work books. And I’m sure Mrs. Corelli would be delighted to play the harpsichord to accompany her singing. Would you like to take tea first?”

They agreed. Mrs. Neave rang for the maid and ordered tea, then asked them to excuse her while she went to speak to the teachers. Mary Ann was left alone with her mother and grandmother. She looked cautiously from one to another of them. Did they know? If they didn’t, she was not going to tell them.

“You must be surprised to see us here together,” her mother began. Her voice sounded strained. “As you know, I have never liked to ask for help—”

“But common sense has at last prevailed,” interrupted Mrs. Causey. “Your mother wrote and told me of your father’s financial incompetence and asked me for help with your school fees.”

As they spoke Mary Ann felt her anxiety dropping away and her spirits lifting. This was nothing to do with the Ranelagh episode. Her grandmother was going to pay for her to stay on at school!

“Of course, before I could agree to do so,” her grandmother continued, “I wanted to see your school and your work, which is why we are here. I need to know that my investment in you will be worthwhile.”

At this moment the tea arrived, followed by Mrs. Neave carrying a pile of school books and some drawings that Mary Ann had done in her art class.

Mary Ann shrank with embarrassment and a fear that her work would not be considered good enough. But Mrs. Neave, all charm and confidence, evidently had no such worries as she showed her pupil’s work.

While her grandmother looked through the books and murmured approval, Mary Ann glanced gratefully at her mother. She knew what it must have cost her to ask for help from Grandmama. Although her mother never spoke against their grandmother, Harriet had told Mary Ann that Grandmama disapproved not only of their father but of almost every other choice their mother had made.

Mrs. Giffard sat quietly now, letting Mrs. Causey do the talking, and scarcely taking part in the discussion about Mary Ann’s work. She was not at all her usual self; she always dwindled in her mother’s presence. Mary Ann remembered, with a pang of guilt, how she had thought that her mother didn’t care about her, only about Harriet. It wasn’t true. She almost reached out and took her mother’s hand – but that would have been too embarrassing in public. Instead she gave a small smile, and her mother responded in the same way.

When Mrs. Causey had declared herself satisfied with Mary Ann’s schoolwork and drawing (“adequate” was how she described her granddaughter’s sketching ability) they all went upstairs to the music room, where Mrs. Corelli was waiting for them. Nervously, Mary Ann played one of the harpsichord pieces Mr. Ashton had taught her; and then Mrs. Corelli put “When Daisies Pied and Violets Blue” on the music stand, and Mary Ann sang to her accompaniment. Her voice, when she began, was tremulous. Not only was she anxious to impress but she had done a lot of crying in the last day or so and felt quite hoarse. But Mrs. Corelli caught her eye and smiled encouragingly, and soon she was singing with confidence.

As she finished with the chorus of “cuckoos” – one after another sung by her and echoed by the harpsichord – she saw her grandmother smile. Mrs. Neave smiled too and said, “Mary Ann will sing that song, and others, I believe, at our concert in September. She is one of our most gifted singers. We are delighted to have her in the choir.”

Mrs. Causey looked pleased, and Mrs. Neave, encouraged, went on, “We take the girls to a concert at Ranelagh every year, where they can hear the very best musicians and singers and observe genteel behaviour. This year we were fortunate enough to see the Mozart children perform.”