Jane Steele(18)

“You will not go without supper today, Steele,” Mr. Munt announced. “You will lead us in prayer instead, for I surmise that despite your reputation for wrongdoing you intended to mind Miss Lilyvale. Pray say what is in your heart, and your brothers and sisters in Christ shall pray alongside you.”

Mr. Munt’s eyes bored into me, silver picks illicitly nudging a lock open.

I stared back, thrilling with revulsion.

He is not satisfied unless we are complicit: he likes us responsible for our own abuse.

I recalled Cousin Edwin’s features, sweat-slick and satisfied, as he played what he thought was a game.

You’re every bit as bad as I am. You liked it.

Meanwhile, Mr. Munt’s request that I say what was in my heart was a deliberately humiliating one, for what girl on her knees before an authoritarian feels anything save the pooling of hot shame in her belly, alongside bitter resentment that she should be treated no better than a slave?

I felt these insults, reader, and I collected them, strung them like sand hardened into pearls, and I wore them, invisible; I wear them today.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” I called out clearly with my eyes shut. The flagstone bit further into my knees when Mr. Munt gripped the top of my head as if blessing me. “You delivered me safely to the hands of these godly people, who want to stop the, ah, excesses of my nature. I’m so truly sorry that when Miss Lilyvale told me to pray I did not thank You for, um, her kindness and for Mr. Munt, whose attentions are so . . . thorough, and wise.”

The hand on my head like an iron halo shifted, running an approving thumb over the part in my hair before Mr. Munt pressed my brow into the muscle of his thigh; I could smell him, something faintly sweet like candle wax and tarry like cigar smoke. Stifling a revolted choking sound with a cough, I hastened on.

“Please, Lord, will You take pity on this poor sinner, and please will you grant Miss Lilyvale and Mr. Munt patience when dealing with my shortcomings, and, ah, please will You bless all Your beloved children at Lowan Bridge. Amen.”

The palm on my crown vanished, and the headmaster stepped back. Looking up, I found Mr. Munt wearing a blended expression: part feigned outward joy, part real inner perplexity, and a final ingredient I think surprised even him—recognition.

I’ve earned my bowl of supper, I thought, gazing up with a holy smile on my lips and a knife at the back of my teeth. Try to take it from me.

“Remarkable!” cried Mr. Munt, easily lifting me to my feet again. “Even the untamed, when moved by the Lord’s grace, can inspire an entire congregation with her example. Steele, you may return to your seat.”

I kept my head down as I stumbled on battered joints back down the gauntlet, but I stole glances at my classmates from behind the bars of my lashes. Clarke, who sat half-slumped over her empty bowl (by empty I do not mean finished, but rather as clean as if the touch of stew had never kissed this particular vessel), winked at me.

“Well,” Taylor huffed when my journey had ended, “I never.”

“Didn’t you?” I returned, and her pretty eyes narrowed sullenly.

“I never did, no.”

“Did you mean a word of that?” Fox whispered.

“Of course,” I lied, but I crossed my fingers upon the tabletop, and she granted me a brief smirk.

“That was either spectacular, or else the most disgraceful thing I’ve ever seen,” Taylor continued.

Can’t it be both? I thought, and I must have been delirious with the strain, for I belted out a laugh I covered with a sneezing fit.

Mr. Munt was calling on other girls now, ones who had been sentenced to diets like Clarke’s and were shattering like fine china; one by one, the Reckoning forced about half of those present to dump our meals.

“How is he allowed?” I mouthed.

“If any refuse, it’s two hours with him in his private office. God knows what happens inside—Fisher went, and would never speak of it afterwards. Anyway, it’s the best school for young ladies within fifty miles of London,” Fox muttered glumly. “It isn’t just the food; they’ve dozens of ways to make us mind them. Miss Martin gives you hours’ worth of lines to write, Miss James will actually ink your offence on your forehead, Miss Lilyvale is a great one for early bedtime—which sounds harmless but we’ve too many studies for it not to be awful—and Madame Archambault has a little rattan cane in her desk. A fortnight ago, Harper didn’t sit for three days.”

“None of that’s so bad,” sighed Taylor, her attention pinned to Mr. Munt, “by comparison.”

“No.” Fox picked at the skin edging her thumbnail. “It isn’t.”

“And that concludes our Reckoning for this evening!” Mr. Munt surveyed the room, finding no further quarry which tempted him. “I commend you for your diligence, children. Sit, and partake of God’s bounty.”

The stew was thick and sweet and savoury, chunks of carrot and potato and speckles of currants swimming alongside succulent mutton; we set upon it like the beasts Mr. Munt intended us to be.

“Have girls not asked their parents to lobby for Mr. Munt’s removal?” I asked Taylor.

She tossed her shapely round chin. “It’s quite hopeless, I’m afraid. Mr. Munt sells the leftovers at reduced rates to the manufactory men four miles from here, and what’s left he gives away at soup kitchens. He’s positively worshipped from here to London.”