The Witch of Tin Mountain(44)

“Don’t cry, Gracie.”

But I already am, and then Morris is crying, too. There ain’t enough time or enough words to get to the heart of what we need to say to each other, so I give him an awkward half hug and stand to go. I glance at the sky, starting to lighten to a grayish pink above the ridge. “I love you, Morris Clyde. You take care of yourself, hear?”

Morris chokes on his words. “I love you, too, kid.”

Before it becomes too much, and I lose my resolve, I turn and hop out of the boxcar. Seth stands there, his arms crossed. “He gon’ be all right?”

“Yep,” I say. “He will. You will, too. You better get on home before the town wakes up, though.”

Seth nods and wipes at his eyes. “I’d give you a ride, but . . .” He shrugs.

“I know.” A white woman riding in his truck ain’t the kind of trouble Seth needs to borrow. “I could use the walk to stretch my legs. It’ll take some time to chew on things, I reckon.”

“I hear that.” Seth runs a hand over his hair and gets behind the wheel, his eyes wet at the rims. “Be careful, Gracie. Stick to the road. And I ain’t forgot about your star map. I’ll get it to you soon.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Tell your mama and them little sisters I said hi.” I wave him off, waiting until his taillights fade to two dim red eyes in the distance. I square my shoulders and head for home, ready to face whatever comes next, even if thinking about it scares me near out of my skin.





SIXTEEN

DEIRDRE





1881




Deirdre raised a tentative hand and knocked on Miss Munro’s office door. She’d done her best to make herself presentable—changed into her least wrinkled shirtwaist and her best walking skirt, though it had already seen far too many seasons.

A moment later, the headmistress answered. The only resemblance Miss Munro had to Hannah Bledsoe was the color of her hair, although her fallen-leaf auburn was streaked with wide bands of silver. She motioned Deirdre through and bade her sit before a wide desk bedecked with one of the new typewriters Deirdre had only ever seen in a catalog. She leaned forward to study the monstrous thing. Her fingers ached to touch it—to test out its keys.

Miss Munro cleared her throat. “Typewriting is taught on Wednesdays, Miss Werner.”

Deirdre sat up straight in the ladder-back chair and clasped her hands on the desk to still their shaking. The headmistress swept her skirts aside and sat across the desk from Deirdre, blinking at her over half-moon spectacles. “Do you know your letters?”

“Yes’m. I read the Bible every day, and I can even multiply and long-divide.”

Miss Munro pursed her lips. “Excellent. Some country people never learn how to read, so I must ask, you see. As a finishing school, we do not engage in remedial education. We read the poets and great works of literature here. A well-bred woman must be well read, I always say.”

Deirdre ducked her chin, not sure how she should respond.

“Miss Darrow showed you to your room, I take it? And you found Miss Buchanan welcoming?”

“Oh, yes.” Deirdre beamed at the mention of Esme.

“Very good.” Miss Munro extended a piece of paper. “This is the daily schedule for girls in your level—the senior cohort. We begin our mornings at seven o’clock, with a light breakfast in the main hall. After that, we do chores. Your level oversees cleaning and polishing the stairwell treads, risers, and banisters. Afternoons are for studies. You’ll see the classes listed. Miss Nancy Caruthers is captain of your cohort. I’ve arranged for her to sit next to you at dinner this evening.”

At the mention of dinner, Deirdre’s stomach growled. She took the schedule from the headmistress. As she examined the neatly typed list, Deirdre’s eyes swam. There were so many items on the page the letters moved over the paper like fleas on a white cat.

Miss Munro rose, the soft fabric of her day dress whispering against the edge of the desk. “Dinner is at eight o’clock every evening. You’ll hear the dressing gong ring at seven. You may retire to your room until then, and rest, as you’ve no doubt had a taxing journey.” She motioned Deirdre into the hall, where she fixed her with an unflinching gaze. “My niece has a caring, congenial nature. She’s explained your situation to me, Miss Werner, and I’m very sorry for your troubles, but I must warn you that we hold our girls to the highest standards. I’ve devoted my life’s work to turning out young women of character. The schedule is rigorous and there will be no tolerance for rule breakers. Your being here is a charity. Do you understand?”

Deirdre had never felt the weight of her own poverty more. “Yes’m. I understand.”

“Yes, ma’am. We speak proper English here.”

Deirdre bobbed her knees awkwardly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Your curtsy needs improving.” Miss Munro looked down her long nose and sniffed. “Cotillion is on Wednesday evenings, before dinner. We’ll have your country chaff worn free soon enough.”



Deirdre batted the stodgy wet air with the lace fan Esme had lent her. The sultry heat had persisted into the evening. At least her neck was blessedly cool, as Esme had braided her hair into a high crown and coaxed her fringe into neat curls across her forehead.