Outrun the Moon(23)

“I’m quite serious, Miss Du Lac.” The headmistress’s eyes flash like the glint off a butcher’s cleaver. “And I think your father will have no trouble agreeing with me, after recent . . . concessions.” Her eyes flit to me.

Suddenly, the yolk oozing out of my fried egg looks like yellow blood.

“Now that we have wasted time, you have approximately seven minutes before your first class begins,” she snaps. “Try not to give yourselves indigestion.”

Talk starts again immediately after she leaves.

“Why can’t the maids turn our clothes inside out?” says one of the girls from Elodie’s table. “It’s part of the job.”

“If she makes me do laundry, I’ll refuse,” says Elodie. “She’ll be out of a job if she suspends me.”

“The Israelites wasted forty years complaining when they could’ve just obeyed God and entered their promised land,” says a velvety voice. Francesca’s eyes drift to me from over the top of her book. “It is convention to use a fork to eat eggs.”

“Then how are you supposed to get the runny bits?” I spoon congealing yolk off my plate.

“Bread.”

“What if you don’t have bread?”

“Then you’ll have to leave the runny bits behind.” Her tone is matter-of-fact but slightly amused.

Seems wasteful to me, but I don’t push the point. Instead, I blow away the curls of steam rising from my coffee.

I feel Francesca’s eyes upon me again and stop blowing, wondering if I have committed another table infraction. “Why don’t you sit with the others?” I ask her.

“I find the company of a book much more interesting.”

I decide I like this girl who doesn’t care what people think and, therefore, doesn’t trade in petty gossip. I bet she’s the kind of person who, if she knew your secret, would consider it beneath her to pass it along.

At least I hope.





9



IN THE DRAWING ROOM, THE CHINESE heiress affects a regal bearing—hands folded in lap, lips slightly parted—as girls fill the low tables around her. Four tables fit four chairs each, not the ideal configuration, but I resolve not to let that number rule me. I am here despite impossible odds, and one pesky numeral will not change that.

Since this is my first class, I must make a convincing impression so there can be no question of my origins. My languid gaze takes in four thick books with the word Comportment on my table. Since when did rules of conduct grow so complicated?

Ba has one rule of conduct: Don’t bring shame to your family.

A meticulously dressed gentleman glides to the mantel, delicately picks up a bell as if he was picking up a moth by the wings, and rings it. He surveys the room with one hand tucked into his vest pocket and the other behind his back. Noticing me, his serious expression leapfrogs over confusion and lands on wonder. “You must be the new student. Miss Wong, is it?”

I nod regally. Ruby fingers her rosemary sprig, her eyes large and attentive. I can smell the herbal scent from across the table.

Our teacher smiles, arousing his clipped mustachio from its slumber. “I am Mr. Waterstone. As it turns out, I’m a bit of an enthusiast on the social rituals of other cultures, especially those of the Far East. I’m even writing a book, Comportment Around the World. I will be observing you very carefully. Perhaps you will consent to an interview?”

I smile, though my sweat factories have begun to double productivity. Just my luck I would get a Far East enthusiast for a teacher. “Certainly.”

Someone snickers, and I don’t have to turn my head to know it’s Elodie.

The man rubs his hands together. “Now, who shall tell Miss Wong what is our motto?”

No one moves, and I wonder if it’s because no one knows, or no one wants to tell me.

Ruby stops fiddling with her rosemary and raises her hand.

Mr. Waterstone nods at the girl. “Yes, Miss Beauregard.”

“Comport yourself with unselfish regard for the welfare of others.” There’s a sad quality to Ruby’s gentle voice that reminds me of my old boss, Mr. Mortimer. I think back to how rosemary was often left on graves for remembrance and wonder if she has experienced tragedy.

Our instructor walks the length of the fireplace. “A St. Clare’s girl comports herself with unselfish regard for the welfare of others. When we have guests, we offer them tea, knowing they may be in need of refreshment. We keep extra umbrellas in case it is raining when they leave. What sort of hospitality do they show callers in China, Miss Wong?”

“We, er, we have buckets of water ready for washing feet. And when they leave, we give them kumquats.” I hope he doesn’t put that one in his book.

He strokes his chin. “Fruit? How interesting. What about in winter?”

“We give them winter melons.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“Winter melons? But are those not the size of watermelons?”

“Yes, well, it is to discourage visits in winter when the roads are slippery.”

“So it’s more of a . . . punishment, then?” His mustachio holds very still.

“Yes.” Sweat rings my collar.

He winds up for another question just as Mrs. Tingle wheels in a cart loaded with tea, cakes, and tiny sandwiches. I could kiss her droopy cheeks.