Page 18 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

‘You are pretty-ish,’ Lady Bayfield said at last, ‘and I have the taste and knowledge to make the best of you. I shall make sure you are introduced to the right people. But you lack polish.’

Kitty bit her lip and looked at the floor.

Lady Bayfield drew an exasperated breath. ‘Hold your head up, Catherine, and do not dare to cry. You must cultivate a clear, steady look when people speak to you, and a light, confident walk, not this head-hanging, shuffling mien.’

Kitty wanted to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ but knew if she opened her lips to speak she would start crying.

‘And there is your ridiculous shyness,’ Lady Bayfield went on. ‘You cannot show to advantage when you are too scared to open your mouth. Perhaps,’ she allowed grudgingly, ‘you have been left too much alone. You see too little of anyone outside this house. So I have decided – Sir John and I have decided – to send you to school. What do you think of that?’

Kitty had felt an instant fear of the unknown, of being pitched into a strange environment with new opportunities to fail. But immediately afterwards she felt a surge of hope. To go to school, with other girls – away from this gloomy house – a new place, new activities … Perhaps she might make a friend. Someone to love, who would love her. At all events, it would be a change from the aching boredom and isolation of her life. She could hardly be more lonely than here.

‘I’d like it, Mama,’ she said, and ventured an upward glance and a shy smile which quite surprised her stepmother, but seemed to please her.

And she did like it. She had loved her three years here. And she had made a friend.

There was an awkward stage in the life of a girl when she was no longer really a child but was too young to be married. Good governesses were notoriously hard to find, and few mamas had the time or inclination to have their daughters with them all day. In response to the problem, schools for young ladies, where they could be kept out of harm’s way for a few years and given a little polish, sprang up in all the major capitals. Miss Thornton’s was considered to be one of the best. Girls were taught the usual things – how to walk and sit, manage a train, get in and out of a carriage; how to dance, play cards, pour and hand round tea; the correct way to lay a table, the proper precedence of guests and the right way to address anyone from a monarch to a rural dean. Miss Thornton’s ‘special pupils’ had a little more: they were schooled in current affairs, fine art, music and classical literature; they had a few words of French and Italian; those with the aptitude played musical instruments, sketched or painted. They were conversable. Everyone agreed that Miss Thornton’s chosen girls, whom she taught herself, had an extra polish; but you couldn’t make her take on your girl. She chose them herself – and it wasn’t a matter of money, because she had even been known to lower her fees if she took a fancy to someone.

Nina came into the room and roused Kitty from her thoughts. ‘Oh, there you are! I was looking for you in our room.’ She came across to the window. ‘I wish it would snow. This weather’s so dreary.’ She leaned over to peer down into the street. ‘There’s Nancy Brevoorte leaving. Goodness, what a lot of luggage she has! And that must be her papa. He’s wearing a fur coat, all the way down to the ground! Doesn’t it look queer?’

‘It must be an American fashion,’ Kitty said. ‘It looks warm, though.’

‘Yes, and I don’t see why men shouldn’t wear furs as well as women,’ Nina said. ‘I expect they do in Russia.’

There was a sharp explosive sound, making the horses at the kerb throw up their heads, then a rattling, rumbling noise that had them wanting to bolt.

‘What on earth—?’ Nina said. ‘Goodness! It’s a motor-car! Do look, Kitty!’

Kitty got up on her knees, craning to stare along the road ‘It must be Mr Brevoorte’s. It’s a Packard. I heard her telling Cora Van Dycke about it – she’s going to spend Christmas with the Brevoortes because her family’s in New York.’

The motor-car was painted a dull red, with yellow wheels and red leather upholstery, deeply buttoned. It was open, but with a canopy fixed across four uprights to cover the seating area. There were two seats in front, the one behind the steering-wheel occupied by a liveried chauffeur, and two in the back.

‘There absolutely won’t be room for all Nancy’s luggage,’ Nina said, ’leave alone Cora’s.’

But when Mr Brevoorte had handed the girls into the back and taken the front seat, and the motor-car had roared away, a horse-drawn brake pulled up and the luggage was loaded into that. ‘All is explained,’ Nina said. ‘I can’t help thinking a motor-car’s not very practical if you have to have a separate vehicle for your luggage. You can get just about everything into a growler.’

‘But they were very excited about riding in it,’ said Kitty. ‘I’ve never seen one close up. Mama says they’re vulgar.’

‘They’re certainly noisy,’ Nina said. ‘I should like to try one, though. Cora’s lucky. But American girls always stick together.’

‘I expect it’s lonely, being so far from your own land,’ Kitty said. ‘And their brothers went to school together, I heard them say. So they’re bound to be friends.’

Nina left off staring out of the window and sat down beside Kitty. ‘I can’t believe it’s all over,’ she said. ‘After today, we’ll never be girls at school again.’ It wasn’t just the end of term, but the end of their stay at Thornton’s. Kitty had just turned seventeen and Nina would be seventeen in January. They were young ladies now. Nina observed her friend’s expression. ‘Oh, Kitty, don’t look so blue! It isn’t a tragedy, you know – it’s the beginning of real life.’

‘I don’t want real life,’ Kitty said. ‘I wish we could stay here for ever.’

‘But you’ve got everything to look forward to,’ Nina said, encouraging her as she had done for the last three years.

On the first day, when all the new girls had been standing around in the drawing-room waiting to be told what to do, she had drifted over to Kitty, attracted by something about her – perhaps by the contrast with herself. Kitty was little and delicate-looking, and though not strictly pretty she gave the impression of it. With her pointed chin, large eyes, and a cloud of dark curls, people were always put in mind of a kitten, and since most people liked kittens, they were prepared to think she was pretty without actually analysing her features.

And she was so terribly, desperately shy, it gave her almost physical pain to be obliged to talk to someone she didn’t know – even to be looked at upset her. Nina couldn’t understand it, but she had felt immediate pity, and had instituted herself Kitty’s champion. The two girls had been close ever since, sharing a bedroom and doing everything together.

Nina’s background was very different from Kitty’s. She did not come from a titled or rich family, not even from the ton. Her father had been an army officer, her mother the daughter of a country rector of moderate means. Both were well educated and shared a love of reading and conversation. Nina’s mother’s name had been Antonia, and it was she who had suggested, almost as a joke, that her baby girl should be named Antonina, on the Roman diminutive principle. Her father had laughingly agreed.

It was a love-match between them, so when Captain Sanderton went abroad, Antonia went with him. Nina was born in India, where she spent the first years of her life. It was a happy marriage, between two well-matched people, and Nina’s had been a happy childhood, full of love, laughter, conversation, encouragement and activity – everything Kitty had lacked. Only in being without siblings were they similar. The Sandertons would have loved more children, but it hadn’t happened.

When Nina was nine, this happy scene was ruptured. The climate did not agree with her mother, and Antonia’s health was suffering so much that the now Major Sanderton decreed she should go back to England, taking her child with her.

‘It was awful leaving Papa behind,’ Nina had told Kitty. ‘And my dear pony. And the servants. But it was even more terrible for Mama. They’d never been parted before. She cried and cried on the boat going home. She tried not to let me see, but I couldn’t help knowing it.’