The Primrose Girls

The Spanking Chronicles of Cedar Lake

2010-06-09T12:37:00.003-04:00

College senior Kylie Langston, is facing a formal school paddling before a general assembly of the Cedar Lake students and faculty. She has seen it happen before, but this time is different because Kylie did not do the crime. With an official Inquiry pending, she is off on a hunt to find who is setting her up and why. But things get complicated when she lands in the Dean’s office after confronting her chief suspect, former friend and roommate, Gabby Jones. The Dean is a stickler for the rules and he never plays favorites, handing Kylie one of the strictest punishments of her college career. Kylie’s troubles are far from over with a uniform restriction and Saturday detention hampering her investigation, can she solve the puzzle in time for her Inquiry or will she be for the general assembly?

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This Night Only

2009-10-31T23:29:00.004-04:00

"Rebecca," He said, his voice quiet like a whisper, but devoid of the warmth with which he customarily addressed her.

His hand grasped her wrist, forcing her to stop walking away. Her breath caught in her throat when she found the firmness of his hold prevented her from simply pulling free. She turned to face him, raising her free hand to slap him for his audacity, but he was waiting and grabbed her other wrist before her effort approached anything akin to success. The smile on her lips fell flat.

Untwisting his arms, he spun her around and pulled her back into his body where he could hold her pinned to his chest with a single arm wrapped around her. Far from accepting his superior strength as superiority, she struggled against his hold until he turned her loose with a push toward the wall. Wobbling on her stilettos, feet scrambling as if the tile had turned to ice, Rebecca steadied herself against the wall and glared up at him. With the index finger and thumb of his right hand he pulled a neatly folded, white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it out in the air between them. She looked from it to his eyes and when their eyes met, he opened his fingers allowing the cloth to fall freely to the floor.

"Pick it up," He ordered.

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Happy Halloween,

Ashley J

A Lack Of Evidence

2009-02-16T16:00:00.002-05:00

February 16, 1897

Edith Bowen

“What evidence do you have?” The sheriff asked.

The question should have been asked two days ago. If Elizabeth Bassett were a first year student it would have been because first years have a habit of leaving suddenly and unexpectedly. Miss Bassett, of course, is no first year but her family’s troubles are hardly a secret despite her attempts to keep them as such. My first and immediate conclusion when I heard she was gone, was she had left. Miss Waters had a different opinion.

Over the course of the weekend, Carrington Manor was turned upside down searching for clues as to where our wayward peer had gone. The assumption was she had been taken against her will, but all evidence was to the contrary. On the word of Miss Waters, the sheriff had pursued an illogical investigation doomed to failure. I made my thoughts clear early on and surprisingly found myself in total agreement with the Carrington’s; students leave Primrose all the time for hundreds of reasons and they never say goodbye or give any explanation for those of us left behind.

So, there we stood in Mr. Carrington’s study. Miss Waters, Mister and Misses Carrington, and the sheriff. The five of us were exhausted, but at last it was time for truth and explanations. Miss Waters stared at the ground and shook her head. I think perhaps she was doubting herself for the first time since it all began on Friday afternoon. I have respect for her, make no mistake, but she was wrong and for that, there is always a price to be paid.

“Nothing.” Miss Waters said.

Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but it was clear enough. I am certain she knew something, heard something, but whatever it was, she was unwilling to divulge it. Without finding anything to support her claims, it left us with little choice.

“Then on what basis, have you wasted all our time?” I demanded.

Perhaps it was cruel, but if it was not said by me, it would have been said by someone.

“Elizabeth would not have left without a word to anyone. It is not in her nature.” Miss Waters said.

“Keeping secrets is precisely Miss Bassett’s nature. It has been the single most consistent trait in her behavior since she first arrived here. You clearly do not know her as well as you think.” Mr. Carrington said.

“Why would she leave and where would she go?” Miss Waters asked.

“Only she could answer why but as to where, she undoubtedly went home, wherever that might be for her now.” The sheriff said.

“But…” Miss Waters began.

“Enough, Miss Waters. You have wasted enough of the sheriff’s time and there is nothing to support your wild theory. If you know something to alter the situation, now is the time to speak. Otherwise, you would be wise to apologize to the sheriff and keep your head down.” Mrs. Carrington said.

All eyes were on Miss Waters. She bit at her lip and fidgeted her hands for a moment while staring at the floor. She raised her head for a moment to look at me and when she did not find the support she expected, she looked back at the floor.

“I am sorry to have wasted your time. I must have been mistaken.” Miss Waters said.

The words sounded strained and I can only imagine how difficult it was to say them. Miss Waters is not in the habit of apologizing nor doing what others have told her to do. I am proud of her for swallowing her pride for once. Perhaps even she has learned a thing or two in the weeks since our return.

The sheriff nodded.

“Quite alright, Miss Waters. I hope at the very least our diligence has set your mind at ease.” The sheriff said.

“Thank you sheriff. You have done ample to set all our minds at ease.” Mr. Carrington said.

Miss Waters, wisely remained silent and merely nodded her head in agreement with Mr. Carrington.

“If there is nothing else then, I will be off.” The sheriff said.

Mr. Carrington nodded and offered his hand to the sheriff. The two men shook hands and then walked out toward the front door. Mrs. Carrington turned to Miss Waters and I could see there was anger in her eyes. I decided it would be best for all if I spoke first.

“Miss Waters you will wait for me in the hall outside my room.” I ordered.

She looked up at me in surprise.

“Now, Miss Waters.” I said.

She decided not to argue and left quietly. Mrs. Carrington looked at me and shook her head like a disappointed mother.

“Why do you protect her?” She asked.

“I am not.” I replied.

“That girl needs to a learn a serious lesson here.”

“I agree and she will, I promise.”

“A lecture will not be sufficient.” Mr. Carrington said.

He returned alone.

“I will take care of it.” I said.

“You had better, because if you do not I will and it will not just be Miss Waters to whom I will be attending. Are we clear?” Mr. Carrington said.

“Yes, sir.” I replied.

Our eyes met. Mr. Carrington’s stern expression softened as he realized I was as serious as he. Miss Waters will soon learn just how serious that is.

Everything Wrong

2009-02-13T16:00:00.001-05:00

February 13, 1897

Sarah Waters

Mr. Stark raised his arm high in the air and held it there for a moment. I think he was admiring the view and he was not alone in it. I held my breath almost without knowing and waited for the inevitable fall of his arm and the loud crack of leather on naked flesh which would accompany it. No one made a sound.

Then it happened. Over and over, the strap rose and fell leaving behind a neat series of blazing, red stripes, pulsating with stinging pain. Ten I counted in all, but it was only a meager justice if the truth be told. Had the choice been mine it would have been double that at the least. Fortunately for Miss Ferguson, I was only a spectator in the crowd with no influence to call upon.

Gossiping was her crime. Stupid, gossiping in the middle of class had her marched to the front of the room, dress and undergarments removed for a proper striping and shaming of the silly girl. Still, it felt a little like justice for me. She is after all, the girl who has been doing her best to undermine my reputation with twisted tales of last May. If she had any concept of how much she hurt me by dragging that past into the present, she gave no sign of remorse. She seems almost proud of herself.

Justice is not always easy to find, but I will take what I can get and be happy it is more than nothing.

At the end of the day, I descended the steps to the street watching Miss Ferguson wincing as she did the same. She cried to her friends about the injustice and for a change, I was smart enough to keep my thoughts to myself. Besides, Mr. Goulding was waiting at the street along with another young man I recognized as Miss Sumter’s brother, Wilbur.

“Are you looking for Penelope?” I asked.

Mr. Sumter looked confused for a moment before replying.

“No. Have you seen Miss Bassett?” Mr. Sumter asked.

“Not since breakfast. I am sure she will be back at the manor within the hour though.” I replied.

Mr. Sumter nodded and gave a quick smile of thanks.

“Miss Waters, might I have a word?” Mr. Goulding asked.

“I’m in such a good mood, I’ll even let you have two.” I replied.

Mr. Sumter fell into a coughing fit, no doubt brought about by the cold February air. Mr. Goulding offered me his arm and I took it without a thought. We walked down the sidewalk until we were far enough away that no one would hear us.

“What do you know?” Mr. Goulding asked.

His words had the sound of accusation in them.

“More than some, less than others.” I replied.

“Elizabeth Bassett is missing and somehow I doubt you are ignorant of it.”

“What?”

The shock on my face must have convinced him he was wrong, because immediately his tone changed.

“You really don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t just leave it at that. What is going on?” I asked.

“Miss Bassett left for school as usual this morning but all indications are she never arrived. She missed all her classes. Her room looks like she packed all her things and left, but if she did, she seems to have told no one.”

“Have you talked to Miss Sumter?”

“Of course, she swears nothing was out of place this morning when she left.”

“The man I shot, he told me there was someone still after her.” I said.

“You spoke to him? When?”

“A few days ago. He was trying to scare me out of town and I think he wanted me to take Elizabeth with me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Who are you that I should tell?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“Maybe, but you have too many secrets and you often do as you just did.”

“What did I do?”

“You avoid my questions and try to distract me from noticing.”

“You need to trust me. I can help.”

“If it is my trust you want, you will have to earn it first. I’ve told you what I know in any case.”

Mr. Goulding nodded. He looked at me as if he was going to tell me something, but then he changed his mind. I could see it in his eyes, the trust he wanted from me was also lacking from him. I almost followed him when he turned and walked away, but whatever it is between the two of us will have to wait for another time.

Looking For Tears

2009-02-12T16:00:00.001-05:00

February 12, 1897

Elizabeth Bassett

So, there I was.

I trembled because it was expected, not out of some misguided fear. The classroom seems infinitely larger from the front and the students, infinitely more intimidating. The boys sat with their smug grins, hidden behind stoic expressions of feigned disapproval. It is all in contrast of truth, just like me.

It is getting hard to breathe.

Deception is not me but it is what I have become. I do not even know where the lies end and the truth begins anymore, but the world I have constructed is coming tumbling down. Nothing can stop it now, the light will shine on the dark shadows and all my secrets will be revealed. Maybe Penelope is right, maybe it is time to run.

It began with the little things and I suppose that is how all things begin. One lie leads to another and another and each step is small in its taking and rationalized easily by the standards of the step before. Still, there comes a point when you look back at where you have come from and realize it is such a long way to fall. I do not know where it went from insignificant to wrong, perhaps it never did or always was, but it is not the issue now in any regard.

What happened to me?

The face in the mirror is no longer me. The innocent girl with the grand dreams of a fairytale life haunts me with the disappointment showing sadly in her eyes. I thought I knew right from wrong. Somewhere in the twists and turns I have lost my sense of direction. I thought by holding onto a purpose I could find my way, but without direction, a purpose can lose its luster until all that was once good and right slips away.

SMACK!

The pain is right and good. I would cry if I could, perhaps before it is over I will. My upside down view of the room seems more right than the upright view for which I traded it. Smiles are like frowns and that means something although I do not know quite what. Expression is in the eyes and mine are vacant.

SMACK!

The sound was hollow as my soul. I knew there was trouble on the horizon and I pretended not to care. My father had been so secretive in the summer months and strangely silent since I returned to school. I should have known in September, but it was not until late in November I began to worry in the slightest. Self absorption is my only excuse and it is a wretched one.

SMACK!

Even after Sylvia’s letter I told myself all was fine. I knew better, but I liked the fantasy. I flirted with Mr. Sumter, as if I had not another care in the world and shamefully, I did not. I took joy in the annoyed expressions of my friend, Penelope and when she spoke of family I changed the subject to avoid talking about mine.

SMACK!

I did nothing wrong I told myself. I did nothing right either, myself told I. Now, it is too late and there is nothing to do but wait and hope and pray. Father’s business is no more, the apartment is as it was, full and empty. Mother is gone, father is gone and I am here.

SMACK!

Something terrible has happened and I think it might be all my fault.

SMACK!

“Do you think you can behave now?” Dr. Phallic asked.

My eyes were tearless. My heart held an honest answer, but I compromised once again and said the sensible words. They were another lie, but what is one more?

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.” I said.

“Good, then take your seat, Miss Bassett.”

I have my reasons for what I have done, but they seem less just now and more selfish. I thought if my goal was to help others it would naturally follow that I would help myself, but that is wrong. If I cannot help myself, then I can help no one at all. It was arrogant to think otherwise.

I righted myself once again and sat rigid in my chair. The sting was comforting but nowhere near what I deserved. I wonder what he would do if I wadded up a page and threw it at him in class tomorrow? Perhaps then he will make me cry.

The Perplexity Of Family

2009-02-10T16:00:00.001-05:00

February 10, 1897

Penelope Sumter

February 2, 1897

Dearest Penelope,

I realize this letter will arrive too late to be of any use beyond the comfort it brings me to pen it. At long last I am leaving for Providence and will be with you soon after this letter arrives or possibly even before. What a laugh that would be!

I should have left with you and never looked back, but even though I know I will never meet with father’s approval, I still find myself trying. No more though, not for me. It is past time I stood on my own and made my own way in this world. In Providence I have the opportunity and means to do so and I get to be close to you while I am about it. I do not expect you will understand, not because you are a woman but because you are not a second born son.

I leave our childhood home today with the realization I left it for the last time, months ago when I first accompanied you to Primrose College. Had I known then all that I know now, I would never have come back at all. Father and James cut me out of affairs a long time ago for reasons I may never understand. Today, I cut them off and for reason they will likely never understand, know or think to know. Shed no tears for me little sister, I am happy for once and that alone tells me I am doing what it right for me.

Although I am aware you tire of my mentioning her name, please tell Elizabeth I will see her soon. There is much to be discussed, much to be done, and a world to change.

Love,

Wilbur Sumter

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

February 3, 1897

Dear Penelope,

It is my sad duty to inform you our brother Wilbur is no longer a welcome member of our family. His obsession with Miss Bassett has irreparably clouded his judgment and blinded him to the realities of this world. When Mother attempted to talk some sense into him, he flew into a rage and beat her with his bare fists. Mother is strong and will recover in time, but there is no room in our home for such a monster.

Father had a warrant sworn out on Wilbur this morning, but it seems he has already fled. Should he contact you, as he well might because of your proximity to Miss Bassett, send a message to me at once and do not let him know you are aware of what he has done or he might harm you as well. I have no affection for Miss Basset but I would not wish our demented brother on anyone, it would be best if you could keep her away from him if at all possible.

A man by the name of William Howe is on his way to Providence now. It would be most wise of you to assist him in convincing Miss Basset to accompany him out of Providence until such time as Wilbur can be apprehended. Mr. Howe will contact you when he arrive, but it is imperative you keep your contact discreet. Above all, Miss Waters must not be aware of his presence or she will undoubtedly complicate matters and endanger the lives of everyone.

Wilbur has lost his head and there is no sadder duty than to confront your own blood in the way we must. You are a strong woman like our mother and I know you will do what you must. Father and I are very proud of you, little sister.

Sincerely,

J. Sumter

Water Under A Bridge

2009-02-09T16:00:00.001-05:00

February 9, 1897

Edith Bowen

“You care too much Edith.” She said.

“I could say you do not care enough, but then you would take offense.” I replied.

I sipped cautiously from the teacup she handed me. It felt strange and comfortable all at the same time. A year ago it all would have been a normal day, but so much has happened since then. We have both said and done things to be regretted.

“You are young and prudence may appear as callousness to your eyes but that does not make it so.” Mrs. Carrington said.

“I make no accusations of callousness. I do not agree that your actions are always prudent though. Perhaps I am not fully aware of all that I should be, but I can not imagine what state of affairs would support turning a blind eye to the morale of the girls.”

“I do not turn a blind eye. These girls, as you should well know, carry a heavier burden than most of them are aware. Their actions whether intentional or not can and do have far reaching consequences not just for themselves but for young women all across this country, maybe even the world.”

“I dare say you exaggerate.”

“Do I? I think you underestimate the example being set here. You fought for the joint classes with Brown and, as my husband said so clearly at the time, you do not have the slightest comprehension of what you began.”

“You and your husband underestimate my comprehension. Change does not occur easily and when the opportunities for great change present themselves we must be prepared to seize those moments.”

“No matter the consequences?” She asked.

“No matter the consequences.” I replied.

I am not certain I believed the words I uttered instinctually, but I was not prepared to surrender my convictions for the sake of being amiable. Mrs. Carrington sipped her tea quietly, considering me and my words and then, to my shock, she nodded.

“What is done, is done. I will not dwell any further on whether you were right or wrong in that choice. In any case, I invited you here not to discuss the past but the present and future.” Mrs. Carrington said.

“You are concerned about the behavior of the girls since our return.” I said.

It was fact. I sipped my tea, confident I knew where the conversation was going.

“Four of them in particular, maybe five.” She said.

I raised my eyebrows at the thought. How could she have narrowed her concerns down to four or five girls when I myself could count a dozen first years alone that needed watching?

“I assume you are going to tell me their names.” I said.

“Of course. Two of them are your responsibility, Miss Ferguson and Miss Cushing, the others, Miss Bassett, Miss Sumter, and Miss Spooner are mine.”

“I do not think we will be having any more trouble from Miss Cushing or Miss Ferguson. Both have been especially quiet since your husband dealt with them on Friday.”

“It is likely the quiet before the storm. The conflict between them represents not just their own feelings and emotions but that of the other girls as well. Miss Waters, and you, have become something of a role model to the other girls here. Your past is less than endearing but it does not have the controversy which is rooted in Miss Waters’.”

“Miss Waters is not a role model nor should she be one. I fail to see why her past, controversial or not, should have any bearing on the behavior of the girls.”

“Whether you accept her role with the girls or not, it is a reality and her past is more relevant than even she knows. Miss Cushing is digging into that past and what she finds will divide the girls.”

“You obviously know more than you are sharing.”

“I only know that Miss Cushing is adept at deception. She will stir up trouble in the hopes she can come out on top.”

“And what of Miss Ferguson?”

“She sees through Miss Cushing well enough but she seems blind to Miss Waters’ flaws. At some point this will unravel and I do not know how she will effect the others when it does.”

“What should I do about it?” I asked.

“Let your head decide what to do about them, not your heart. I am confident you will find a way to diffuse the situation without matters getting out of hand.”

“I appreciate the confidence but I remain open to suggestions. What of the others? Is there anything I need to know?”

“Miss Bassett is clearly distracted from her studies and Miss Sumter has become increasingly daring in recent weeks. There are rumors she is flirting with one of the teachers and if they turn out to be true, it could be a devastating blow to Primrose. Miss Spooner, I am concerned about for more private reasons but how she deals with those matters could well effect us all.” She said.

I let the ambiguities stand. Today was a big step toward repairing the fractured relationship I have with Mrs. Carrington and I am happy for what she did choose to share with me. There is still a matter of trust to be regained between us, but the road is open once more and while the conversation is strained and guarded it is better than the silence which has reigned for so long now.

Men On The Side (Part Two)

2009-02-06T17:00:00.001-05:00

February 6, 1897

Sarah Waters

“Are you okay?” I asked.

I knew the answer was no, but I was at a loss for words to say. She is my friend.

“I’ll be fine.” She said.

Her eyes were still red and she winced with every move. It was no secret what had happened or why, but the details were a maze of contradictions. The only thing I am certain of is I was the reason.

“Why would you fight with someone over me?” I asked.

Anna looked at me and for a moment I thought she was going to cry again. She cried all through the night, quietly, as if she was ashamed of it. I wanted to provide some form of comfort but I knew I could only make it worse.

“It isn’t true is it?” She said.

“What?”

“You would never kill anyone would you?” She asked.

I saw all their faces again. Angry, desperate men, but men with wives and children depending on them. They were dead because of me, some by my own hand and all with a terrifying question on their lips, “Why?” I closed my eyes, but they would not go away and then there was the one face which answered it all, but he is not dead, not yet.

“Why do you ask?” I said.

She fumbled in her pocket for a moment and then produced a folded clipping from the Denver Post. I did not need to read the words on the page, I knew the story well enough, I lived it.

“It’s all true.” I said.

My voice was hoarse and the words came out at barely a whisper, but she heard them just the same. The disappointment was obvious in her eyes and in her stance. She swallowed and said nothing at all. The weight of silence rested heavy in my chest.

“I’ll understand if you hate me.” I said.

“Why Sarah?” She asked.

The question echoed in my head with the voices of all those men. What answer can I give?

“I…I…” I said, trying to find something to say.

“It doesn’t matter. You are here now and all of that is behind you, in the past where it will remain.” She said.

I nodded, tears in my own eyes. She wrapped me in an embrace and together we shed tears of regret and pain. It was something we both needed to do. The shame and guilt will never slip away, but there is comfort in the sharing and in the knowing there are days ahead in which we might find the way to make right all our wrongs.

I never saw him coming. He grabbed my arm from behind and before I could even make a sound his other hand covered my mouth and nose. I struggled of course but he had me. Dragged from the street in broad daylight, he threw me against a wall in a shady alleyway. His hands released me and only then did I know him.

“Quiet or you’ll attract attention.” He said.

I considered my options and decided talking was the best.

“Why would I not want it?” I asked.

“Because then you’ll never know what I have to tell you.” He said.

“Are you certain I wish to know?”

“That’ll be your choice Miss Waters, but you don’t strike me as the kind of woman who prefers to remain ignorant.”

“You know my name.”

“When a woman shoots you and then saves your life, you make it a point of learning her name.”

I nodded.

“Are you going to kill me?” I asked.

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I came to warn you.”

“Why?”

“Because I owe you and I don’t owe anyone anything, ever.”

“So what’s your warning?” I asked.

“The man who wants your friend, isn’t giving up. There’ll be men coming for her and no one can protect her all the time.”

“Who is he?”

“I can’t say.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

“Ask your friend, she probably knows. I’ve never met the man myself, he sends me work from time to time and goes by the name, Mr. S.” He said.

“What makes you think she knows?”

“The people he sends me for, they’ve always done something. She looks innocent enough but if he is after her, she most likely did something to him.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Nothing. I sent you a package, you’ll receive it next week and inside you’ll find information on the men that are coming. Maybe it will help you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell the sheriff? I can’t stop them on my own.”

“I did tell the sheriff and he’ll do what he can, but they aren’t coming just for your friend anymore. The contract includes me and you now, dead or alive.”

“And you? What are you going to do?”

“I on my way out of town and you’d be wise to do the same, but I reckon you won’t.”

“So you are just going to run like a coward?”

“Call it what you will, but I like living.”

“You men are all the same. You stay on the side and pretend you are not involved. Why should I believe a word you say?”

“Because I got no reason to lie and frankly, I don’t care if you do or don’t. I’m giving you the information that can save your life. What you do with it is up to you.”

The Power Of Ink

2009-02-05T16:00:00.004-05:00

February 5, 1897

Edith Bowen

The pen is mightier than the sword.

In 1839 Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote those words, but he was not the first nor the last to express such sentiment. It is even rumored Thomas Jefferson himself expressed the very same concept in a 1792 letter to Thomas Paine. Words alone can make a brave man cower in fear, turn a traitor to a hero, or give honor to a common band of thieves. Such is the power of ink to mold our views and rarely will we question their veracity or their purpose, be it to nourish our minds or corrupt our souls.

The trouble began with a simple newspaper clipping. The facts reported within were true enough, but lies are not always told with untruths. The omission of pertinent facts or details can maliciously alter perceptions. Therefore, by what measure do we discern truth from deception?

There is no easy answer.

The growing feud between Miss Ferguson and Miss Cushing is evidence enough. The blindly faithful and the perpetually skeptical have always been a grievous pairing. In hindsight, I should have done more to separate the girls, but I had optimistically hoped they could resolve matters amongst themselves.

Fighting was not what I had in mind.

"What were you thinking?" I asked.

I paced the width of the rug in Mrs. Carrington's den. The two sorrowful looking girls stood downtrodden before me. I kept my hands clasped behind my back for fear if I did not, I would strike one or both of them. Their shameful display, at the base of the college steps no less, will be a blight on all of Primrose for weeks and months if not years.

"She started it." Miss Ferguson said.

I stopped pacing and stepped close to the girls. My hot breath fanned wisps of their disheveled air. Neither dared to look me in the eye.

"Shut up!" I shouted.

Miss Cushing's lips began to move as if she was going to mention she had not spoke, but she must have thought better of it. A single tear ran down Miss Ferguson's cheek. I did not care.

I turned my back on them and walked to Mrs. Carrington's desk. I stared down at the crumpled and torn newspaper clipping. The words told a story about a girl accused of murder and set free not by acquittal of guilt but by national politics playing out in a small town. I turned back to face the girls holding the paper up in my hand.

"Where did you get this?" I asked.

The girls remained silent.

"It is irrelevant anyway. Why either of you are concerned about the words written here is beyond my comprehension. How you could believe the scribbling of someone you don't know about someone you barely know are worthy of disgracing yourselves, the college, this house, and all the girls herein, astounds me." I said.

"We are living with a killer and you expect us not to care?" Miss Cushing said.

"I do not recall giving you permission to speak. In any case, you should know better than to blindly accept as truth anything that is written." I replied.

"It is a newspaper clipping based on facts. You can choose to ignore them but ignorance protects no one." Miss Cushing said.

"It's all lies. You are only doing this because you are jealous." Miss Ferguson said.

"Jealous? I could never be jealous of a peasant like her." Miss Cushing said.

"You are the peasant!" Miss Ferguson said.

They were about to come to blows again and a small part of me was tempted to let them. Violence will not settle their differences and I would be as guilty as they, were I to allow my personal feelings to dictate my actions.

"Enough!" I said.

They both glared at me but smartly closed their mouths.

"As you well know, Mr. Carrington will deal with you both for fighting. I cannot alter this nor do I have any desire to do so. Never before have two girls behaved so despicably while at this school. I sincerely hope you each learn a severe lesson today so that we will never again need to speak of this. As for Miss Waters, If I ever learn of the two of you discussing her again you will think Mr. Carrington a light hand compared to what I will do. Are we clear?" I said.

They meekly nodded and then there was a knock on the door. Mr. Carrington entered the room carrying his heavy strap. I left him to it, gently closing the door behind. As I ascended the stairs, I could hear the girls each screaming in turn as they no doubt felt the sting of his leather. I have always pitied those poor girls trapped inside that den, but not today, not these girls, not this time. I wished them all the pain for all the girls, becauseMr. Stark was right; we must teach them to make good decisions because if we do not, everything Primrose College stands for will fall.

Painful As It Is

2009-02-03T16:00:00.000-05:00

February 3, 1897

Edith Bowen

My evenings are filled with tending to the girls unfortunate enough to have crossed a teacher during their day at school. Most tell stories of being punished for minor and inconsequential mistakes and the administration of further discipline from me merely adds insult to injury. Even the best behaved of girls seem unable to avoid the wrath of the Primrose teachers in recent days. Where hope and excitement had accompanied our return, all is quickly becoming bleak despair.

For myself, I could smell it coming like rain in the air on a cloudy day. From the moment I sat up in bed I knew it was going to be a difficult one. I dropped my hairbrush whilst brushing my hair and then as I dressed, two of the buttons came off my dress. If that were not enough, I left the buckles on my shoes undone and nearly fell down the stairs as I stepped out of them on my way to breakfast.

The school day started out surprisingly well in contrast to my morning. It was not until the afternoon when my feeling of dread returned. At first, I attributed it to my mixed emotions in regards to Mr. Stark. Our time together gave me new insight into his character which has left me confused as to my own feelings toward him. When his condescending tone falls upon me and his egotistical words berate me I find myself as likely to smile as frown in response.

“In all my years teaching I have never encountered a more pathetic student.” Mr. Stark said.

There was no doubt in anyone’s minds of whom he was referring. He slapped his open palm on my desk making everyone jump. He barely glanced at me, but instead paced the floor in front of me like a caged lion. It was plain enough to see, he was working himself up to something.

Unfair as it is, I have become accustomed to being the target of his verbal assaults in class. I am after all the only female in his senior English course. While I will not be the first Primrose Girl to graduate, there are not many who have come before me and I am the only one who will do so this year. I comfort myself with those facts and the pride that comes with them.

“Your penmanship is on par with a two year old and your vocabulary is only slightly better. If you have an original thought in your head, you have failed miserably to express it on any level.” Mr. Stark continued.

I might have shed tears for such comments prior to the Christmas holiday, but now I understand. He attacks my work because it is unacceptable for my work to ever be better than the young men’s whom I share the classroom with. Every insult is a compliment in disguise.

I smiled despite the sour words.

“Why are you smiling? Are you an idiot? Do you find your failures amusing or do you think a pretty smile will make it all better? I have news for you little girl; in my classroom, brains matter more than beauty.” Mr. Stark said.

My smile faded, but only slightly. Mr. Stark took notice.

“Am I getting through?” He asked.

Everyone waited to hear what I would say. I considered my options carefully, but I did not think I had much to worry about.

“Yes, sir. I will try harder.” I replied.

“No matter how hard you try, you will always fail because a woman simply does not have the brains.” The young man sitting next to me said.

“Precisely.” Mr. Stark said. “Why do you waste our time, Miss Bowen?”

Anger welled up inside me.

“Why do you? You know damn well my work is superior to that of these apes you call students.” I said.

As soon as the words had left my lips I was sorry to have said them. Some thoughts are not meant to have a voice. The slap across my face only served as confirmation.

“Insolent girl! How dare you talk like that in my classroom.” Mr. Stark said.

I chose silence as the lesser of evils.

“Stand up girl.” Mr. Stark ordered.

I did not even think to disobey. A moment later, I was bent over my own desk, facing the classroom and Mr. Stark raised my skirts and lowered my bloomers, giving him alone a view of my nakedness. I blushed for the boys, but did not look at their grinning faces nor meet their intense stares.

I could not see, but from the first stroke, I knew the implement to be his trusty ruler. The modest thwack of the wood against my exposed flesh stung like cold water on a warm day. There were six delivered before tears stung at the corners of my eyes and eight before the first spilled onto my cheeks. At a dozen, my feet were stomping as if the act could help ease the pain and by the eighteenth and final stroke I was a pitiful girl with a blazing bottom. I sobbed remorse whilst staring at the pool of my tears, collected on the chair to my desk.

Mr. Stark sent me to stand the rest of the class in the corner. My red, throbbing, buttocks remained naked and visible for all in the class to see. I was ashamed for the spectacle. Every noise, every breath in the room felt like a commentary on my state and none of it was positive in my thoughts.

When it was all over and the classroom was empty except for the two of us, I decided it was time for truth. I turned to Mr. Stark. His eyes shown with remorse but his expression remained strict.

“I was out of line.” I said.

“Yes, you were.” He replied.

“Why did you bait me?” I asked.

His eyebrow raised.

“Bait you? I did no such thing.” He said.

“I do not mean to be contrarian, but you did indeed and we both know it.” I said.

“Do not presume to know what I know. Arrogance does not suit you Edith.”

“Were it just today and only between you and I, I would not presume anything at all. However, what happened here is only a new version of the same tale I have been hearing from every girl at Primrose. I am not a simpleton.”

“Your behavior today would say otherwise.”

“You are avoiding the subject.”

“Which subject is that?”

“There is something going on with the teachers here at Primrose and I will know what it is whether from you or elsewhere.”

“If you only look to see what you know, you will not see that which is plain to be seen.” Mr. Stark said.

I blinked as I tried to follow his logic or lack of it.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, your assumptions blind you to the truth at your feet.”

“What truth is that?”

“It is the girls and not the teachers who bring trouble to Primrose.”

“Your phrases are more eloquent but your words are as transparent as Mr. Carrington’s. Ever since we returned from holiday, there has been a surge of discipline, brought about with weak excuses.”

“Your outburst in class was not a weak excuse. Your behavior was uncalled for and inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate, I will concede, but uncalled for I will not. You baited me with absurd accusations of failings and shortcomings you know I do not possess. You insulted me repeatedly until you succeeded in angering me. Had I not said what I did, you would have continued until I said or did something else. Admit it, you were bent on punishing me today.”

“Will it make your words any less wrong?”

“No, but it will make yours easier to bare, if I knew why you spoke them.”

“The reasons are varied and not readily explained. Suffice to say, just as you are not certain you are ready for the world, the world is not certain it is ready for you.”

“Then you have been told to discipline us?”

“Not in so many words, but the fate of Primrose hangs on the actions of a few. If we are harsh and strict, perhaps those few will make the right choices when the time comes.”

“If you would just tell me the whole truth, I could help.”

“You would try, but the ability to make good decisions is something one must learn for themselves.”

I could have pressed on, but I could tell he had said as much as he was going to say. There was truth in his words and wisdom as well. For all the complaints of all the girls, there is one undeniable truth, we are not innocent bystanders, but active participants making choices both wise and unwise. It might well be true, painful as it is, the actions of our teachers may well be for our own good.

Men On The Side (Part One)

2009-02-02T16:00:00.003-05:00

February 2, 1897
Sarah Waters

Jonathon Goulding was waiting on the steps for me when I left Carrington Manor this morning. I watched as Elizabeth Bassett passed him on the steps and there was a glance between them which spoke volumes about a story of which I know nothing more than curious rumors. Someday, I will ask her directly, but for now it is only one of many questions and nowhere near the top of the list. With her gone, his eyes were only for me and he barely grunted polite greetings to the other girls as they went. I took my time descending, observing him for some clue as to his purpose this time.

He tipped his hat and lowered his head at me, as if the social conventions of the privileged would matter to me. I took his arm when he offered it and smiled politely. We began the walk toward Primrose Hall and for a moment I felt like all was right in the world. If only we could live our lives in such moments, then nothing else would ever matter.

But, everything matters.

“We have only so many steps to take before we must part. Tell me, what brings you to me on this day?” I said.

“I am not certain I wish to tell you.” He replied.

I giggled at the thought.

“You are a strange man.” I said.

“How so?”

“Do you often come to tell people things you do not wish to tell them?”

“No.”

“And you do not find the concept strange?”

“I do not. Unusual perhaps, but not strange.”

“Are they not synonyms?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it before speaking.

“Would it be so painful to admit I am right?”

“Not if it would make you happy.” He said.

I laughed again.

“My happiness is not dependent upon you.” I said.

“The man you shot, he is free.” He said.

There was a somberness in his tone and the abrupt change in subject left me feeling off balance. The lighthearted conversation was suddenly heavy. I took a measured breath before speaking again.

“Why should I care?” I asked.

“I think you know.”

I nodded.

“Tell me anyway, just to be sure.” I said.

“He will be coming for you and Miss Bassett as well I think.”

“So, you did know who they were after.” I said.

“Not at first, but I have learned the truth.” He replied.

“What do they want with her?” I asked.

“I do not know.”

“Who are they?”

“I cannot say.”

“Always questions with you and never answers. What good are you to me, Mr. Goulding?”

“I am trying to protect you.”

“Should I run away in fear? Cower beneath some stone in the forest? If that is your expectation, you shall be disappointed.”

“I am only asking you to be cautious. There is trouble enough at Primrose these days and even a little more could cause irreparable damage.”

“Why don’t you tell me everything?”

“Because I cannot.”

“I am sure that is convenient for you, but it means nothing to me.”

“If I told you all that I know, you would turn this delicate situation into an explosive one. There are more lives at stake, than yours and Miss Bassett’s. Try to understand.”

We reached the steps to Primrose Hall and stopped walking. I let go of his arm and turned to face him. There was frustration in his face again and I could feel it within myself as well. Perhaps we are on the same side and even want the same things, but I do not fully trust him and I can see he feels the same by the look in his eyes.

“You were right, you should not have told me anything at all. All I really want is to walk up these stairs and attend my classes in peace.” I said.

“And you say you do not want to runaway and hide? I am not so foolish or so gullible as to believe you are nothing more than a simple schoolgirl, Miss Waters.”

“Whatever you think you know about me Mr. Goulding, you are wrong.”

“Perhaps, but maybe I see you better than you see yourself.”

“So, this man, will he come for me?” I asked.

“He will.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Simply be aware. I will do what I can to stop him but do not make yourself an easy target.”

“And Miss Bassett?”

“I think it best if she does not know.”

“Why?”

“Because unlike you, she will only act more foolishly not less.”

“So, you think me a fool.” I said.

“I…” He stammered.

“Go on Mr. Goulding, I have classes to attend and you obviously have pressing matters as well.” I said.

I left his presence before he could say anymore. For all the trouble he wished to save me, he caused enough of his own. I slipped into Mr. Bard’s classroom only a moment after the bell chimed, but late is late. Mr. Bard made certain I understood.

“Nice of you to join us Miss Waters.” Mr. Bard said.

“My apologies, sir. I was unavoidably detained.” I replied.

“Flirting on the steps of the Hall is not unavoidable detainment.”

“Yes, sir.” I said.

I stared at floor, embarrassed to be caught in a misleading statement.

“Come here.” He ordered.

Reluctantly I walked to the front of the classroom. When I stood before him he turned and walked to the corner. He brought the stool from it and set it to rest in front of me.

“Bend over it.” He said.

I bit my lip and then decided to do as I was told without comment. It felt more than a little awkward and even more so when he raised my skirts and parted my bloomers to bare my backside for the class to see.

He walked over to his desk and picked up his paddle. He swung it in the air as he walked back over to me. I closed my eyes as I felt the swoosh of air flow over my body. My bottom was still rather tender from Mr. Carrington’s strap on Friday evening.

The first swat made me gasp and tears sprang from my eyes.

“I think ten swats should be enough. Do you agree Miss Waters?”

“Yes, sir.” I said.

“Excellent, you may count the rest.” He said.

He waited a mere heartbeat before swinging again.

“Two, sir.” I said.

The next came before I even finished speaking.

“Three, sir.”

Mr. Bard took a moment to walk in a circle around me and then swung the paddle hard, just as he reached the completion of it. I cried out and tears fell freely from my eyes.

“Four, sir.” I said.

He swung again.

“Five, sir.” I counted.

He paced from side to side.

“Let this be a lesson to all of you ladies, I will not tolerate tardiness.” Mr. Bard lectured.

He stopped off to my left side again and then raised the paddle high in the air only to bring it crashing down with such force, my legs went flying up in the air. I screamed as the burning pain rippled through my buttocks.

“Six, sir.” I managed after a moment.

The next two were given one after the other with such speed and force I could not count them separately. My legs kicked in the air and I wriggled against the stool, gasping for air.

“Seven, eight, sir.” I said between sobs.

He swung again before I could brace myself for it. My legs flailed in the air and grabbed the legs of the stool until my knuckles were white, just to stay down upon it.

“Nine, sir.” I said.

The final one was low and caught the back of legs. The force of it tipped me off balance on the stool and I landing on my side on the floor with the stool tipped over as well. My hands grabbed my tortured bottom and I sobbed.

“That makes ten I believe.” Mr. Bard said.

I could only nod. He allowed me a few moments to collect myself although I only used them for tears and massaging my bottom. His strong arms lifted me off the ground and righted the stool. He placed the dunce cap on my head and gestured for me to sit on the stool.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I sat upon the stool and winced as I did. The only thing which made it alright was the silence in the room. The other girls were not laughing at me, or the situation. I would be angry at Mr. Bard, but the fault is not his alone.

Class was understandably long and afterward it was nice to have some sympathy.

“Was it worth it?” Anna asked.

“No.” I replied.

“Interesting, I would have thought Mr. Goulding would be worth any price.” She said.

The girls around us giggled at the thought, although I am not sure any of them would willingly trade a sore bottom and the humiliation of sitting on the dunce stool for an evening with Mr. Goulding let alone a few minutes of conversation on the school’s steps. I rubbed my bottom ruefully.

“The only things worth so much are the ones we want but cannot have.” I said.

Anna’s eyes narrowed to slits and her cheeks flushed with a hint of anger, but she laughed with the rest of the girls and said nothing more. Clearly she has the wrong idea of Mr. Goulding’s interest in me. There is no romance of which to be jealous.

One For All

2009-01-30T16:00:00.002-05:00

January 30, 1897
Sarah Waters

“May I have your attention, young ladies.” Mr. Carrington said.

Breakfast was being cleared away, but the dining hall doors were closed, ensuring no one had left early as some girls will do. The room had been filled with chatter and the sense of excitement which seems to have accompanied us on our return to school. I was keeping quiet even though several girls attempted to bring me into their conversations. My run-in with Mr. Bard earlier in the week had dampened my taste for gossip.

The room fell silent in pockets as each table came to the realization we were being addressed as a group. Ordinarily, I give little thought and less attention to the Carrington’s, but something drew my eye to Mrs. Carrington. She was sitting quietly with a stern look on her face. It all seemed typical enough until I noticed her eyes. They were red, as though she had been crying.

“Quiet down.” Mr. Carrington said.

The room was already quiet and he knew it. The man was always puffed up in his own importance. Some find it appealing in a man. I find it annoying. I had childish visions of sticking my tongue out at him for no other reason than to distract him from his purpose. Perhaps I should have tried, but the moment passed and the opportunity was lost.

“The young ladies of this house are always expected to represent themselves and this house with pride and dignity. Those who fall short in this task have always been disciplined and will always be disciplined. You and your parents accepted and agreed to these terms before you ever arrived here.” Mr. Carrington said.

He looked around the room, his gaze seeming to single out particular girls for a moment, bring each into his spotlight. In the moment his eyes locked with mine, I knew it was not for praise that he singled some out.

“I have not often been disappointed in the young ladies of this house. However, in recent days it as been brought to my attention, not all the young ladies in this house have been meeting this standard of behavior. It appears some of you have brought the frivolity of your holidays back with you to school. This is not appropriate and the accompanying behavior is not appropriate.” Mr. Carrington continued.

The atmosphere in the room turned from relaxed to tense. Girls shifted in their seats. Some were nervous, having guessed where Mr. Carrington’s speech was heading. Others were angry having sensed the deeper meaning in his spoken words; you are not meant to be happy. I understood it all, and was numb for it.

“It is clear to me, I must take steps to rectify this situation before it becomes completely out of control. Therefore, beginning today, any young lady who requires the discipline of the teachers or administrators of Primrose College more than one time in a week will be disciplined further by me on Friday.” Mr. Carrington said.

There was a collective gasp in the room.

“Those unfortunate enough to require my attention, will report themselves to the main hall of the manor in their nightgowns immediately following their final class for the day. They will line up, facing the wall and wait with their skirts raised above their buttocks and I will deal with each of them in turn. Any young lady who does not report as instructed or who attempts to resist her discipline will be subject to expulsion, without exception. For any of you who may be uncertain as to whether you should be reporting to the main hall this afternoon, Mrs. Carrington has a list.” Mr. Carrington said.

“That is not fair.” I said.

My words echoed the consensus of every other girl in the room. The words left my mouth louder than I expected, but it did not change my conviction in their truth.

“The acts of a few poorly behaved girls staining the reputations of all those who reside here, is fair? I think not, Miss Waters.” Mr. Carrington said.

I could feel eyes of every girl in the room on me. What they expected from me I do not know.
“I only meant we should have a knowing opportunity to avoid your discipline. I am certain everyone in this room will take you at your word.” I said.

“I am not so confidant as you, but I am not unwilling to compromise.” He said.

There was a slight smile on his lips and a glint in his eye.

“Compromise?” I asked.

“Yes, I think a single example could serve the purpose. You seem to be so willing to speak for everyone, perhaps you would also be willing to take their place in the hall this afternoon and serve as that example?” Mr. Carrington said.

Too late, I realized he had just maneuvered me into his trap. I could have said no, but I chose to be brave and stupid instead.

“Will you give me your word that no other girl will be discipline for behavior from before today?” I asked.

He nodded.

“You have it.” He said.

“Then we have an accord.” I said.

The day was long from that point on. Many of the girls thanked me, others told me I was insane. My classes were nothing more than a blur as I wondered just what horrors Mr. Carrington had in store for me. When the final bell of the day rang and I descended the steps of Primrose Hall to return to Carrington Manor, Edith, Elizabeth, Anna, and Penelope were waiting for me.

Ws walked in silence, but I could feel their strength and support being offered to me. I considered asking them what I should expect, but decided I would really rather not know. The journey to the manor felt as if it were a walk to the gallows.

I quickly changed into my nightgown and went to the main hall. I raised my skirts and forced myself not to blush. I pressed my nose against the wall and stared at the plaster. I counted things to keep my mind from straying too far; cracks in the paint, ticks of the clock, creaks on the stairs, footsteps in the hall, anything and everything.

At long last, Mr. Carrington grabbed my arm and pulled me into Mrs. Carrington’s private den. I knew my fate was upon me, but I let the fear drift away and faced it with the calm of the sea. I smiled at him as he lifted his heavy strap of leather and pointed it at me. He tried to hide it, but there was a hint of fear in his eyes. I am not so foolish as to believe it was me he was me of who he was afraid. I knew then, there was more to the circumstances than met the casual eye. Strings had been pulled and the puppet was in play.

“Remove you gown.” He said.

I lifted it over my head in a single motion and tossed it to the floor. Naked, I faced him without a hint of shame or embarrassment. There was nothing, but the coldness of the room between us. I did not try to cover myself or hide from his view. I think it shocked him.

“Bend over the desk.” He ordered.

And I did.

He wasted no time. The strap bit down hard into my buttocks, forcing my hips into the edge of desk and causing me to grunt despite my resolve to remain stoic. The burn of the first stroke built to a high and then the second the stroke came slicing down. I gripped the far edge of desk and gritted my teeth through the force of it. The initial pain was nothing to burn building, but there was nothing to be done except to bare it.

The next stroke brought tears to my eyes, but I held them in place. Not a drop would spill I told myself as I lay waiting for the more that would surely come. Through two more strokes I kept my promise. Then the sixth stroke fell on only my right buttock. I screamed and the tears began to fall. The next stroke followed closely and only struck my left cheek. I screamed again. He continued alternating from cheek to cheek until I had fifteen in all.

I lay sobbing on the desk.

Mr. Carrington grabbed my arm roughly and dragged me up. Without a word he pulled me out of the privacy of the den and into the dining hall where all the girls were seated and waiting for dinner to be served. I felt totally, utterly ashamed and I had done nothing, but take responsibility for the actions of others. I shook with the force of my sobs and wished they would all just look away, but they did not, could not, do anything else except stare.

“Take a good look, ladies. This is what will happen to you if your behavior does not improve immediately.” Mr. Carrington said.

There was not a sound in the room but my crying.

“Go and stand against the wall Miss Waters and do not even think about rubbing your bottom.” Mr. Carrington ordered.

Reluctantly, I obeyed.

Like I Care

2009-01-29T16:00:00.001-05:00

Edith Bowen
January 29, 1897

"I swear it wasn't me!" Belinda Ferguson said.

The whine in her voice was irritating. On most days I would have ignored her.

"Tell me then, who?" I replied.

The look of shock on her face almost made me regret the indulgence immediately. She grasped for words, starting and stopping several times, before at last speaking in something resembling a coherent pattern.

"I'm not a tattle. I would not finger anyone, but someone has to know. Besides, you are one of us." She said.

Since my chastisement at the hands of Mr. Carrington, I have noticed a smugness with some of the girls or maybe it is my imagination. Either way, Miss Ferguson's statement brought those too recent memories to the surface. Fortunately for her, I detected no smugness in her tone.

"Continue." I said.

Miss Ferguson looked at me with uncertainty. I sighed, realizing she would need more coaxing.

"Tell me what happened." I said.

"It is complicated." She said.

I rolled my eyes and then hoped she had not noticed.

"Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and then start from the beginning." I said.

Part of me was honestly curious although mostly, I did not care. I was only indulging her need to make excuses because of the guilt I felt for having ignored her legitimate claims of unfairness earlier in the week. Whether my guilty feelings will outlast my patience remains to be seen.

"Well, it all began on the morning walk to Primrose Hall. Miss Cushing and Miss Sumter were walking ahead of me and talking. And their voices carried on the wind. It would of been rude not to listen, so naturally, I did." She said.

She paused and looked at me as if expecting to be scolded. I remained silent and waited for her to continue.

"They were speaking about Sarah, saying the most awful things. I know she does not have the best of roots and the west is yet to be properly civilized, but that is no excuse to make up stories. Sarah would never kill no one, she is not that sort. What she did for that man who tried to take Miss Basset is proof enough." Miss Ferguson said.

At the time, I gave little consideration to the subject matter being discussed. I nodded impatiently for her to continue, but later I would wonder how Miss Cushing or Miss Sumter could be aware of those unfortunate incidents in Miss Waters' past. It was only through reading Miss Waters' letters from home that I was aware.

"It would not be appropriate to have allowed such vicious babble to go on unanswered. After everything Sarah did for all of us, I simply could not hold my tongue." She said.

I was still unclear as to how a conversation between two unrelated girls, related to the trouble Miss Ferguson found herself in. Clearly, she felt there was some obvious connection and that I should understand everything.

"What does this have to do with your knocking Mr. Birchwood down on the school hall steps?" I asked.

"Obviously, it was Miss Cushing's fault."

"How so?"

"When I told her to stop spreading lies about Sarah, she got angry. She had the audacity to call me a busybody. Me!"

"And?" I prodded.

"Naturally, I slapped her."

I nodded, finally beginning to understand.

"The stupid cow shoved me. That is how I ended up colliding with Mr. Birchwood and we then ended up on top of each other at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't tell, but it really wasn't my fault. It should have been Miss Cushing feeling Mr. Birchwood's strap and not me." she said.

Against my better judgement, I made a decision.

"Go back to your room, but if you tell anyone I let you off, you'll get double what you otherwise would have. Understood?" I said.

Miss Ferguson stared at me with tears in her eyes and vigorously nodded her head in the affirmative.

"Go on then." I said.

As I watched her leave, I had the nagging feeling I would not only regret letting her off, but also the entire situation was likely more serious than it seemed. Miss Ferguson is a typical enough girl here at Primrose and I should not be callous to her woes, but she always has excuses. If I act like I care too much then none of them will respect me. It is a fine line I must walk and I fear I have misstepped.

For All To See

2009-01-27T16:00:00.002-05:00

January 27, 1897
Sarah Waters

It was after class. The two of us were alone in the dimly lit room which suddenly seemed cold and large. I sat straight in my desk, not daring to move or even shift my gaze from the front wall. Mr. Bard paced the room behind me, keeping my nerves on edge and muscles tensed. I expected the worst because expecting more is often folly.

“Who do you think you are?” Mr. Bard asked.

His voice rang with irritation and the emphasis on the individual words gave me a hint of just how upset he was. The question itself, echoed in my ears and my brain scrambled to find an answer which could be spoken without making the situation all the worse.

“A student.” I said.

Safe, simple, short. What more could I say? Tell him my name and he will think me to be impudent.

“Is that what you call yourself?” Mr. Bard said.

Having just said as much, I felt the answer was obvious and the question rhetorical. The long silence with his question hanging in the air made me doubt myself. I counted to ten in my head and decided he was waiting for an answer, obvious or not.

“Yes.” I replied.

“Yes, what?” He said.

“Um, yes sir?” I said.

Perhaps it was unwise to respond in a questioning manner, but his manner had left me off-balance and uncertain to what he expected.

“Am I not your teacher?” He asked.

“You are.”

“Do I not deserve your respect?”

“You do.”

“Then why must I ask for it before you choose to give it?”

Are teachers taught to ask unanswerable questions? Perhaps they are not, but they all seem to be inherently good at it.

“You do not.” I replied.

I knew it was not the best answer, but it was the best answer I could come up with or at least the best of what I am brave enough to give voice.

“I see. Then your remarks about the monotony of my voice and the tiresomeness of my lectures was meant to be respectful?” He said.

Speaking of impossible questions to answer…

I could feel him standing close behind me. His warm breath fell on my neck and raised my hackles. I wished he would get it over with and spank me. Anything would be better than the delicate dance of answering his indelicate questions. I considered arguing for my first amendment right to speak freely, but discarded the idea as useless. Only men have rights under the Constitution in Mr. Bard’s view and to argue otherwise would only deepen the hole I have dug for myself.

Wish as I might that it were not true, I had said the words in gossip with other girls in the hallway. We were not in class and I had not thought to be cautious or quiet. Mr. Bard had heard although it was not my intention for him to hear, but I suppose that makes little difference in any regard.

He leaned down so his mouth was next to my ear.

“Nothing to say?” He asked.

“My comments were inappropriate, rude and perhaps worst of all, disrespectful. I am deeply sorry, sir.” I said.

The words ached coming out, but in someway it felt good to have said them. They were a cleansing of sorts, an acceptance of responsibility for myself and my actions which will allow me to learn and better myself from the unavoidable consequences.

“Very fine words, Ms. Waters. I even believe you mean them. Still, discipline must be maintained. You may now stand and strip.” He said.

I blinked at the command.

“But…” I started to protest.

“NOW!” He commanded.

I resigned myself to it. My hands shook at the task of undressing. My face flushed with embarrassment as I felt his gaze on my naked flesh. My hands and arms contorted themselves in a futile attempt to preserve my modesty. Mr. Bard enjoyed the spectacle with a wicked smile.

“Hands at your sides.” He said. “ You have nothing I have not seen before and unless your attitude and behavior have a marked improvement, I will see it many more times.”

Blushing to the bone, I complied and rested my hands by my sides. He stared at me in silence. I could feel his eyes taking in every part of me. He is not the first man to see me naked, and he will not be the last, but the experience remains a humiliating one, each and every time. It is not the exposure of my private flesh, but my utter compliance in its exposure that leaves me ashamed.

“Touch your toes.” He said.

I was only too glad to do so.

Mr. Bard took his time in securing the paddle from his desk. As much as I was hating every second, he was enjoying them. It is how it is meant to be, how it has always been and how it will always be.

The first crack of the paddle against my bare bottom rippled through my body. From my upside down view, I watched my naked breasts bounce and Mr. Bard watch them bounce. Just as they came to rest, he swung again, repeating the scene and increasing my blush both in face and bottom. He continued the cycle, making no attempt to hide his enjoyment while I conversely, tried to hide the pain and shame.

With fifteen swats delivered and my butt burning, Mr. Bard brought the paddle to rest against his leg. The look of satisfaction on his face was clear as the embarrassment on my own. Deserved as the spanking was, it felt all the worse because I knew he enjoyed every moment of it. I might have only myself to blame, but it would be easy to blame him as well.

I stayed in position, my fingers stretching to connect with my toes. Mr. Bard sat down on a nearby desktop and quietly drank in the view. It was only then, I began to cry. The burning pain in my bottom combined with the helplessness of my position finally broke through and I sobbed. I think he knew it would and he had waited for it.

“Stand up.” He said.

I did. My hands went immediately to my bottom.

“Hands at your side.” He commanded.

I complied although it was ever more difficult than the first time he had ordered it.

“Go and put your nose to the wall outside in the hallway. Keep your hands at your side and you can stay there until I tell you.” He said.

I began to collect my clothing to dress, thankful that the ordeal was mostly over.

“Naked, Ms. Waters. You publicly humiliated me and I intend to return the favor. You will stand naked in the hallway, so that everyone who passes by knows precisely what happens to naughty girls like you.” Mr. Bard said.

And so it was.

Life Is Not Fair

2009-01-26T16:00:00.004-05:00

January 26, 1897
Edith Bowen

Belinda Ferguson is no stranger to my room in the after dinner hours. Like Mrs. Carrington, I have adopted the familiar tradition of providing reinforcing discipline for those young ladies who have required it during the school day. The girls in my charge are now well aware of my expectations and present themselves in an orderly line facing the wall outside my room. Miss Ferguson, being a frequent visitor, is often the first to arrive.

Naturally, I was not surprised to see her this evening. And keeping with her usual antics, Miss Ferguson blames her misfortune on the grumpiness of teachers. Perhaps if I had listened closer I might have realized then something was amiss. However, her story was so typical I brushed it aside as an empty excuse.

I raised and lowered my ruler a fitting dozen times while she lay bare bottomed over my knees. Her cries fell on deaf ears as did her complaints of unfairness. You would think I would know better than to ignore such complaints. I suppose it is to be expected my perspective has been permanently altered to reflect that of the disciplinarian rather than the disciplined. It was therefore only when I escorted Miss Ferguson out, I realized something was wrong. Later I would feel guilty about her tear stained cheeks and the way she held her bottom when she ran to her room. In the moment, I was too shocked by the sheer number of girls awaiting my attention. During the worst of weeks I have attended to a dozen girls or less. More then twenty girls stood waiting for me on this one night.

Were it only troublemakers I might have shrugged it off as a bad day, but most of them were quite the opposite. Gazing over them, I decided it was time to solicit information.

It took only a few moments for me to realize their stories were almost all identical. Each girl had committed only the most minor infractions or in many cases none at all. Irregardless, they had each been subsequently punished.

I was torn between letting the girls off for the seemingly injustice and protecting my reputation as a stern figure of authority. I instructed the girls to wait as they were and make my way downstairs to seek Mrs. Carrington’s advice.

"Have the teachers lost their minds?" I asked.

"Whatever are you talking about?" Mrs. Carrington replied.

"More then twenty of my girls have been disciplined today. Besides that being a record for a week not to mention a day, the stories they tell sound as if breathing has become a crime."

Sometime while I was speaking, Mr. Carrington entered the room.

"You should know better than to be so gullible. " Mr. Carrington said.

"Were I to listen to a single girl then gullible I would be, but when so many tell so similar a tale it would be foolish not to listen." I said.

"You are not fit for the position you hold if you will take the word of your girls over that of their teachers." Mr. Carrington said.

"If I had wanted your advice I would have sought you out. I came for Mrs. Carrington, not you."

"I have had about enough of your insolence." Mr. Carrington said.

"It is not insolence to deal in facts rather than fantasy."

I do not know what words I expected in response, but I did not expect silence. I faced him smugly thinking I had won. I should have known by the glint in his eye that I had not. The resounding slap of his open palm against my cheek set me straight.

Surprised, I stood gaping at Mr. Carrington. I think it was in that moment control shifted from me to him. My former meekness came rushing back and the confident person I have become was temporarily lost. I stood paralyzed in the familiar role of one who had pushed too far only to find there remain consequences.

What happened next was only a blur. Despite my every effort to protest I was soon head down over the back of the chair. My skirts were lifted up and left dangling around my head. If Mrs. Carrington had any objections she kept them to herself and instead, held me down.

"You-" Mr. Carrington said.

His infamous strap came crashing down on my up-turned posterior.

"Have-"

A second blow made my predicament crystal clear. I was getting a spanking.

"Been-"

The strap continued to impart its biting sting, emphasizing Mr. Carrington' s every word.

"Needing-"

As the strap bit down once again, I squirmed and kicked trying to break free.

"This-"

I cried out as much in frustration as for the burning pain in my bottom. Mr. Carrington relentlessly swung his strap once more for good measure.

"For-"

Tears stung at my eyes as the strap made its point yet again.

"Far-"

Involuntarily, my legs kicked as the strap connected with my thighs instead of my bottom.

"Too-"

The futility of my situation became clear when the strap struck my thighs again despite my wild struggles to break free. I lay limp, resigned to my fate.

"Long!"

The strap fell not once, not twice, but four more times. When I was younger I would have cried and screamed and begged, for mercy. Now I simply closed my eyes and did my best to accept what was and will be.

At long last, Mrs. Carrington released her hold and I was able to stand. More like a naughty little girl than a grown women, I sheepishly stared at the floor. what further words were spoken I do not recall, but my responses were understandably more respectful.

The sting in my bottom was foremost on my mind as I climbed the stairs to my room. only when I reached the top of the stairs did I remember the line of girls in the hall. Right then I decided they would each share in my discomfort. It was not fair, but life is not fair, so why should I be?

What Lies Beneath

2009-01-23T16:00:00.003-05:00

January 23, 1897
Edith Bowen

Although the days remain cool and there remain countless storms on the horizon, I feel we left winter back on the road to Primrose. It is impossible to walk through the halls of Carrington Manor without being affected by the hopeful energy surrounding all the girls. Even Mrs Carrington appears to be possessed by our new found energy. I have not forgotten the threats or dangers upon us, but right here, right now I am confident we will meet them and prevail above them.

From the outside, everything must seem as normal. The girls go about their business from Primose Hall to the library, to Carrington Manor. They spend their time studying the lessons they wish to learn and performing the chores they wish they left behind. It is just how things have always been.

But, It is only an illusion as thin as winters ice on a thawing pond in the early days of spring.

The irony is not lost on me. Only now, in my final months at Primrose, I understand the significance of the journey I have taken. When i first arrived I thought my life was over, but with time and perspective I can see now that was the day it began. Where I will go from here I do not know, but part of me will always remain etched in the history these walls surely hold.

I must remind myself, while the future is promising, the burdens of today remain. There are questions to be asked and answered by friends and foes alike. I was not always so bold, but more then the seasons have changed in my time at Primrose. where once I might have stood silence I can no longer hold my tongue.

I had the good sense to wait until we were alone. The classroom felt oddly cold as though the walls themselves knew are confrontation was as unavoidable as are flaring tempers.

"Was there something you needed Miss Bowen?" Mr Stark said.

"Did you know?" I asked

I tried to keep the accusation out of my tongue. If the look on Mr Stark's face was any indication, I failed.

"Know what?"

"Do not dare to play dumb with me."

"If you have something to say, then say it."

"Did you think you would never see me again? Is that why you invited me to your home?"

"Why do you ask questions when you have already decided on their answers?"

"Do not presume to know my thoughts."

"If they where not written on your face, I would not. "

"Then tell me I am wrong. Tell me you didn't know."

"The truth is not so simple. I did know and yes, I sent you to your fate anyway."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to flee from the room. There was no longer any place to hide from what I know to be true. His steady voice held no remorse nor did his words offer any excuse. I had prepared myself for anything but I had not expected this. There was only one thing left to say, only one question left to ask.

"Why?" I asked.

"Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

"Because those girls needed you more then I."

Between Trust And Truth

2009-01-22T16:00:00.001-05:00

January 22, 1897
Sarah Waters

He is handsome. There is no doubt about it, and his attentions would otherwise be flattering were I not aware his motivations are anything but honorable. I can dream though and a wonderful dream it is when he stands before me. His eyes seem to be for me alone in those moments like this very afternoon. At the steps to Primrose Hall he waited for me.

A sharp blue sky and crisp air were the trappings of the day. The piles of snow melted in the warm gaze of the sun, leaving a rising steam coming from everywhere and nowhere. Bundled in a warm coat with only the collar visible and a hint of a black tie, Jonathon Goulding stood waiting. His eyes followed my every movement while my own avoided his gaze.

Another woman might have easily assumed his unfaltering gaze to be simple adoration. She might have fretted about hairs undoubtedly out of place or rumpled skirts from the long hours spent sitting in desks too small for adults. I was not so afflicted. I only wondered if the look on his face was joy or anger. In the subtle nuances I am coming to know as life, I realized the expression was very likely a portion of each emotion conflicted and conflicting within the man.

He offered his arm as I approached. I hesitated before taking it, but there was no reason to be impolite. I would have heard the gasps and awes of my peers had I not ignored them. We began to walk toward Carrington Manor as if it were the most natural thing for the two of us to do.

“It is good you made it back.” He said.

“No thanks to you.” I replied.

“I had nothing to do with what happened.”

“I never accused you.”

“I only meant to say I am glad to see you.”

“And now that you have said it?”

“Are you not glad to see me as well?”

“If I said I were, I think you would be unduly pleased with yourself and if I were to say I am not, I think you would be unduly saddened. What would you have me say?”

“Whatever words would come from your heart will do for me.”

“My heart has no words of its own.”

“Then cold silence shall reign.”

“Why must it be cold? Silence is not inherently so, or am I wrong?”

“You are not.”

“Then why do you call it cold?”

“Because when a woman’s heart is absent of words, she has no warmth.”

“Then you think me cold?”

“I think you bewilder me.”

“Yes I suppose you are unaccustomed to women bearing a brain as well as a heart.”

“I think you know better than to believe those words.”

“Perhaps. Was there more you wished from me than to express your gladness?” I asked.

“Indeed. The man you shot, what did he want with you?” He asked.

I stopped walking and withdrew my arm from his. I turned to face him and our questioning gazes met and locked. You can truly see a man for who he is within his eyes, but Jonathon’s were a maze of conflicts which revealed all and nothing at all.

“Are you asking to learn what I know or to know what I learned?” I replied.

“Do not play games with me Sarah. I can help you but I need to know the truth.”

“For there to be truth, there must be trust and I do not trust you.”

“The man you shot is dangerous, but he is a mere pawn to the men he works for. None of this makes any sense though, you should be nobody to them.”

“Maybe I am. I never said they were after me.”

He blinked in surprise.

“Who?”

“I think you already know but if you don’t you will not learn it from me.”

“This is not a game. You will not be safe until they have what or who they want.”

“Will we be safe after they have succeeded? I think not.”

Jonathon Goulding walked away, frustrated. I entered Carrington manor, confused.

Sticks And Stones

2009-01-20T17:00:00.000-05:00

January 20, 1897
Edith Bowen

They had all known. It was written on their faces when we, the Primrose Girls, climbed the steps of Primrose Hall and entered the classrooms on the first day of classes in the new year. I do not believe they were directly involved, at least not all of them. Regardless, I took pride in the shock in their eyes. No one expected mere girls, like us, to make the journey alone.

The unspoken words filled the air in the classrooms. I think it was mostly praise but I am certain there was some grumbling as well from those who would have rather seen the end of Primrose with the hopes of Brown being expanded. They no doubt fail to understand, as a teacher of women they are as marked as those of us who attend as students.

There has been talk of Primrose closing since the first day I arrived within the gates, but until these recent days I had never understood the power behind such talk. I once thought of it as words used to discourage those who were not certain they wished to be here. Now, I realize they are words meant to discourage us all, but it is not the words which hurt.

Mr. Carrington’s failure to keep his word and the action of leaving us waiting without any knowledge of why, now that is hurtful. The surprise on Mrs. Carrington face was barely greater than her obvious jubilation at seeing us. In contrast, Mr. Carrington looked fit to be tied. His abrupt greeting was further evidence.

“What are you doing here?” He asked.

I nearly laughed in his face.

“School begins tomorrow.” Miss Bassett answered for all.

I would have left matters at that. The burning anger in my chest would have dissipated in time and I had no true need for confrontation, but there was that sigh. It was more of a huff and a puff, but unlike for the big bad wolf, we were not straw houses to be blown down. The way he rolled his eyes at Miss Bassett’s answer and the danger he left her in particular in was more than I could allow to pass.

“Yes, we are here. No thanks to you as you know. Do you have an excuse for us?” I demanded.

His eyes narrows as he turned to me.

“What excuse do you have for recklessly leading these young ladies into danger? It is no less than fortunate you arrived without disaster.” He said.

“I did what I had to do because you did not do what you promised to do. It is not I who endangered them, it is you.” I replied.

“There was a storm and with the fresh snow pack it was not safe to travel. It is a miracle you made it through.”

“Do not think to tell me lies. I will not believe them when I know the truth first hand. We weathered the storm in a barn because you sent no word of your plans or lack thereof. We crossed the miles of icy terrain on horseback and it was neither treacherous nor dangerous. The only treachery was yours and the only danger was men.” I said.

“In my house you will keep a more respectful tongue, girl!”

“If threats are all you know, understand this; if you ever so recklessly endanger even one of these girls again, I will be your worst nightmare.” I said.

“You already are.”

“Then just think how much worse it could get.” I said.

I turned my back on him, not because I had nothing more to say but because I did not want to waste my breath and also, I wanted him to know I am not afraid of him. It is not always the truth, but the look in his eyes told me he is afraid of something and I know better than to think it is me. Whatever it is, it makes me realize he is but a puppet on the stage and I will never fear a puppet.

“Come on girls, let’s get settled back into our rooms. Tomorrow is a big day.” I said.

The Return (Final Part)

2009-01-19T16:00:00.000-05:00

January 19, 1897
Sarah Waters

I woke up in the morning to the sound of children playing. After the briefest moment of confusion I remembered where I was, the sheriff’s home. The children were his and they were happy which made me happy. Someday, I might like to have children and a husband and everything that means but on this day, I am glad to be alone.

The two girls could hardly sit still at the breakfast table. They had far too much energy to be contained inside but the winter weather would not permit them beyond the front door or perhaps it was more there father than the weather. He loved them, that much was obvious. I have had a bad taste in my mouth about sheriffs since early last year, but this man is doing a good job of changing all that.

“Did you really ride a horse a thousand miles all alone?” One of the girls asked.

I smiled and shook my head.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“She did!” She said, pointing to her sister.

“Did not!” The accused girl exclaimed.

“Settle down.” The sheriff said.

The girls became quiet for a moment. There was a knock at the door and the sheriff rose to answer it. It was the doctor at the door.

“You’ll be happy to know the man you brought in will live.” The doctor said.

I was more than I could believe.

“Any idea who he is?” The sheriff asked.

“No, nothing to give a hint and I never seen him around before.” The doctor replied.

The sheriff nodded and the doctor left us to breakfast. As I began clearing it away, habit from home, the sheriff shooed the girls into another room giving us a touch of privacy.

“You feel like telling me what really happened out there?” He asked.

I paused for a moment but then went with my instincts which were telling me to trust him.
“He came into our camp in the middle of the night with three others. They were looking for one of the girls and things turned nasty. I managed to get a hold of the gun and shoot him. The others took off after that.” I said.

“How many of you girls were coming in?” He asked.

“All of us. Mr. Carrington didn’t show with the caravan to bring them in.”

“That’s what a hundred girls?”

“A few less. Not everyone returned from the holiday. Is Primrose truly closed?”

“Did they turn back after the incident?” He asked.

I noticed he avoided answering my question.

“No, they’ll be at Carrington Manor sometime this morning if not last night.”

“Then your school will still be open. They were only talking of closing because someone spread a rumor that none of the girls would be coming back.”

“Who?”

“If I knew that, I might have a better idea of what is going on around here. Do you know who those men were looking for?”

“I do.”

“But you’re not going to tell me?”

“I don’t think it’s my place to say.”

“I can’t protect her if I don’t know who she is.”

“She’ll be safe enough now, I think.”

“I understand you don’t trust easily and seems you’ve got good reason to be that way, but I’m here and I’ll help if you’ll let me. Not every man wants to keep the world in the dark ages.” He said.

His gaze was out of the room and toward his two girls although he could not see them, I think his eyes did anyway. Maybe when things are clearer, I will say more but for now, he is the sheriff and I still do not trust that name.

“I had best get myself to Carrington Manor. The girls will be glad to know our trip was not in vain.”

“Your horse is in the stable around the corner.” He said.

“Thank you.”

I left through the front door and he did not follow. I never turned to look back but I could feel eyes on me right up until I left town and returned to the grounds of Primrose College.

The Return (Part Six)

2009-01-16T16:00:00.001-05:00

January 16, 1897
Sarah Waters

Edith reach me first, breathless from running. The pistol lay smoldering the snow in front of me. The man I had shot groaned on his back clearly in pain, but also clearly alive. In the moment I had wanted him dead. It was with hate in my heart I pulled the trigger and in the wake of it I trembled, afraid of myself and what I have become.

“Are you alright?” Edith asked.

“Yes.” I replied.

It was truth and lie wrapped together in the fiction of confidence I still portrayed to the others. Somewhere there were tears to be cried for what I had done, but they were not with me. The rest of the girls emerged for the woods and encircled Elizabeth and I. The faces were mixed with emotions from horror and fear to relief and jubilation. I felt hollow and alone.

I looked to Edith for guidance and found her looking back at me for the same. I looked away, unable to face the burden of leading. Margaret knelt near the man I shot and examined his wound. It would have been simpler if he were dead, but fate is not known for kindness.

“The bullet is lodged in him. He’s lost a lot of blood but with surgery he might survive.” Margaret said.

“Who cares?” Anna asked.

The coldness of her words echoed in harmony with the darkness in my heart.

“He might well deserve to die, but if he does it will be trouble for all of us.” Margaret said.

“Can you do the surgery?” I asked.

“With the proper tools and a more friendly environment, perhaps. But not here.” Margaret replied.

I waited for someone else to take charge. They all remained in silence and even blind I would have known they were all looking to me. I pushed aside my doubts and accepted the role given to me.

“Help me get him on his horse.” I said.

Edith and Anna both looked at me like I had lost my mind. It was fortunate Elizabeth, Penelope, and Margaret sprang into motion, following my orders.

Elizabeth and Penelope each got themselves under the limp man’s arms. Margaret and I grabbed the feet. I think it was the urgency of the situation that kept us synchronized. We had never practiced such a complicated choreography but with little trouble we soon had him on the saddle and balanced.

I picked up his discarded pistol from the snow for a second time. It was still warm to the touch and the weight of the small things still astounded me. The muscles in my arm were sore from the recoil of it when I pulled the trigger. There had been a time when I would never have picked it up, but that time had come and gone. That innocence was lost long before this night.

I pushed the thoughts of what had happened here from my mind. The pistol slipped gently from my hand to rest in my saddle bag. I mounted Jasper in a single attempt for the first time ever. It was unquestioned confidence that allowed it and I didn’t allow my pride or surprise to show on my face. Elizabeth looked at me in a way that reminded me of how we all looked at Mrs. Carrington. In the back of my mind I wondered if that was good or bad. For the moment it mattered not.

“Stay on the trail to Primrose, follow the train tracks when you can and head east when you can‘t. Don’t wait for me, I will head to Providence directly and meet you at Carrington Manor in two days.”

“Be careful, Sarah.” Elizabeth said almost as a plea.

I smiled at her and nodded. I looked at the other girls. There was concern in their eyes. I nodded again and then I grabbed the reigns and prodded both horses into a gallop. The man groaned at first and started to straighten. He fell limply forward after a moment and then there was only the sound of hoof on dirt.

I cannot say how many hours I rode. The sun was not yet up when I started off and it was setting again when I arrived in town. I had not spent much time in town before but I recalled the location of the sheriff’s office with clarity. As I rode up to the front door the Sheriff came out to meet me.

He took the reigns of the horse with the man on it and tied them to a post. I dismounted and did the same with Jaspers‘. The sheriff called his deputy out to help him with the man and soon a doctor arrived. The deputy and doctor carried the man away at a hurry down the street. It was not until they were gone that he spoke to me.

“Are you all right Miss?”

“I will be.”

“Do you care to tell me what happened?”

“He rode up on us in the dark. Frightened us and I shot him by accident.”

He was looking at my horse while I spoke. He opened my saddle bag and pulled out the pistol while I was speaking of it. The look on his face was impossible to read but for some reason I trusted him.

“Snuck up on you in the dark eh?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Shot him accidentally?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“With his own gun no less.”

I stood silent.

He nodded and offered a sympathetic smile.

“You are one of the Carrington girls are you not?”

“My name is Waters, sir. I am a student at Primrose. I am proud to be associated with either of those names but I only reside at Carrington Manor while I am here. I am not one of her girls nor will I ever be.”

He chuckled deep in his throat.

“I stand corrected, Miss.” He paused for a moment looking toward his office and then turned back to me. “She is right about you I reckon. Only one thing she got wrong.”

“I am glad I failed to make a liar out of her on most counts. I must admit I am curious to know what she was wrong about?”

“She seemed to think you might be somebody someday.”

I bit my lip and held back as much anger as I could.

“If you will excuse me I have some distance still to ride tonight.”

“Seems you already are somebody, Miss Waters. The wife and I have an extra room if you want to stay the night. Your horse could use the rest and so could you.”

I did not trust myself to speak just then so I nodded and followed him home.

The Return (Part Five)

2009-01-15T16:00:00.001-05:00

January 15, 1897
Edith Bowen

When Miss Waters finally agreed to stop for the night, it was already getting dark. The girls hustled about in the last vestiges of light to make a clearing in the snow. Miss Waters and I gathered wood and stones for a fire. Beans were cooked in a large pan over the fire and the girls ate heartily even though the food was less than any of us are accustomed. Sleep came readily with dreams fit for adventurers. We were all exhausted and exhilarated.

I would have screamed. I wanted to, but the rough hand clamped over my mouth and nose prevented the needed air for anything more than panic. My eyes shot open wide and scanned the blurry darkness for any sign of what was happening. I tried to move but I found my arms restrained and my legs unable to do anything more than kick uselessly at air and dirt. I was being dragged away from the camp.

“Hush.” a familiar voice whispered.

My vision began to clear and the hand over my mouth eased a little. I blinked and turned my head to see. It was Miss Waters.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Quiet. We’re not alone.” She said.

I bit my tongue to keep the flurry of questions in my head from coming out. Cold, groggy, and confused, I relied on my instincts and all of them told me to trust Miss Waters. Feeling more awake, I began to look around and it was then I saw them. Sarah had been watching them all along I realized and most importantly they had not seemed to notice us.

Had I not overheard Miss Waters’ conversation with Mr. Howe before we left, I would have thought they were a welcome sight. Knowledge however, is a dangerous thing and even the small amount I had told me these men were going to be trouble. Miss Waters had clearly made the same determination while I had been sleeping.

At first they seemed to only be looking and watching. Then they moved in closer and while nothing overtly told me they meant us harm, I could feel it in my bones. Something about the way the firelight flickered on their faces made them appear like demons.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“Wait.” Miss Waters replied.

I looked at her quizzically. Could she really mean to wait for them to attack someone before revealing ourselves?

“We have an element of surprise, but it will be wasted if we reveal ourselves now.” Miss Waters said.

I nodded my understanding, wondering just what it was she would expect me to do when the time for waiting was over. The men slowly walked through our camp, carefully stepping around the sleeping girls. After a moment I realized what Miss Waters had already understood; They were looking for someone.

My inclination was to assume they were looking for Miss Waters. The look on her face suggested she thought the same. We were both surprised when they stopped, apparently finding the one for whom they were looking. Instinctively, I looked to Miss Waters for guidance.

She was intent on watching the men. They grabbed the girl much as Miss Waters had grabbed me only minutes earlier. The light of the fire flickered just right and I recognized the girl instantly as Elizabeth Bassett. I choked down a reflexive gasp and continued to watch in silence.

Amazingly, they were able to move to the edge of the camp before Miss Bassett made enough noise to stir the other girls. For a moment I hoped that the girls waking would cause the men to leave Miss Bassett and simply run. I should have known better. Whatever reasons they had for going after Miss Bassett were clearly more important than any risk of being identified for authorities later.

“Damn.” Miss Waters said.

“What?” I asked.

“This is going to get messy.” She said.

We started moving back toward the camp. The girls were nearly all stirring from their sleep and some were standing up looking bewildered. Miss Cushing was the quickest to notice what was happening.

“Hey! Let her go.” Miss Cushing shouted.

One of the men pulled a gun and shot it in the air. Any girl not yet awake, was then. Anna dived to the ground and several other girls mirrored her. It is one thing to challenge a man with words but when guns are drawn it is time to join the meek.

Miss Bassett managed to break free from the man holding her for a moment. She kicked out and her boot struck the man who had fired the gun right underneath his chin. He choked and sputtered and stumbled and then turned on her. He swung his hand hard and the pistol slapped into her face sending blood spewing from her nose and mouth.

I gasped.

“Get the girls out of here, now!” Miss Waters ordered.

She did not wait for a response. Had I not been next to her I would never have seen her in the shadows as she approached the men. The knot in my stomach told me things were about to go from bad to worse, but Miss Waters had made her choice. The was no stopping her and for that, she was Miss Bassett’s only hope for escape.

I hissed to get the girls’ attention.

“This way!” I said.

The girls did not need to be told twice.

We scrambled through the trees and snow. I stayed at the back and Miss Cushing led the way. I stopped at the top of a hill and looked back. In the moonlight I could see the men on their horses and what must have been Miss Bassett with one of them. I could see no sign of Miss Waters and I wondered briefly if they had simply shot her and left her for dead while the rest of us had ran.
Miss Spooner turned back from the group and came to stand by me. Her steady hand grabbed my arm in support. I glanced at her and then looked back in the distance.

“There was nothing you could do to help her.” Miss Spooner said.

Then we heard the neigh of a horse echo in the night. The horse carrying Miss Bassett raised up in the air, sending its rider and Miss Bassett tumbling into the snow. A moment later two girls were running down toward the trees, away from the men.

The men were not willing to give up so easily though and gave chase on horseback. The girls had not a chance of outrunning them, but Miss Waters must have known from the start. As the first rider neared them, they dropped to the ground and the horse ran past unable to stop so short. The horse just behind was on them though.

Miss Waters swung a branch up from the ground, sending up a cloud of snow and startling the horse into throwing its rider as well. Even as the man scrambled to his feet on the ground Miss Waters swung the branch at him striking him over and over until he dropped unmoving in the snow.

Miss Spooner and I held our collective breath, unable to do more than watch the nightmare before us. The first man was back on them with his gun drawn. I could hear him sneer across the distance. The sound of his fist connecting with Miss Waters’ face, echoed in the night.

Miss Bassett tried to fight back, but she was ineffective. Her attempts did nothing but land her flat in the snow with more blood spilling from her injured nose. Miss Waters should not have been underestimated though. She might have been caught off guard for a moment but she was not far from finished. As she pushed herself up from the snow, I could see the anger beaming through her eyes. She spat blood in the snow like it was bad wine.

In what must have been a rush of adrenaline she doubled her fists together and rammed them into the man’s gut. I could almost hear the gush of air as it rushed out of his lungs leaving him gasping.

Miss Waters threw herself down to the ground and rolled in the snow coming up into a kneeling position facing the man.

He moved toward her.

Miss Bassett screamed.

A gunshot rang out in the air.

The night became eerily silent and I felt dread like a blanket on my shoulders. Neither Miss Waters nor Miss Bassett were moving. Miss Spooner and I ran down the hill toward our friends.

Three men got back on their horses and rode away at full gallop.

The Return (Part Four)

2009-01-14T16:00:00.002-05:00

January 14, 1897
Sarah Waters

It was the smallest box under the tree at Christmas. I was surprised when Sam brought it to me. His eyes were watery as he watched me carefully unfold the paper it was wrapped in and slip the top off of the box.

“It was Dad’s.” Sam said. “I think he would want you to have it. Maybe through it he can still give you direction when you need it. God knows I can’t.”

At the time, it felt light in my hand, but now as I prepare to lead all these girls, it feels heavy. It is as if my entire burden rests within it. Everyone’s eyes were on me as I found north with my father’s compass and then turned east. I looked around at the girls, standing beside their saddled horses, maybe I should have smiled, but I did not.

“Once we head out there will be no turning back.” I said.

They were all dressed in flannel shirts and riding pants. Some of them nearly disappeared into their heavy coats and I could tell by the looks on their faces that most were at least a little uncomfortable in the unfamiliar garments. It had been Elizabeth Bassett’s idea, but it was a good one. From a distance we would appear as men and even as close as I was, I would not have noticed if there were a man in our midst.

Edith came up to stand beside me. I gave her a nod of respect, though not long ago I would never have done so, she has earned it from me now. In truth she deserved it even before I gave it, but those days are now in the past.

“If anyone doubts this is their path then go back now before it is too late.” Edith said.

No one moved. I should not have been surprised, they are after all Primrose Girls, just like me. Whatever had driven them to Primrose in the first place was as varied as the girls themselves, but there was one thing we all shared; Once those doors to Primrose were opened to us, there was never any turning back. Even if Primrose doors have truly been closed they will not remain that way, not when we stand united on the steps.

“Alright, it is time. Saddle up, we are moving out.” I said.

It took more time than I would have liked. All of the girls needed help getting up on their horses. The sheriff and a few men with him were watching and laughing at our comedy of errors, but in the end the horses were mounted and the men ignored. As we rode past them, there was no longer any laughter.

People gathered outside to watch as we rode past and out of town. There was a solemn quiet in the air and I realized the answer to the question I had once asked Mr. Bard; Sometimes people do know when the moment they are in is a moment for the history books.

“Do you feel it?” Edith asked.

We rode side by side at a slow trot.

“Yes.” I replied. “I think the world is trembling.”

“And you are not afraid at all?”

“Of what? Everything I ever feared to lose, I have lost. What more should make me afraid?”

“Men.” She said.

I laughed at the very thought.

“We’ll never make it in two days at this pace.” I said.

“They are not experienced riders.” Anna said.

“Maybe not, but by nightfall they will be. Take up the rear and make sure we leave no one behind.” I said.

Anna nodded although her face clearly said she did not agree with me.

“We are placing our faith in you.” Edith said.

“I’ll do my best, but at the end of the day I am just a girl. Just like you.” I said.

“You are not ‘just’ anything, Miss Waters. Of that, I am certain.”

I prodded Jasper to a gallop and listened for the others to follow. They did and faster than I expected, we were all thunder and hooves. The road was hard to follow and so I turned to the train tracks and kept father’s compass for the times when our path was unclear. I kept my uncertainties to myself and led with a steadiness I never knew I had.

The Return (Part Three)

2009-01-13T16:00:00.000-05:00

January 13, 1897
Edith Bowen

An old woman once told me there are moments of such great importance in our lives that even in the midst of them it is impossible not to recognize them for what they are. As the sheriff told me Primrose College was no more, I realized this was one of those moments. The choices I make from this moment onward reflect my understanding of the graveness before me and more importantly my willingness to risk all that I am for all that I wish to be.

Call me selfish if you will but it is more than my future at stake. The hopes and dreams of a generation rest in my reckless hands, but do not think I am immune to the weight of that burden on my shoulders, nor the consequences should I fail. Fortunately, I will not bare it alone. Miss Waters stands as stubborn as I and will not let Primrose College and all that it means to so many fade without so much as a word spoken in protest.

Perhaps it was having no home to return to or maybe it was a sense there was more going on than was being revealed, but I could not simply follow the sheriff out of the barn when he commanded us to all go. I will never know for certain what drove me in that moment but whatever happens I will not regret my decision.

I stood my ground in the center of the barn and turned my back to the sheriff.

“We could go home.” I said.

My voice was louder than I had ever spoken before and I was not shouting. It was as if the force of my convictions were being translated into volume.

“We could give up on our dreams and the dreams of those yet to come. Is that what you will say to your daughters someday? Will you look them in the eye and tell them you came so far only to turn around and go home because a man with a shiny tin star told you to go? I will not.” I said.

I could feel the eyes of everyone staring at me. My legs felt weak but I was determined to stand my ground. I did not dare to contemplate what they must be thinking of me.

“Primrose College is more than a school. It stands as a beacon signaling a new age is coming to America. From the moment it first opened its doors there have been men trying to close them. If you want those doors closed along with everything they stand for, then go. Follow the sheriff and get on a train bound for home, but if you have dreams of a better tomorrow, then now is the time to persevere.” I said.

“Assuming for a moment you are right, how will we get to Primrose? There are no carriages or wagons waiting to take us.” Miss Sumter said.

“We ride.” Miss Waters said.

“You are joking.” Miss Sumter said.

“There are plenty of horses here and Anna and I have already made the trip ourselves from Primrose to here. Going back will be no different.” Miss Waters replied.

“We don’t have the equipment.” Miss Sumter said.

“Everything we need is right here.” I said.

“It is a two day trip for an experienced rider. If you girls go out there on your own that’s just how you’ll be, alone.”

“We aren’t alone, sheriff. We have each other and that is all we need.” Miss Waters said.

“Suit yourselves but I won’t be sending anyone out after you if you get in trouble.” The sheriff said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Miss Waters said.

The sheriff waved his hand in a dismissive gesture at us and walked away for the second time. I held my breath waiting to see if any of the girls would follow, but none did. They were all looking to me instead and for the first time in my life I knew without any doubt, this was where I belonged.

I set about giving the instructions to get us ready to leave on horseback by morning. There would be things left behind but with luck, there would be someone coming for them later. As the girls set to work, I found a moment to approach Miss Waters and offer my thanks, only before I could a man I recognized as Mr. Howe came up to her. I stood back just far enough to not be seen, but close enough to hear.

“You’re making a mistake Sarah.” He said.

“I should have known you were behind this.” Miss Waters replied.

“Not me, not this time. I have other reasons for being here.”

“And what might those be.”

“To warn you.”

“Consider me warned then.”

“Go home Sarah, before you can’t.”

“You already took my home from me.”

“These people will kill you.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say.”

“Mr. Howe, if you think your cryptic warnings will scare me off then you have obviously not come to know me as well as I know you.”

“I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Miss Waters exploded in laughter.

“Tell your boss I’m not afraid of him and I’m not turning back, not now, not ever.” She said.

“You don’t have a clue what you are mixed up in, do you? Mr. Parker is only one player and believe it or not he’s one of the more civilized. You’ve angered the wrong people and they will bury you if you don’t walk away.”

“Let them try and what has begun as a whisper will turn to a roar. In any case I’m not afraid of dying.”

“No, you’re just afraid of living.” Mr. Howe said. “I didn’t really think you’d listen but I had to try. You’ll have to find your own path, I just hope it’s not the same as your father’s.”

With those words he turned and walked away. I waited in the shadows for a moment longer before approaching. I was going to ask if she was alright but the look in her eyes stopped me.
“Don’t worry his bark is mostly worse than his bite.” She said.

I nodded and looked around the barn at the girls. I wonder if we are headed into more trouble than we can handle, but it is already too late to turn back and even if it was not, I do not believe any of us would.

The Return (Part Two)

2009-01-12T16:00:00.002-05:00

January 12, 1897

Sarah Waters

We had huddled together with our blankets wrapped tightly around us through the cold night while the barn walls creaked and the wind whistled passed. Dawn was a long time in coming but it did come and as the first rays of light shone through the cracks in wooden walls around us, I could see the relief on the other girls’ faces and knew it was mirrored on my own. I rose and stretched and opened the barn door to the outside world wondering what havoc awaited us, but there was only sunlight glistening over fresh snow like rays of hope guiding us into a new day.

Edith roused the few girls who had managed to find solace in sleep through the night or simply succumbed to exhaustion in the pre-dawn hours. I grabbed a shovel and began the hard work of clearing a path from the door to the street. Anna joined me much to my surprise and then several others did as well although not the likes of Penelope Sumter or Emma Chesterfield. I guess hard work is just too hard when sitting on a pedestal and trying to keep an imaginary crown from falling off your head.

With all the help, the path was cleared in less than an hour and just in time for the local sheriff to arrive. He had brought along some help and looked a bit surprised that we had already cleared our own path. The women in this town must be smart, allowing the men to do all the backbreaking work while they wait inside the warm kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. If I had only known, I would have made coffee and waited for the chivalrous men to clear us out.

The sheriff walked passed us with only a tip of his hat and a mumbled greeting. It was clear he was looking for Edith as he stepped inside the barn. I followed mostly out of curiosity but also because I had agreed to stick around until the situation for the other girls was made clear. I think Anna would have just left them were she on her own, but I have a sense of responsibility for them, misplaced as it might be, but I am not one to just turn my back and walk away.

“Good morning. I see you ladies made it through the night.” The sheriff said.

“We endured as we always do. Have you any word from Primrose College or Carrington Manor?” Edith replied.

“We got through to Providence but your school is closed up. I’m told to get you ladies on trains home and you’ll receive word from Primrose College when you can come back.” The sheriff said.

“Are you saying Primrose College has been shut down?” I asked.

My question startled the sheriff and Edith scowled at me, but having overheard it all, I could not simply stand by quietly.

“That is what I’ve been told.” The sheriff replied.

“Was there any reason given?” Edith asked.

“I’m sorry. All I know is they want me to send all you ladies home.” The sheriff said.

“That does not make any sense.” Edith said.

“Excuse me, but who are ‘they’?” I asked.

The sheriff blinked at me like I had slapped him.

“Pardon me?” He said.

“These people who are telling you the school is closed and we need to be sent home. Who are they?” I asked.

“It was an expression Miss… Who are you anyway?”

“Miss Waters. Expression or not, you have been communicating with someone or is it you that wants us to go home?”

“I don’t much like your tone, Miss Waters.”

“I don’t much like you not answering my question.”

“Miss Waters, please. I will handle this.” Edith said.

“Handle it however you like. I just want to know who is telling the sheriff here to send us home.”

The sheriff was bristling with anger but oddly enough he remained silent. The idea that Primrose College would have closed without any notice to us, the students, seemed ludicrous at best. It is not that I suspect the sheriff of having ulterior motives but I think it is safe to assume whomever he has been speaking with does.

For Edith’s sake, I decided to walk away. I am certain the sheriff was not going to be forthcoming with the information I sought and quite probably the name he was withholding would mean nothing to me in any case. The people who pull the strings like Mr. Parker tend to do so from a distance so as to escape notice, but I notice them and unless I am wrong, so did my father.

The air outside was lighter and I breathed easier having left the mystery of Primrose’s closure in Edith’s hands. I decided I would not be turning back without finding out for myself if the sheriff was telling the truth.

The Return (Part One)

2009-01-11T16:00:00.001-05:00

January 11, 1897

Edith Bowen

I never believed the fantasy would last forever. There were no tears in my eyes as I stood on the platform beside my packed bags. Mr. Stark had felt it best if we were not seen together and so his coach had left me on the steps of the station. The holiday had been a wonderful escape from the dreary reality of my life and even with it over, I have no regrets.

The wait was not long and the train pulled into the station only a few minutes after I arrived. It was a beautiful sight and one I have never given much attention to before. The cool black metal of the engine, the intricate turning of the wheels on their rails pulling the train forward, the puff of white steam floating above, and the shrill of the whistle, made it all complete. Fantasy and reality collide and it is time to return.

Mr. Stark had paid my ticket for first class over my less than sincere objections. I feel only a small twinge of guilt which outshined by the excitement of a new experience I never expected to enjoy. All said, I enjoyed the luxury, but could never shake the feeling I did not belong. Perhaps it is true we are born to our stations in life. I know my place and I do not hate it. That is something different at least, from the girl who first arrived at Primrose College more than three years ago.

I cannot help but compare then against now. The holiday was my first real trip away and back since I arrived all that time ago. My first thoughts then had been to run away, now I would run to Carrington Manor because while not quite home it is as close as I know. The familiar sounds and smells inside the walls cannot be said to be missed but their remains a nostalgia for them.

Most of all it is the exciting reality that my time here is soon to come to an end which is in itself a fantasy now becoming a reality. When I first arrived at Primrose I was full of anger and hate at the cruelty of this life and the world surrounding it. I never dreamed of a future, I did not believe there was any place in which I belonged, but I have changed. The world around me has changed and life may still be cruel but it is not only such. It is the tender moments, like this holiday, which temper the cruelty with something more, something better, and make this life worth living.

Stepping off the train, I saw the gathering of my fellow Primrose Girls immediately. I straightened my back, gathered my bags, breathed a puff of icy air and set myself to join them. The gathering was less than what had left, but that has always been the case after the holidays. Primrose is not for every girl and every girl is not for Primrose. Without a proper train station to the school, I expected the return would be somewhat less on average than normal but then those who would return this time, would belong.

I greeted the girls with a smile. Several gave me curious looks, especially Margaret Spooner who was strangely missing her escort, Edgar. I suppose it is to be expected, as those who have known me the longest are aware I have no place to go for the holidays and more so know that I have not means to travel in luxury. I changed the subject before questions were asked because I do not know if I am strong enough to keep secret that which must be kept.

“Where is Mr. Carrington?” I asked.

“That is the question of the day.” Emma replied.

Margaret’s roommate has a way of being in everybody’s business. I should have expected she would be the one to answer my question but I had hoped for someone, anyone else. Foolish of me I suppose.

“Has no one seen him?” I asked a little louder.

“No one. Not even the station manager knows anything.” Emma said.

I looked around to see a few nods of confirmation between those girls who were paying attention. Several others were gathered around in a tighter circle and seemed much more interested in something other than our transportation back to school.

Margaret caught me eye looking toward the group and she gave me a crooked smile as she stepped to my side.

“Penelope.” She said simply.

It was not much of an explanation as they go, but for those of us who know Miss Sumter, her name is quite often synonymous with trouble. I nodded to Margaret.

“What mischief is she up to this time?” I asked.

“From her moaning and carrying on it seems her holiday was simply dreadful” Margaret said.
I shook my head at Margaret’s attempt to sound like Miss Sumter as she emphasized the word ‘dreadful’.

“She does not know the meaning of the word.” I said.

“If only she knew that.” Margaret said, rolling her eyes toward the sky.

We were interrupted then, by a middle aged man who proclaimed to be the station manager.

“Good afternoon ladies. Is there someone in charge here?” He asked.

I turned to face him with my best air of authority.

“I am the senior girl here.” I said.

“Yes, very good. We have been trying to get word from Primrose College as to the whereabouts of your transportation from here. Unfortunately, we have not had any success.”

“Have you tried Carrington Manor directly?” I asked.

“No, but it is of no matter in any case. There is a storm front moving in and it would be quite impossible for you to travel through it. The town sheriff is on his way here and has secured accommodations for all of you until morning.” He said.

“Thank you, that is most considerate. Would it be possible for me to use a telephone though and attempt to contact Carrington Manor directly so they will know our situation?” I asked.

“A telephone? Miss, I realize you ladies are accustomed to luxuries of the like but you’ll find no such newfangled devices here. We have a telegraph office just inside and you are welcome to use it, but that is the best I can offer.” He said.

I blinked blankly at him, trying to decide if I should be angry at him or humored by him.

“A telegraph?” I mimicked, “Perhaps you are unaware good Sir, but the telegraph office in Providence burned to the ground in November. I cannot imagine how you would not know but assuming you did not, how could your telegraph office be so incompetent as to send messages to a place which does not exist?”

“I am quite certain a temporary office has been erected in Providence, Miss. In any case the matter will not be resolved this day.” He said.

It was then, conveniently timed, the sheriff arrived.

“Good afternoon.” The sheriff said.

I turned to face him.

“Are you in charge, Miss?” The sheriff said.

“Bowen.” I replied, “It would appear not.”

The sheriff nearly choked on a chuckle as he tried to suppress it.

“It seems we have a small bit of a situation as I imagine you know. We’ve been unable to determine if your transportation is in route or still in Providence. There is storm headed this way and it might well have kept them from heading out. Either way I’ve managed to secure an accommodation for you ladies for the night.” The sheriff said.

“I thank you for that but I would like to make some effort to contact Primrose College or Carrington Manor.” I said.

“That should wait until morning.” The sheriff said.

“If it must.” I said.

“I understand your frustration but there is little more to be done today.”

“Very well. When do we leave for our accommodations?”

“Is now good?”

I nodded.

“Ladies!” I said, “Gather your bags up. Our transportation is not here and we have accommodations for the night.”

My shout caught most of their attention and those who were still too engaged in other conversations were prodded by those who had heard. It took little time and we were formed in an orderly group with our bags, walking out of the station and down the street with the sheriff leading the way.

The town was barely deserving of the name, with only a few structures near the train station. Scattered on the surrounding grounds were houses and barns indicating it was little more than a farming community. Compared to Providence it was backward and uncivilized, but not long ago there was hardly anyplace that was any different.

The walk was relatively quiet except for a few moans of complaint about the unfairness of having to walk whilst carrying their own bags. Miss Sumter was the loudest of course and I mean to have a word with her about it later, but such matters can wait until the familiar surroundings of Carrington Manor.

As we approached a large barn it became clear to me, it was the sheriff’s destination. I almost wished Penelope were in charge because I can only imagine the verbal lashing she would have delivered to the sheriff. I am not quite so gifted but I did not remain silent.

“A barn?” I said.

“We don’t have anything else large enough.” The sheriff said.

From his tone it was clear he was embarrassed.

“Surely, there is some alternative.”

“You can wait on the platform back at the station.” He replied.

I glared at him. He shrugged.

“We may well freeze in there just the same.” I said.

“I’ve got plenty of blankets and we can keep a small fire to keep it warm. I know it is less than ideal but it is the best I can do.”

“Then we will endure.” I said.

He nodded.

Inside the barn I could tell the girls were fuming but surprisingly they minded their manners. We also found Miss Waters and Miss Cushing were already present inside. They looked somewhat surprised to see the rest of us.

“How did you two end up here?” I asked.

“We couldn’t ride out today with a storm coming and this was the only place in town that could provide shelter for our horses.” Miss Cushing replied.

“I see. We seem to be in the same predicament. Are you riding back to Primrose tomorrow?” I asked.

“That’s the plan.” Miss Waters said.

“Would you be kind enough to wait until we get word from Carrington Manor as to transportation for the rest of us?” I asked.

“It would be better to ride back with the group but Mr. Carrington wouldn’t allow it on the way out so I doubt he’ll be any different for the way back.” Miss Cushing said.

“We can wait a short while but if we don’t leave by noon we’ll be forced to spend another night here.” Miss Waters said.

“I would appreciate it. We may need you to carry a message through if we can’t reach anyone.”

“Why don’t you just ride back with us?” Miss Cushing asked.

“Most of these girls are not equipped to do so and none of us have a horse available.” I replied.

“Arrangements can be made if needed.” Miss Waters said, “Still, we’ll wait but if we are making the trip anyway might as well have some of you go with us.”

“We’ll decide on that when the time comes.” I said.

The girls nodded. The sound of rain and then hail echoed inside the barn. We huddled around the fire with blankets tightly wrapped around us. Sleep was elusive for most of us and the night was colder and longer for it.

In Closing With Open Eyes

2008-12-31T06:00:00.003-05:00

Penelope Sumter
December 31, 1896

Elizabeth this! Miss Bassett that! If Wilbur says her name just one more time this year I swear I will kill him in his sleep tonight. Lucky for him, the year is almost over. The two of them were nearly impossible to be around for the drive home and watching them say goodbye at the train station was pure hell and to make it worse, hell had frozen over, complete with icicles and lots of yellow and brown snow.

The two hours from there to home with Wilbur might as well have been two hours alone for all we spoke. What do you say to a man who is living in a fantasy world and fails to notice the road signs? If anyone knows the answer to that, keep it to yourself because I am not interested in the slightest anymore. When the day comes that Wilbur walks head first into reality, I want to be there watching and laughing as payback for this trip.

Mother was her usual self for the holidays. Annoying, annoyed and a complete annoyance. If she was ever a pleasant woman it was long before she met my father and a decade at minimum before I was born. I really do not know how my father tolerates her constant bickering. Maybe she is why he prefers to work all the time and always seems grumpy.

“Do you call this clean Penelope?” She asked inspecting my clothing that first day home. We had been in my bedroom with no one else around still she felt the need to add my name into every criticizing sentence leaving her mouth.

“This packing is atrocious Penelope.”

I know. They made me do it myself and I broke two nails getting the cases closed! Why could father not have sent me to a more decent institution?

I held my tongue.

“Did I raise you to be a slob Penelope?”

Maybe not, but you did not raise me to do hard or industrious work either. I am supposed to supervise servants doing chores not doing them myself.

I bit my cheek to smile pleasantly despite the words throbbing in my temple.

Eventually she set her sights on Wilbur and I was grateful to be alone. Unfortunately solitude was not to be mine for more than seconds. Jason entered my room only minutes behind mother. He was no more pleasant to see.

I did not believe him at first but the rest of vacation has proven his word the truth. He claimed my father was so angry he did not wish to see or hear me during the holidays. It seems Wilbur was told not to bring me home nor to bother coming himself but rather than listen, he chose to ignore the message. On the one hand I completely understand why Wilbur would ignore it but on the other I cannot help thinking we might have enjoyed ourselves more in his flat.

So it would seem father believes I am an embarrassment to him because of my associations and actions at Primrose College. The amusing part is he and Jason seem to believe Miss Bassett is some sort of woman’s liberation activist. If she knew she would be tickled pink but in reality she is just another girl in a woman’s college with dreams of a better future than past. If that is a political movement then the entirety of the human race is a member.

Between the hate from Jason and the love from Wilbur, I am sick of hearing about my roommate. You cannot blame me, it is as if my existence has somehow become secondary to hers even in my own family. When Jason and Wilbur began arguing about her again this afternoon I lost hold of my tongue and I think it was perfectly understandable.

“If Miss Bassett is so Goddamn important to you both why the hell aren’t you both with her? I don’t give a crap what she said to whom and when or why she said it. She’s a snobbish brat with impulse control problems who likes to pretend she’s from a better home than she is. That doesn’t make her the devil or an angel it just makes her like almost every other girl in Primrose College and they all have one damn thing in common, they aren’t me!” I shouted.

It felt good to shout. It felt like the whole world finally fell silent and opened its lazy ears and eyes to notice I existed. Wilbur and Jason both stared at me, mouths agape waiting for flies. Mother glared. Father walked into the room for the first time since I have been home.

“Watch your language Penelope.” Mother scolded.

“I would like to see you in my study Penelope.” Father said.

If mother was the determining factor I would have been certain I was heading for a proper whipping but the look in father’s eye told me his request had an entirely different basis. I rose and walked quietly to my father’s study. He closed the doors behind us and then pulled a chair out for me. It was a polite gesture but one he has not extended to me in a very long time. He sat behind his desk, his hands folded on top of it.

“We have important matters to discuss. I have not wanted to burden you with knowledge you do not need but things have changed. A new year is beginning and with it I have decided it is time for a new start between us. You must never repeat what is said in this room today, beyond these walls. Do you understand?” He said.

“No, but I think I will.” I said.

He nodded.

“It time you knew the truth about Primrose. I wish it were not necessary, but your world is about to change forever.” He said.

It was my turn to nod. Then he told me everything.

Christmas Illumination

2008-12-25T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 25, 1896
Edith Bowen

“Do you miss them?” I asked.

I was snuggled warm in his arms, laying peacefully in his bed. Gently, he kissed the top of my head and his arms seemed to wrap tighter around me.

“All the time.” He replied.

“Then why do you do it?”

“It is complicated. They have a better future this way.”

“I do not mean to be contrary, but futures have a way of not becoming what we expect of them.”

“For wrong or right I chose what I believe to be best. I do not know how else to live.”

“Whatever they will get from their grandparents cannot replace a loving father.”

“I am here when it matters most.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“But…”

“Hush Edith. Has anyone ever told you, you talk too much?”

“No.”

I smiled as he attempted to tickle my sides. I squirmed free and rolled out of bed into the cold morning air. I expected him to follow but he just stared at me with a look of pure contentment on his face. Suddenly, I was self conscious about my nakedness in front of him. It was absurd after the night we had just shared but I blushed all the same.

My eyes darted away from his gaze and out the frosty window. In the distance, over snow covered hills, the sun kissed the morning sky with a brilliant gleam of light. For a moment I stood illuminated in its golden warmth. He took in a sharp breath and I turned back to him.

“You look like an angel.” Jeremiah Stark said.

“Merry Christmas.” I replied.

'twas The Night Before

2008-12-24T06:00:00.000-05:00

December 24, 1896
Sarah Waters

‘twas the night before Christmas and all through the house every creature was stirring even the mouse. From bedroom to living room, all was a flurry as I settled in home from a winter’s long journey. My mother was fussing about nothings for something while we said all the niceties as though they could matter. Away I had been for such a long time, the company was pleasant despite all the chatter.

Along came my brother, his wife at his side, we smiled and hugged with nothing to hide. Laughter and tears were shed in turn as we spoke about father and words that still burn. I said all the things I wanted to say, Sam tried to explain how matters were gray. In the end we agreed, love is all we need. We have all our differences still to resolve, but at least our family did not dissolve. The night at its end, I climbed up the stairs, home sweet home for many more years.

Season's Greetings from The Primrose Girls!

2008-12-20T20:20:00.002-05:00

We are currently away, spending time with our family and friends during the holiday season.

The Primrose Girls will have only three more posts this year, December 24, December 25, and December 31. New stories will resume in regular postings beginning, January 11, 2009 with an exciting week long series entitled, The Return.

May your holiday season be warm, happy, and filled with family and friend from near and far.

Devotion

2008-12-19T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 19, 1896
Margaret Spooner

“Look. It’s snowing.” I said.

Edgar rolled his eyes. I could have slapped him it made me so angry.

“We should be in my apartment in front of the fireplace.” He said.

“I am right where I belong. You didn’t have to come with me.”

“I couldn’t very well let you go alone.”

“I’ve traveled home alone many times before.”

“I would never have allowed it.”

“You would never have stopped it.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“As you should. These journeys home are not frivolous desires. Christmas is about family and I will not spend such a day apart from my family so long as there is breath still in me.”

“When we are married, I will be your family. Will you be as devoted to me as you are to your mother and father?” Edgar asked.

“Who says my devotion is to my parents?”

“You are avoiding my question.”

“No, I am questioning the premise of it.”

“Then tell me simply, will you be devoted to me as a wife should be to her husband?”

“In my own way.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that my devotion may not always be as you expect it to be.”

“I see.”

“I doubt you do. Will you be devoted to me?”

“Need you even ask?”

“You asked it of me, I think the question returned is only fair.”

“I am here.”

“And that is your answer?”

“If I were not devoted to you, I would not be here, nor for that matter, would you.”

The train whistle blew. The station was just up ahead and I was almost home. I was happy, but Edgar was not. To think of it, I do not believe Edgar has been happy in some months now. I wonder if it is because his parents are so far away in Spain or if it is because of something else, perhaps me.

I believe I am not what Edgar wants me to be, but I do not think it is I who have changed. He should have known I am not the kind of girl who dreams of a fancy wedding and a six bedroom home filled with crying babies. I am not even certain I want a child at all. Edgar and I may not be as compatible as I once thought we were.

When Edgar asked me to marry him, I expected the engagement to be fun and exciting. All these months later, I have now learned the reason this period of betrothal shares its name with a military term for battle. Even the illusory moments of peace are merely strategic pauses in an ongoing conflict. In the end, will we find peace in compromises or will our two lives be so incompatible that the war never ends?

Keeping Spirits Bright

2008-12-18T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 18, 1896
Charles Birchwood

Dickens may have had it right about Christmas. BAH HUMBUG! I for one think differently, nothing is more perfect than a cold winter morning, with snow fluffy and light on the ground. My children’s hands tucked warmly in my own and my loving wife snuggled against my chest as we walk through aisles of evergreen with the fresh scent of pine in the air. We take each step in time with the rhythm of Christmas carols sung bright and cheerily from voices young and old.

Our search might last for hours, but the selection of the family Christmas tree is an all important event. Choose a tree too small or too full or not full enough and the season might be ruined by the ill looking object in our living room. Chosen wisely, it will glitter from the corner of the room with neatly wrapped packages concealed below. It graces the room with beauty and joy and peace in my marriage.

The First Noel, circa 1833 in Christmas Carols Ancient and Modern by William B. Sandys

The first 'Noel the angels did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay;
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter's night that was so deep.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

They looked up and saw a star
Shining in the east, beyond them far;
And to the earth it gave great light,
And so it continued both day and night.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

And by the light of that same star
Three wise men came from country far;
To seek for a King was their intent,
And to follow the star wherever it went.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

This star drew nigh to the northwest:
O'er Bethlehem it took its rest;
And there it did both stop and stay,
Right over the place where Jesus lay.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

Then did they know assuredly
Within that house the King did lie;
One entered in then for to see,
And found the Babe in poverty.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

Then entered in those wise men three,
Full rev'rently upon their knee,
And offered there, in his presence,
Both gold and myrrh, and frankincense.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

Between an ox-stall and an ass
This Child there truly borned was;
For want of clothing they did him lay
All in the manger, among the hay.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

Then let us all with one accord
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord
That hath made heaven and earth of nought,
And with His blood mankind hath bought.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

If we in our time shall do well
We shall be free from death and hell,
For God hath prepared for us all
A resting-place in general.

Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!Born is the King of Israel!

It Came Upon The Midnight Clear, written by Edmund Sears, published on December 29, 1849 in the Christian Register of Boston.

It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold:
"Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,
From heaven's all-gracious King."
The world in solemn stillness lay,
To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lowly plains,
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds
The blessèd angels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.

And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing!

For lo!, the days are hastening on,
By prophet seen of old,
When with the ever-encircling years
Shall come the time foretold
When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.

Some Things Never Change

2008-12-17T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 17, 1896
Anna Cushing

Mom and Dad were waiting on the platform for me. I saw them as soon as I reached the steps to descend from the train, but Dad waved at me anyway. I approached them with my sack in tow, feeling lower class without the usual porter carrying my cases.

Mom nodded curtly as though she was indifferent to my return home. Dad, was not so callous. He wrapped his arms around me, lifted me a foot off the ground and spun me around in a circle while kissing my cheeks. I guess he missed me.

“How was your trip?” Dad asked.

The station was still spinning even though my feet were stationary, back on the ground.

“Dreadful.” I replied. “First class is not what it used to be.”

“Should I have a word with the conductor?” Dad asked.

“My toast was burnt, my hot tea was cold and can you believe they demanded money for a pillow? I feel like I’ve been robbed.” I said.

“How dreadful.” Mom said.

Her tone suggested anything but dread. I suspect she was laughing at me on the inside.

“Wait here, I will be back shortly.” Dad said.

He went off to find the conductor. I pity the man, knowing Dad’s wrath, it is likely someone will be going home without a job. On the other hand it is extortion to withhold pillows from first class passengers. If I had wanted to sleep on wood, I would have traveled in third class with the barmaids and peasants.

“You could have kept some of that to yourself.” Mom said.

She had a disapproving glint in her eye.

“What for?” I asked.

“It is Christmastime.”

“And because of that I should lower my standards?”

“No. You should have a heart.”

“I resent the implication that I do not.”

“I know you have one, dear. There are times, though, when it is blacker than coal.”

“I wonder where I get that from?” I asked.

Mom fell silent. I had not meant to argue with her on this trip home. In her letter, she sound as if she genuinely missed me and it had made me miss her as well. It left me with hope that maybe things could be different between us. I should have known better.

The ride home was quiet. Dad was smiling and clearly content to have me home again. Mom was frowning and I think she, like I, was wondering if there will ever come a time when we can spend five minutes together without falling into arguments. For my part, I doubt it, not because I want it to be this way, but because it always has been this way.

Going away to Primrose College did not change anything or at least not anything which really matters. Maybe in the years to come it will, but for now it is merely refuge from becoming too much like my Mom. I could do worse than marrying a man like Dad, but it is the only part of her life I think of as good. The look in her eyes makes me wonder if she might think so as well.

The Third Wheel

2008-12-16T06:00:00.000-05:00

December 16, 1896
Penelope Sumter

“What is she doing here?” I demanded.

Wilbur glared at me with annoyance blatant in his eyes. Elizabeth bit at her lip and looked as if she wished to be anyplace but where she was. On this we were agreed.

“Where are your manners?” Wilbur demanded back.

“I don’t see how we have time to go to New York and still make it home in time for Christmas.” I said.

“She is going to Florida and I told her we would take her as far as Charleston.”

“There is a train station just outside of town. Why can’t we drop her there?”

“Because I said so. Now stop being so rude.”

I climbed into the automobile next to Wilbur and decided it was time to keep my thoughts to myself. No point in making a scene especially when it is obvious there will not be a satisfactory result.

Wilbur took several minutes to arrange my bags in the boot. He must have been in a good mood because he did not complain I was taking too much. Still looking annoyed, he slammed the boot closed and got in behind the driving wheel. Moments later we were cruising toward home.

“I thought you two were friends.” Wilbur said.

“We’re roommates.” We replied in unison.

“Why is everyone assumes because we share a room, we are friends?” I continued alone.

“You are friends.” Wilbur said.

Elizabeth remained notably silent.

“Says who?” I asked.

“Anyone who ever watches the two of you interact.” Wilbur replied.

“Looks can be deceiving.” I said.

“Do you really dislike me that much?” Elizabeth asked.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” Wilbur asked.

“Nothing.” I said.

“That generally works better when you keep your mouth shut.” Wilbur said.

I gave him my annoyed look and then stuck my tongue out at him. Elizabeth giggled. Wilbur stopped the automobile. You would think on the way home for Christmas he would have a sense of humor at least.

“If I have to stop the auto again, you’ll be going over my knee. Understood?” Wilbur said.

“Yes, Wilbur.” I replied.

“That goes for you also Miss Bassett. I expect the two of you to be well behaved for the entire trip and if you can’t manage it, I will do so for you.”

“Yes, Mr. Sumter.” Elizabeth replied.

“As for you,” Wilbur shook his index finger in my direction, “ I believe you owe Miss Bassett an apology.”

“What for?” I asked.

“For being a rude, inconsiderate brat.” Wilbur said.

“I was not.” I said.

“Were too.” Elizabeth said.

“Was not.” I said.

“Were too.” Elizabeth said.

“Enough!” Wilbur shouted.

“Relax Will, It’s almost Christmas.” I said.

He shook his head at me.

“I must be crazy to be driving with two women.”

Elizabeth and I were smart enough not to agree verbally although we were both nodding our heads. Wilbur decided to ignore it and started the car again. I know I should not feel like I do about Elizabeth being with us. Maybe I am jealous of her growing relationship with Wilbur or maybe I just needed some time away from her. Either way, it will be a long trip home and I am sure Wilbur will be stopping along the way.

We were all silent for a few miles. I guess we all had our own thoughts to keep us busy. Mine were about pushing Elizabeth out of the automobile while we were still driving. I can only imagine what her and Wilbur were thinking.

"Are we there yet?" Elizabeth asked.

My head nearly hit the dashboard, Wilbur stopped so fast. I would like to say I enjoyed watching her get spanked. Unfortunately, it was obvious they were both enjoying it way too much. I am not quite sure how I can be a third wheel in an automobile built on four, but I am.

Just The Ticket

2008-12-15T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 15, 1896
Elizabeth Bassett

My bags were packed and sitting on the gravel drive of Carrington Manor. I stood beside them in the cold morning air, watching my frosty breath float away into the clear horizon. A hundred girls, just like me, stood beside me waiting for their turn to board the wagons that would deliver us to the rail platforms two days outside of town.

“Where is your ticket?” Mr. Carrington asked.

It was my turn to board.

“It will be waiting for me at the window.” I replied.

David promised to arrange it, all I needed to do was wire him once I got there.

“Without a ticket, you are not going.” Mr. Carrington replied.

“But I can’t get a ticket unless I get to the station.”

“I’m sorry but, this is a one way trip with the wagons and I can’t risk have any of you girls needing a way back here.”

“I won’t. My brother will send a ticket for me. Read the letter if you don’t believe me.” I pleaded.

“I’m sorry Miss Bassett, you’ll have to stay here unless you have a ticket now.”

“But…”

“Take you things back inside and stop wasting my time.” Mr. Carrington ordered.

I would have liked to have argued longer, but it was of no use and the other girls were beginning to get annoyed with me. We all knew his rule, whether we agreed with it or not was another matter. I had hoped the Christmas spirit might have given Mr. Carrington a heart, but if anything it has made him a more stubborn man.

I promised myself I would not cry. My bags felt heavier than before when I lifted them from the ground and trudged the short distance back to the house door. I looked back over my shoulder at all the lucky girls, heading home and as I closed the door to the outside, tears were streaming down my cheeks.

There are many things in this world which are unfair. Most of them, I ignore or accept as necessary, but to be alone at Christmas when you should be with those who love you, is too much to expect. With every step toward the stairs leading back to my room, my rage against Mr. Carrington’s injustice grew stronger. Unfortunately, it was Wilbur and not Mr. Carrington whom I nearly trampled in my blind rage.

“Whoa! What’s wrong?” Wilbur said.

His strong hands gripped my shoulders after I had ran headlong into him. I nearly slapped him, but the genuine concern in his eyes stopped me.

“Nothing.” I said.

I sniveled and tried to wipe my cheeks on my dress sleeve.

“You’re upset.” He said.

“Of course I am.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does.”

He guided me to a chair in the dining room and made me sit down. He kneeled beside and took my hands in his.

“Tell me what happened.” He said.

Something about his manner made me feel utterly foolish and childish. Everything came blubbering out of me about my dad failing to send a ticket despite his promises, about the letter from Sylvia and how devastatingly unbearable it would be to miss my nephew’s first Christmas. Once I started talking it was like I could not stop, but Wilbur only listened until I finished.

“I’ll get you to your brother’s for Christmas.” He said.

“What? How?” I asked.

“Penelope and I are heading home as soon as she finishes packing. You can come with us and I’ll get you on a train to Florida from Charleston.” He said.

I know I should not have, but I threw my arms around him, kissed his cheek and buried my head in his chest as I squeezed him with all my strength. His hands patted my back and returned the hug in kind.

“Thank you.” I said.

Snow Ride Home

2008-12-14T06:00:00.003-05:00

December 14, 1896
Sarah Waters

It will be a long trip home. The train ride is long enough, but with Union Station burned to the ground, it is two days ride to the temporary platform. Mr. Carrington is arranging to take the majority of girls by wagon, leaving Monday morning. Unfortunately for me, if I do not board the train by tomorrow night, I will not make it home in time for Christmas.

The cold facts left me only a single option; I have to ride Jasper out on my own. I packed a sack with most of my possessions, leaving little behind and causing the eyebrows of Emma and Victoria to be raised. They clearly hoped I would not be coming back and I suspect they started a rumor. It matters little enough to me, so I have chosen to ignore it and them.

An hour before sunrise I woke and raised myself from bed. Quietly I grabbed my sack and slipped out of the room and down into the stables. Jasper was wide awake and more than ready to go. As I began to saddle him, I heard a noise behind me and turned. Anna walked in holding a tightly rolled sack of her own.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I’m going with you.” She replied.

“You would be safer to wait and go with Mr. Carrington tomorrow.” I said.

“I’m not leaving Poseidon here and Mr. Carrington won’t let me ride him beside the wagon, so I might as well ride with you. Besides, it’ll be safer if we ride together.” She said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“So can I.”

Our eyes locked for a moment and I knew she was not going to back down anymore than I would.

"Okay.” I said.

Anna smiled at me, shaking her head.

“You know most of them don’t think you’ll be coming back.” She said.

“Is that what you think?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Maybe it matters to me.”

“You’ll be back.”

I nodded in agreement to her smile. We led our rides to the door and opened it. Outside another horse and a man I recognized all too well was waiting; Jonathon Goulding.

“Good morning.” He said.

I glanced at Anna who looked particularly sheepish right at that moment.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He did not answer straight away so I climbed on Jasper and prodded him toward the gates into Providence. Anna and Mr. Goulding quickly followed and soon we were riding three wide on the campus street.

“It’s good to see college life has not changed you.” Mr. Goulding said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You are still the rudest girl I have ever met.”

Anna sputtered, but otherwise kept her thoughts to herself.

“And yet, you keep coming back for more.” I said.

“If you would rather I leave, I know my way home.”

“Stay or go as you please. I hear it’s a free country.”

“Then I shall stay with you if nothing more than to ease my own conscience.”

“Are you feeling guilty for something, Mr. Goulding?”

I glanced at the burnt remains of the train station as we approached it. Mr. Goulding followed my gaze with quizzical eyes.

“Should I be?” He asked.

I considered things for a moment and wondered if the note which once seemed such damning evidence against him was a diversion from the truth.

“Can I trust you?” I asked.

“Of course.” He replied.

“Try and keep up. It’s a long ride and my train leaves at 9PM tomorrow night.” I said.

We exited the campus onto the streets of Providence and paused with what remained of Union Station to our right. The sun was starting to come up and the light sparkled on the open fields of snow beyond. The road was clear for a short ways ahead, but soon we would be making our own road through the snow and ice.

“Shall I lead the way?” Mr. Goulding asked.

Anna and I shared a smile and then kicked off to a gallop, leaving a trail of icy dust for Mr. Goulding to follow.

Wine On A Tap

2008-12-13T06:00:00.003-05:00

December 13, 1896
Edith Bowen

The floorboards creaked as someone behind me shifted their weight in their desk. Next to me, a young man bristled with such obvious annoyance, I found it difficult not giggle. I forced my attention back to the task before me. My steady hand returned to the half written page and with a quick dip in the ink well, my pen was writing again.

Words flowed like wine on a tap and all the while I could feel Mr. Stark’s eyes upon me. I struggled to lay the words down on the page at the same speed they flowed through my thoughts. My hand cramped, but I did not pause for fear of losing clarity. Concentration was the key.

On Mr. Stark’s desk an hourglass rested. As the sands of time poured through it, I poured my soul onto parchment in black blood called ink. Like a taut piano wire, poised to snap, tension filled the room. Minutes passed like seconds and if you listened carefully you could hear the sand falling through the glass. It was as loud and as eerie as hail falling in a windstorm in the pitch black of night.

I was penning my final words when Mr. Stark placed the book he had been pretending to read down on his desktop. His nimble fingers silently lifted the bell on his desk. In unison with the final drop of sand, he rang the bell. Time was up and pens were laid to rest.

Mr. Stark moved up and down the aisles of desks, taking each student’s pages. One by one he collected them all, dismissing each student in turn until he and I were alone. I sat nervous in my seat as he read the words I had written. I never doubted he would read them, but I had hope to be far from his classroom when the time came.

As he hummed through my work, I fidgeted in my seat. The rawness of truth I had laid upon the pages left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. I might well have been less frightened to dance a cancan on a bar room stage, completely naked. Mr. Stark seemed to sense my discomfort and rested a supportive hand on my shoulder. I tried to smile.

“I am surprised.” He said.

I turned my head to face him and blushed under his knowing gaze.

“I do believe there is more to you than I first realized.” He continued.

“Are you angry?” I asked.

“No, far from it.” He replied.

“Then I can go?” I asked.

Mr. Stark donned a crooked smile and sat down in the desk next to mine.

“Where would you go?” He asked.

I almost said the obvious. Then, I understood the question he was asking was more meaningful than the obvious. Our eyes met briefly, but my embarrassment was still too great to allow me to return his gaze. I stared at the floor instead, thinking.

“Come home with me.” He said.

I looked up at him, blinking in surprise.

“Now?” I asked.

He chuckled.

“For Christmas. I know you have no family to spend it with and I would like you to spend it with mine.”

“You are married?” I asked.

His finger was devoid of a ring.

“Not for a long time. My children are young though and I think they will like you.”

“W-why me?” I asked.

“Why not?”

“You do not even like me.” I said.

He chuckled again.

“Come spend Christmas with me and my family.” He said.

“Is that an order?” I asked.

He stood up and offered me his hand. I took it and stood up next to him. He raised his index finger under my chin and lifted my head so I had to look him in the eye.

“Does it need to be?” He asked.

“Do you really want me to be there?” I asked.

“I do.”

“Then I will think about it.”

Without warning, he leaned forward as if to kiss me, but he stopped when his lips seemed too close not to touch. His breath was warm on my face and it was all I could do not to lean that extra bit forward. I held my breath, waiting, wondering what he would do next. In the closeness, my heart melted and all the embarrassment and uncertainty faded back into the nothingness from whence it came. I gazed unashamed into his eyes.

“Okay.” I said.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Are you excited?” He asked.

Let me count the ways, but I only smiled in response.

Fear And Failure

2008-12-12T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 12, 1896
Elizabeth Bassett

I have been having a lot of nightmares again. They are different than before . I wake up feeling like I have been running for miles. The sheets are damp with sweat and twisted in knots from my tossing. But, none of that is what really bothers me; it is that they are about me which is truly frightening.

In the past, my nightmares have been about friends, acquaintances, or friends yet to be, but these are only about me. I am the their center and in the past the center has always been the wrong place to be. My concentration is wrecked.

After Sylvia’s letter, I had hoped to hear from father. I thought perhaps he would tell me I needed to stay at school because we could not afford for me to travel home, but I did not expect silence. I would not worry except the nightmares are foreboding and I fear something terrible has happened or is about to happen.

Somehow in the midst of all this I have to pull myself together long enough to finish out the semester and pass my exams. The professors do not make it easy, but if it was easy, everyone would be here. Mr. Bard is quickly shaping up to be the worst of my daylight problems. If I thought it possible, I would say he was trying to compete with the terror of my nightmares.

His first examination question was subjective at best. Perhaps his pets know beyond doubt whom he rates as the ten most influential men in history, but as for myself, the only person I certain is on the list is Mr. Bard. The egotistical bastard no doubt thinks he is the number one most influential man in history for the simple fact he teaches it. On a better day, I might even argue that point.

The second question was only slightly better for it requested actual facts. Its flaw was only in that it required a successful answering of the first question. The years in which those influential men were born is no doubt easy to obtain should you know their identities. I took a guess at Mr. Bard’s date of birth, sometime around the birth of Christ.

The third question was simply offensive and I refused to answer it. How dare he request I feed him back his bog filled rhetoric on the reasons why a woman’s vote is without merit. I considered a long winded exposition on the exact opposite, but fortunately a small amount of common sense intervened and I wrote the simplest response which I hoped would satisfy both him and me.

“Because men say so.”

I have little doubt he will fundamentally agree with my statement and at the same time miss the reason why I also believe the statement to be true. Is it called irony or just stupidity when a teacher fails to meet the standards of his students? Either way, Mr. Bard is quickly becoming my worst nightmare. I hope there is at least one question on the exam which actually required studying history, otherwise I fear I will fail utterly and completely.

In The Moment

2008-12-11T06:00:00.003-05:00

December 11, 1896
Penelope Sumter

I am cold.

The fire provides no warmth for me. My father would not approve. Wilbur would not even approve and if they would agree, then I must be very bad indeed. I wrapped the blanket tighter around me and moved closer still to the fire.

I noticed him from the beginning. His secretive glances were not lost on me although I pretended not to notice. Sometimes he seemed oblivious to me but that was just part of the charade. His wandering eyes are not for me alone, but they are mine for this moment.

And sometimes a moment is everything.

I remember the first time our fingers brushed. It was like a static shock between us. I jerked away as though burned in the fire but my eyes were filled with wonder. I think he saw it because he looked deep into me and then winked before turning away and moving on. I told myself it was only my imagination.

But dreams fill the emptiness.

There is something in his shoulders or maybe it is his smile. When I gaze upon him, the world fades. Only he and the things he touches are vibrant and alive. Is it wrong that I wanted to be vibrant and alive? No, I think we all are searching for that feeling. It eludes us in shadows and the dark corners where angels fear to tread, but I am no angel.

I am beautiful.

His eyes make no secret of his desires. His course hands on my soft skin sends a shiver from Heaven down my spine. The gentle touch of his lips on my earlobe followed by a nibble, forced my eyes closed. Every rational thought was banished as his fingers ran through my hair.

Steady fingers unfastened the buttons holding my dress up. It fell free to the floor, guided by gravity and his hands. An unsteady breath in the moment and my trembling fingers found the buttons on his shirt. One by one they slipped through the fabric until flesh and hair were all that existed between us.

And time was without meaning.

The floor was our bed. Our lips met with passion and left with the taste of sweet sweat. Hot and wet we rolled into each other, again and again. The flame of his desire devoured me from head to toe. His tongue caressed me until I could only lie limp in his arms.

But my heart would not be still.

Charles Birchwood can never be mine for more than a moment. I will take what I can and I promise not to mourn that which I cannot. The fire crackles in his fireplace as he adds another log. His warm arms wrap themselves around me and hold me close to his chest. It feels safe and secure, but it is illusion.

I am cold.

Thinking Position

2008-12-10T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 10, 1896
Sarah Waters

“Ouch! One sir.” I counted.

I had very nearly convinced myself I would never again be in this position. Reality intruded and as is customary, it did so rudely.

“Ow! Two sir.” I said.

I strained to keep my fingertips in touch with my toes. The prospect of bending my knees or parting my legs to make the stance any more comfortable was unacceptable on account of my classmates. No doubt several of them were enjoying my spectacle and for those who were not, I do not think they were complaining either.

The paddle slapped down against my bottom again, ringing out like a gunshot while my fleshy cheeks wobbled and bounced. It is amazing how much sting only a few swats can impart.

“Three sir.”

To be fair, I was raised to treat my instructors with more respect than I showed. It is not that I think I was wrong, but sometime in the last year I seem to have forgotten how to disagree without being disagreeable. Not living with my mother anymore probably has something to do with it.

“Four sir.”

Tears stung at my eyes. It is not that being on my own has been such a bad thing, but with mother there were always eggshells on which to walk. It was good practice to keep me from coming off as arrogant or impolite with strangers and friends alike.

“Ow! Five sir.”

My fingers left my toes and flew half way to grabbing my blazing bottom before a shred of self control returned and I forced myself back into position. Tears flowed without further restraint and I sniffled staring at my toes again.

“Stay in position, Miss Waters. That one will not count.” Mr. Stark said.

There were a hundred things I could have said, but only one of them was the smart thing to say. Luck for me, I am not dumb often.

“Yes sir.” I said.

I could hear the girls gossiping in the room. Some of them were even bold enough to giggle. My face was flushed with the shame and embarrassment of having my bare bottom spanked for all to see.

“Five sir.”

It is likely my father would also have given me a spanking had I talked to him the way I had to Mr. Stark. Probably, even if he knew I had spoke to anyone that way. That does not mean I agree with the consequences, only that I understand from where they come.

“Six sir.”

Staring at my toes with my bottom ablaze and the painful awareness of spectators is far from and ideal place to think. Still, it seems only natural to reflect on one’s actions while in such a position. Maybe I have crossed some lines and maybe it is about time someone started holding me accountable again.

“Seven sir.”

I know better than to think myself perfect. Anger has controlled me too often in these recent months and beyond that are feelings I do not yet quite understand, but I think one of them is guilt. The world at large has been the recipient of my anger and with every angry word or action my soul is burdened more with guilt.

“Eight sir.”

Mr. Stark has a ludicrous view of the use of contractions. Hardly anyone speaks without them these day, but he chooses to ignore the reality of life and demand we speak “properly” as he calls it. Part of me understands, part of me rages against it.

“Nine sir.”

Whatever my personal views, it was wrong of me to harass him for his methods. He is the teacher and I the student. When, where and why I forgot that simplicity I do not know, but I think it will be a long time before I forget it again.

“Ten sir.”

The Anatomy Of Love

2008-12-09T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 9, 1896
Margaret Spooner

“There is more to life than your anatomy books.” Edgar said.

He was right. I would not have argue with him were it not for his lousy timing. The night before an anatomy exam is hardly the time to debate the subject’s relative importance in the scope of life. Clearly, there is more to life than what is on the inside.

“Not now, Edgar.” I said.

“If not now, then when?”

“Next week. You are coming home with me for Christmas are you not?”

“No, with the train station burned down and the nearest boarding platform is two days ride, three days by wagon. I am not going and neither are you.”

“What?”

“It is only Christmas. Besides, we will still be together.”

“Only Christmas? It is not Christmas without family.” I said.

“We are each other’s family now.”

“You are not my husband yet and if you try to keep me from my family, you never will be.”

“I will decide what is best and I will not tolerate threats from you. Is that clear?”

I should have backed down then. It was the right thing to do. Edgar does love me, of this I am certain. Still, being separated from my family at the most wonderful time of year is not a sacrifice I am ready to make. The matter of the train station aside, I feel trapped.

“I have made no threats. I am going home for Christmas.”

“The trip is too dangerous, we are staying here.”

“You are a coward. I am going home and you can do as you wish.”

Edgar raised his hand high in the air as if to slap me, but then changed his mind. He turned on heel and stomped away like a spoilt boy. It was mean, but I laughed until the door slammed shut. Then I cried.

Morning came too soon. Dr. Phallic passed out the examination books and then quietly took his seat at the front of the room. It was hard to see the questions on the page because of the questions in my mind.

Is Edgar the right man for me?

Does Edgar believe in the same things I do?

Will Edgar allow me to be a doctor?

Why did mother change her mind about Edgar?

Do I really love him?

Does he love me?

Does he know me?

Do I know him?

Do I really want to marry him?

Why does he want to marry me?

The questions blurred the reality of the exam. Time ran and out and my answers felt incomplete. It was not the physical anatomy leaving me baffled, but the anatomy of love. How am I supposed to know if Edgar is the right man for me?

Sugar And Spice

2008-12-08T06:00:00.000-05:00

December 8, 1896
Anna Cushing

Mud is for boys, dolls are for girls. I can understand how girls like Sarah get it confused but when the teachers at school forget, I find my patience lacking. I hate the smell of wet of clay. The slimy texture of it on my hands and then worse, later as it dries, the skin cracks. Such things are clearly for boys.

It is not as though I had a choice. I had to take the art class, Daddy insisted. I sent him letters about the class work and all he did was send me letters saying how proud he was of my efforts. Not exactly the response I hoped for, but then everything has a price and overall it has been worth it to come to Primrose.

Today was my biggest challenge and while I may not have excelled in this one thing, at least I have not given up. The semester’s final test of my artistic ability came early this morning. The air was still chilled enough to see our breath in the classroom when we arrived.

Fortunately, the cold was fleeting. Once the kiln was fired up, the room became uncomfortably warm. We rolled up our sleeves and dug into our blocks of damp clay. Some of the girls claim they feel a release of tension as they massage their fingers through the wet mud, but personally I think they are allowing their imagination to run a little too wild. One does not massage clay like they would a man.

The test seemed simple enough; mold the clay into a vase, glaze and fire the finished product which with luck should stand on its very one base and hold water. I agree a vase that does not balance itself would not be very functional although I can think of ways to correct for the minor instability. However, a leaky vase is another matter entirely and so it was certainly at the top of my lists of things not to accomplish.

As my usual, I started with my clay too wet and then allowed it to get too dry. The middle ground necessary to mold the clay without it becoming mush or dry as a brick often eludes me. In time I got it right and the final project came together with better success than I expected. I must admit I am pleased with myself and I look forward to Spring when I can put some fresh flowers in it and keep it next to my bed.

It was almost not to be. Emma Chesterfield was up to her usual. Dirty looks and snide remarks under her breath as if she thinks I will ever care what her demented mind thinks. On my way back from Primrose Hall she started throwing snowballs at my back and nearly knocked me down. The vase went flying through the air and I was certain it would be shattered into a million pieces.

Luckily, it landed softly in a bank of snow. Enough was enough, but Daddy taught me long ago you do not play fair, you play to win and so I did. I ran behind the snow bank where my vase had found safety and packed a mean snowball in my hand. It was not long before Emma showed herself.

“Are you afraid?” Emma taunted.

“No, but you should be.” I replied.

“So, why don’t you come out and face me or are you crying?” She continued.

I shrugged and stood up to face her. She threw another snowball at me but I ducked aside and it sailed passed. Then I threw mine. It hit her in the chest with a thud.

“Ow!” She screamed.

Emma lost her balance on the icy sidewalk. Her legs scrambled as though trying to run but it was never going to be enough. Suddenly she was tumbling backward with her feet in the air and her butt smacking hard, down against the concrete. I tried to not to laugh, really I tried.

On the ground, she was sniffling and her hands were rubbing her chest. I picked up my vase. Her fingers found the small rock I had packed in the middle of my snowball and the look on her face was one of true understanding.

“You are crazy!” She shouted.

I smiled at her and walked away. Maybe she will wizen up over the holidays, but I doubt it.

Distractions

2008-12-07T06:00:00.000-05:00

December 7, 1896
Charles Birchwood

I have never much liked the concept of grading. Music is as much about talent as it is about effort and it seems a touch unfair to mark a student down for a lack of talent when tremendous effort has been put forth. Likewise, it is insanity not to recognize and reward those with talent. My conundrum is not easily solved.

The girls here at Primrose have all been willing to put forth effort but few of them have excelled. It is I suppose to be expected. There will be no grand symphonies performed at a woman’s college anytime in the near future and I should not berate myself for the failing to allure exceptionally talented young ladies to the college in my first semester.

Still I am dreading the coming week of testing. Listening to Caroline practicing all weekend has been horrendous enough. Even the children have begged her to stop. Caroline is many things but a pianist is not among them and I fear she is likely more apt than the majority of my other pupils.
I can imagine the grating frustrations all ready. The pianos will sound flat or sharp, the violins like they are strung with straw and the flutes as dog whistles. I will smile and try to reassure them they are doing fine all the while grinding my teeth and praying for my eardrums to burst.

I envy the deaf Beethoven who never had to once hear his beautiful arrangements by the inept musicians of my world. I have even considered it might not have been winter which chased the birds from the trees this year but the imminent threat of Miss Chesterfields’ off key vocals.

Strange to think of my father now, but he told me something once which I might well have to adapt for a modern purpose. It was shortly before a recital in my teenage years and I was exceptionally nervous because of the large assemble audience. “Picture them naked.” He had said. Naturally, I asked why and her replied, “It will give you something to take your mind off the pain.”

On that day my imagination had not quite been up to the task. Shortly after appearing on the stage, I vomited. The room cleared out and then I played one of my best performances ever. My father and mother were embarrassed but I was quite pleased at the time. I wish I had thought of it deliberately, but no one is perfect.

However, my father’s idea of nudity does have merit for the exams. What better way to get through the examination process than by having the girls perform in the nude? I can grade them on their maturity, redness of cheeks, and physical attractiveness. The method seems as random as attempting to grade their talent versus effort in the musical foray.

And, it should be noted their young nubile bodies will certainly provide sufficient distraction from their almost certain lack of musical talent. I wonder how Dean Steadward would react to the suggestion? Perhaps other teachers would appreciated the concept as well. All final examinations could be given with the ladies nude. I am certain it would hardly change their view of examinations; they are widely hated. The teachers though might find it a reason to look forward to the whole experience.

Yes, I must mention this at the next board meeting.

Take Me Away

2008-12-06T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 6, 1896
Anna Cushing

I needed a ride to clear my head. Poseidon is always willing and so we left when the sun was just coming up. The early flicker of morning light on the snow is a little like magic. Nothing really changes, but everything is different.

The week started bad. Mondays are always difficult to face, but this one was a waking nightmare. It started off at breakfast when I inadvertently sent Victoria tumbling halfway down the stairs. Miss Bowen saw the whole thing.

“Miss Cushing, what do you think you are doing?” She demanded from the top step.

I had ran to make sure my roommate was uninjured although admittedly I would not have minded much if she had sprained an ankle.

“It was an accident Miss.” I replied.

“Accident or not, you could have killed someone. Wait for me outside my room.” She said.

“Miss…”

“Now, Miss Cushing.”

Reluctantly, I climbed back up the stairs and walked the few feet to her door. I felt ridiculous just standing there, especially knowing that Miss Bowen was not inside but a short distance away. I was relieved to not have to wait too long.

Inside her room, Miss Bowen made no waste of time in getting to the bottom of matters. If it had not been my bottom I would have appreciated her efficiency and lack of pointless scolding. Suffice to say, twelve licks of her desk ruler later and all was forgiven if not precisely forgotten. Sitting at breakfast was uncomfortable, but more because of Victoria’s snickering than Miss Bowen’s efforts.

Then there was Tuesday. I was met on the steps of Primrose Hall by none other than Jonathon Goulding. If there is a better looking man in all of Brown, I have yet to see him and the fact he was directly looking for me was quite flattering. That was until he started asking all about Sarah.

“Is Miss Waters well?” He began.

I nodded feeling numb.

“Has she spoke of me?”

I shook my head to the negative, unable to voice my answer with the nausea building in my stomach.

“I am concerned about her. I sent her a note the other day and she never replied.”

I nodded again not knowing what he expected me to say.

“Can you give her this note from me?”

He handed me a sealed envelope. I nodded taking it in my limp hands.

“Thank you, Miss.” He said.

And then he walked away. In what sick and twisted world does Sarah Waters get the attention of a man over me?

The week could have ended then and there for all I cared but God must have felt I needed a longer lesson in humility because Wednesday came upon me and offered no better. In the final hours before bed after dinner I was studying downstairs in my whites. As I left for bed the other girls began pointing and giggling. Would you believe I had some smudge black coal all over the back of my gown? Who leaves coal laying around in the study?

Thursday was peaceable, except Mr. Stark slapped his ruler on my hands a half dozen times for bending the corners on the pages of my book. It is my book, so why he should care about the condition of the pages is beyond me. Further, what possible improvement will there be in my turning of pages when my fingers are raw and sore? If teachers made sense they would not be teachers, father always says something like that and I am beginning to agree with him.

Friday came along none to soon. Unfortunately, the day boded no better for me. I angered Mr. Bard because I suggested it was our responsibility to protect the Cubans from the Spaniards. I spent the remainder of the class sitting on his stool in the corner wearing that ridiculous dunce cap and nursing a blistered backside. Thankfully there are no men in the class.

Immediately following Mr. Bard’s class, I found myself arguing with Dr. Phallic. Normally, I would have shut my mouth, but after the week I have had it was just too much to take. The idea the moon could have anything to do with the behavior of people, animals, and the tides of the oceans is simply outrageous. My rational disbelief of his scientific “facts” was met by ten bruising swats of his giant paddle. To make matters worse he delivered them in class and on my bare bottom in front of boys, girls, God and everyone not previously covered.

That is why this morning I just needed to get away from everyone. Somehow I have to alter this course of bad things happening. Riding on my sore backside feels about like getting walloped all over again but at least there is no one around to see me cry.

Once, The World Was Flat

2008-12-05T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 5, 1896
Sarah Waters

I used to think of the past in terms of what happened and what did not happen. In retrospective, this was too simple a view and failed to encompass the reality of my very own experiences. How many times did Sam and I argue over how particular incidents of our childhood occurred? Granted there was often the ulterior motive of staying out of trouble to contend with but in the scope of history, there exists similar moments and it is the victor who writes the stories.

“I trust everyone is now familiar with the history surrounding the discovery of the Americas. Miss Waters, your opinion please. Was Christopher Columbus a genius or a madman?” Mr. Bard said.

The questions seemed absurd to me.

“A genius.” I replied.

“Why?” He asked.

“He overcame tremendous opposition and eventually found success although his discovery was an accident his concept of sailing west instead of east from Europe was a stroke of brilliance.” I replied.

“Our views could not be more different Miss Waters. Columbus was a drunk and a fool. He sought to find a new and faster route to the East by traveling west. Every reputable cartographer in the world understood a simple concept Columbus could not grasp. Columbus believed the earth was only a fraction of the circumference it is because he could not grasp elementary mathematics. Had he not found unexpected land he would have starved his men to death at sea. In my view, these are the actions of a madman not a genius.” Mr. Bard said.

“If his logic was known to be so fatally flawed, then why would Spain have financed his voyage?” I asked.

“Politics, Miss Waters. In 1492, Spain had nothing to lose and everything to gain from exploring the waters to the west. King Ferdinand knew Columbus’ maps were wrong but he also knew that there was the possibility of new lands waiting to be discovered. If there was a genius in the discovery of the Americas it was King Ferdinand.” Mr. Bard said.

“Are you saying it is your view that financing a madman can be genius?” I asked.

“It is my view that the difference between a genius and a madman is the side of history he lands upon.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What if Columbus had never returned from his voyage? What if his ships had all been destroyed by the hurricane they encountered? Would we recount him as anything more than a footnote in Spanish history and if not would his mark be anything more than that of a lunatic who took a hundred men to their deaths?”

“Are you saying Columbus was a madman who is wrongfully remembered as a great man?”

“His ideas were insane for his time and for ours. His discovery and survival were mere accidents. So yes, I am saying Christopher Columbus was insane and history prefers to make him a great man rather than confront the harsh reality that sometimes it takes a lunatic to help the world along.” Mr. Bard said.

Part of me wanted to continue arguing but the rest of me knew he was right. Teachers are supposed to be right, they are supposed to have the answers, maybe I forgot that after all that has happened or maybe I have learned no one is infallible. Asking the questions is not just a right, but a responsibility.

Now that my eyes have been opened I am starting to realize the past is as much an open book as the future. That is not to say the past can be changed, but it can be re-perceived in such a way as to alter the significance and repercussions of events. Dr. Phallic would recognize the dilemma as the chicken or the egg, but the real question is not what came first, but from where it came.

“Silence, Miss Waters.” Mr. Bard said. “Have you reconsidered your answer?”

“Yes. Maybe he was both.” I said.

Mr. Bard smiled.

“Now you are learning.” He said.

Where Is It Written?

2008-12-04T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 4, 1896
Margaret Spooner

Would anyone have expected William Shakespeare to stitch straight? I do not believe so. So, why is it I am expected to write with perfect penmanship? Only God and Mr. Stark can answer that questions and neither of them are talking. Well, Mr. Stark does talk but he rarely actually says anything.

He always stares with his beady eyes and crinkled nose. Maybe he does not like me or maybe he thinks it is below him to teach women. Whatever his problem is, he is bent on making life miserable for me. If it were not for the college’s mandate to attend four years of English lessons I would not ever have set foot in his classroom.

“Is this an R, an S, or an N?” He asked.

His crooked finger pointed at the page on my desk and his smelly hand blocked the view of the rest of the word. Without context how was I to answer his question?

“I don’t know.” I replied.

“Pardon me?” He said.

I rolled my eyes at his irritating pretense to not understand contractions. On the very first day of class he had made his feeling quite clear on the use of the contractions and their recent rise in popularity amongst even the best families in the nation.

“I cannot say while your hand is blocking the word.” I said.

“Miss Spooner it is not relevant what the word is or is not, the letter, each and every letter, must be legible. How many times must we have this discussion?”

“At least once more.” I replied.

I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. He waved a ruler at me.

“Perhaps I have a better solution.” He said.

“Oh, yes sir. Wallop my hands really good and maybe my penmanship will improve while I cannot hold a pen.”

“No, I will not give you the satisfaction of such an excuse. You will write 500 lines for me in perfect penmanship and you will do it before you leave this room today.”

“I have an appointment at three.” I said.

“Then you had better get started.” He replied.

I looked at the clock on the wall, it read two o’clock. The good doctor in town was expecting me at three to assist in a surgery. The choice between learning to write and learning to perform surgery was not a choice at all.

“I am sorry Mr. Stark, but I am expected elsewhere and I cannot reschedule this late.” I said.

“Are you defying me Miss Spooner?”

“You may call it what you wish. I am short of time all ready and must be leaving now.”

“I will expel you from this class if you leave without completing the lines I have requested.”

I stood up and gathered my things. There was nothing more to say and anything I could say would only provoke him further. I walked to the door.

“Someone needs to have a word with you about your priorities.” He said.

I turned with my hand on the doorknob.

“The mere fact you suggest my priorities are in question is proof enough you place undue importance on your own Mr. Stark. You never even asked about my appointment. How do you know which is more important when you do not even know the choices?” I said.

I turned the knob and walked out before he could reply. I hope he does expel me from his class, but I doubt he will keep his word.

The Split Carrot Snowman

2008-12-03T06:00:00.002-05:00

December 3, 1896
Penelope Sumter

The manor was dark as I crept quietly down the stairs. After every few steps I stopped and listened just to be certain there was no one else around. I tiptoed into the general study and closed the door as quietly as possible. I nearly knocked Michelle down when I turned around to face the room.

I raised my finger to my lips to shush the girls’ giggles in the room. Surprising to me was the room was packed. I knew the new girls were hardly a righteous bunch but I had no idea it would be so easy to corrupt so many of them.

“Do we have everything?” I whispered.

“I think so.” Michelle replied.

“Be certain before we go out.”

Michelle nodded and then turned to the others.

“Carrot?” Michelle asked.

“Here.” A girl held it up for all to see.

“Two pieces of coal?” Michelle asked.

“Here.” Another girl held up the coal.

“Eight buttons?” Michelle asked.

“I have them.” A shy girl said from the back.

“Scarf?” Michelle asked.

A girl waved it in the air without a word.

“Mr. Carrington’s hat?” Michelle asked.

One of the girls tossed it in the air and then neatly caught it with a smile and a wink.

“That’s everything.” Michelle said.

I nodded, impressed with the girls, they were almost as good as we were last year. Only difference being we did not need the older girls to give us the idea then. It is too bad Elizabeth did not feel up to joining us, but then she has not been sleeping well lately.

“Let’s get going then. Remember to keep it quiet and watch what you are doing.” I said.

The girls nodded. Quickly and carefully, the girls climbed out the window to the outside one by one. We assembled in three groups of four and began rolling up are respective giant snow balls. There was no need to worry about size this year as the snowfall has been plentiful.

It took us no more than half an hour to assemble and decorate our snowman. The carrot got broken in two though and at first the fat stubby part was shoved into the middle of the face and the pointy end was inserted in the lower part of the middle. Most of the girls were blushing at the sight.

“It’s Dr. Phallic.” Michelle said.

The girls roared with so much laughter I was certain we would be discovered, but no one came. I swapped positions between the carrot pieces and took a step back. The girls looked at me with curious gazes. I smiled back.

“It’s more accurate this way.” I said.

Buttons and coal and carrot in place, scarf around the neck and hat on top we stood back and admired our handiwork. Then as quietly as we stepped out we snuck back in and slowly, two girls at a time, we climbed the stairs and returned to our beds.

The next morning we came to breakfast and no one gave a clue of the night’s activities. From the outside one might have thought it was a perfectly normal morning. That was until Mr. Carrington opened the front door for us to leave.

“Holy shit!” He exclaimed.

The girls in the hall clasped their hands over their mouths but most of them could not help but giggle. Whether it was Mr. Carrington’s uncharacteristic use of profanity or the sight of the white giant blocking the exit from the house is open for debate.

“Does this mean it’s a snow day?” Michelle asked.

Mr. Carrington stared sternly at her.

“It does appear we are snowed in.” She said.

It was obvious he was very close to laughing himself but he was still holding it in. Then his eyes fell upon the carrot stub I forgot to remove from the mid-section. His face turned beat red.

“Penelope Sumter!” He yelled.

How did he know it was me?

Power Play

2008-12-02T06:00:00.000-05:00

December 2, 1896
Edith Bowen

“Miss Bowen, please remain after class.” Mr. Stark said.

He placed my writing booklet on my desktop and tapped it lightly with his fingers before moving on and distributing the remainder of booklets. The knots in my stomach kept me from opening the cover to see the inevitable poor grade residing inside for my latest attempt at literary expression.

One dry mouth, two sweaty palms and forty minutes later, class was dismissed. I sat perfectly still in my desk. My shoulders and back were straight and my nervous hands were folded together on my desktop. It was all I could manage not to tap my feet with impatience as the other students exited in mass. Finally, the door closed and we were alone.

I did not dare to look about. His eyes on me raised hackles on the back of my neck. The cool air wafting through the room from the exodus was enough to make me shiver, but I resisted the urge. I was nervous and scared and I was adamant not to show it.

“Alone at last.” Mr. Stark said.

I kept quiet, uncertain where the conversation would lead or even if a response was desired.

“Do you know why I have kept you after?” Mr. Stark asked.

“No, sir.” I replied.

“Could it be your work is unsatisfactory?”

“If it is, I will try harder.”

“If you are capable of better then why do you wait for my criticism before demonstrating your true proficiency?”

“I had done the best I can given my existing knowledge, but if I have failed I will strive to learn in what manner I have failed and how I can avoid such failure in the future.”

“And if your failure cannot be overcome?”

“I cannot foresee nor imagine any failure I cannot correct with practice.”

“You cannot become more than you are and it is what you are which is a failure.”

“Am I to understand I cannot achieve your expectations because I am a woman?”

“You think me unfair.”

“Do not presume to know my thoughts of you and do not inquire into them as you will well not like the answer.”

“To be clear, your failure is not being a woman, but rather being a woman who does not accept being a woman.”

“We are what God has made us. I am a woman and I am content with my sex. It is my status in your contrived male dominated society to which I object.”

“You would rather concern yourself with politics and economics than the raising of children?”

“They are one and the same it is only in flat world they remain disconnected.”

“You are a singular spirit, Miss Bowen.”

“So, I am unlike other women you know. Am I too much a woman for you or not enough?”

He came around to the front of my desk to look me face to face. With a chuckle, he place his index finger under my chin and pushed my head up a little higher.

“You are a proud one. Stand up.” He ordered.

I considered refusing the command. It would have been simple enough and certainly aggravating for him. He wanted to prove how in control he was and my instincts told me he needed to be corrected. As a simple matter of fact, control resides within ourselves and must be surrendered to another in order for them to wield it. In the end, I complied because I wanted to stand. The difference may be imperceptible though observation but that does not negate its existence.

“Very good.” He said.

“Shall I beg or roll over next?” I asked.

He stepped closer to me until our noses were nearly touching. I could feel his warm breath on my face and the faint scent of peppermint twitched in my nostrils. Our eyes met and I forced myself to meet his without blinking.

“Would you like that?” He whispered.

“Like what?” I breathed.

“To be treated like a pet.”

“I am not loyal and I do bite.” I replied.

“I would not have it any other way.” He said.

His lips brushed against mine almost as if by accident. My eyes closed to better enjoy the sensation and my lips followed his until he pressed against me and took my breath away. His arms wrapped around me and pulled me closer to him. I responded by encircling him with my own . As we shifted and maneuvered our bodies I briefly wondered if he was kissing me or if I was kissing him.

The moment seemed to last an eternity, but still it was not long enough. He pushed me back and held me at arms length away. The look in his eyes was primal like a savage on the prowl. I met the look with one of my own and my lips curled upward in a dangerous smile.

“This is not appropriate.” He said.

“You should be punished.” I said.

“Me? Surely a young lady like yourself knows better than to tease an old man like me.” He replied.

I slapped him across the face and picked my booklet up from my desktop. He grabbed hold of my arm as I started to walk away. I turned back toward him with fury in my eyes.

“Let go.” I commanded.

“Sit down.” He ordered.

I slapped him again.

“Let go.” I commanded.

His fingers loosened and then released my arm. I turned and walked away.

“Edith!” He called.

I ignored him.

“Edith!” He called.

I walked out the classroom door.

“Miss Bowen!” He called.

The desperation in his voice echoed in the empty hallway. I turned briefly to look at him before descending the stairs to the main floor and flashed him a mischievous smile. Perhaps now he understands who is in control.

The Fear Of Failure

2008-12-01T06:00:00.001-05:00

December 1, 1896
Elizabeth Bassett

My father shook his disappointed head at me. My mother would not look in my direction at all. I fell to my knees before them, tears bursting from my eyes. I wanted to beg for their forgiveness but my voice abandoned me. The light tapping of father’s foot echoed in the room like a booming drum. Mother’s disappointment was sharper though, her steady avoidance cut through me like a rusted blade. They turned their backs to me and walked away.

The brightness of the room faded to black in an instant. Mother and father were long gone and I was all alone on the cold floor. Rough hands grabbed at me from the darkness. I tried to pull away but there was no escape. My clothing was torn from me a shred at a time until I was left naked and shivering cold. A woman’s laugh made me feel ashamed.

“Failure.” A chorus of female voices chanted over and over again.

I stayed huddle to the floor, each repetition of the word felt like a bee sting to my pride. Tears fell freely from my eyes drenching my body in their salty warmth. The darkness became dizzying, spinning out of control, faster and faster. I wanted to scream but my voice remained absent.

Suddenly, it all stopped. The dark became light and the light became white. The white was Dr. Phallic’s lab coat as he stood over me shaking his index finger at me like a naughty girl. I tried to back away but I was trapped against a wall. He mocked my attempt at escape.

“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.” Dr. Phallic admonished.

From behind his left shoulder, Penelope appeared. She was smiling and waving at me. Her gold locks bounced around her shoulders as if she were skipping, yet she was standing still. She blew me a kiss.

“It’s not just physics.” She said.

From nowhere my father appeared kneeling next to me. His rough hands grabbed my shoulders and he forced me to look at him. His hair grayed as I watched and wrinkles enveloped his skin. His lips pursed in a stern look.

“You’ll never matter. You are nothing. You will always be nothing.” He shouted.

He shoved me back into the darkness and I was all alone again. I could barely breathe but I tried to stand anyway. I kept falling down again and then I fell without a bottom. Faces and voices whisked by all of them scolding and disappointed. People I knew and many I did not, I had failed them all. Equations rushed by followed by the laws of the universe they were at once simple and non-sense. My mind felt like it would explode and then I felt air back in my lungs and my voice returned. I screamed.

Cold hands grabbed my shoulders and shook me. Penelope’s curly hair brushed against my cheeks. My eyes snapped opened to see her concerned face staring down at me.

“Wake up!” She said.

I blinked as the room came into focus. Penelope looked at me with blatant worry in her eyes. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes again for a moment. I took comfort in the solidity of the bed beneath me and the constant of my friend’s touch.

“Are you all right?” Penelope asked.

“Yes, it was only a bad dream.” I said.

“Like before?” She asked.

I shook my head in the negative.

“No, it was only science and math.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I promise.”

She smiled and nodded but beneath the surface of acceptance I could see she did not believe me. I wonder if I was talking in my sleep.

A Cold Winter's Morning

2008-11-30T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 30, 1896
Charles Birchwood

There is nothing like the taste of a hot cup of tea on a cold winter’s morning. I know it is not quite winter yet, but the white snow on the ground outside argues convincingly otherwise. I lit the fireplace in the living room and with Phillip’s help, the dining table was relocated in place of the sofa and table normally occupying the space nearby. It was not strictly necessary, but I saw no reason why we should not enjoy the warmth of the fire through breakfast and afterward. Caroline had exams to prepare for and I exams to prepare.

I sipped my tea, enjoying the inner warmth it provided. Caroline sat across from me at the table and did likewise. Her books were neatly stacked beside her on the table as my music sheets were gathered near me. Neither of us were eager to get started with the necessary work despite knowing procrastination would not lessen the load nor ease the related stress.

“Another cup?” Caroline asked.

I glanced inside my cup to notice it was indeed empty. I nodded in the affirmative and sighed as I picked up the stack of music to begin my work. Caroline rose from the table, placing our cups on the tray with the teapot and disappeared into the kitchen.

As often happens, I quickly became lost in my work. Time slipped by without being noticed until I realized I had completed a substantial portion of my work and Caroline had yet to return. She was still in the kitchen. I could hear her moving about.

“Caroline?” I called.

“Yes, dear?”

“Have you received word back from England on our tea yet?”

“Pardon me?”

“You have been a long time in preparing the tea, dear.” I clarified. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh, no. It’s almost ready.”

I could have pursued the matter further, but I chose otherwise. After all what purpose would be served by my calling attention to facts of which she is all ready aware? Moments later she returned with the tray and poured me a fresh cup which I immediately began sipping.

Caroline grudgingly opened one of her books and began reading. I turned my attention back to my own work knowing she need no distractions from me. It was strangely comforting to know she was there nearby with her own tasks to accomplish but still with me. Never before had I realized how much I enjoy the simplicity of proximity to my wife. My work load suddenly became lighter and smiling became easier.

That was all until I noticed, quite by accident, Caroline’s book was upside down. I must admit the situation gave me pause. Did she expect me to catch her and do something? Was she manipulating me or was this a cry for help? Should I ignore it and allow her to face the consequences of failure in her studies? There were no easy answers.

“Are you attempting to fool me or yourself?” I asked.

“Whatever do you mean?” She replied, all innocence.

“Your book is upside down and I find it hard to believe you are not so aware.”

“Oh.” She blushed.

“Are you going to answer me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then I believe I will answer you.”

“And yet you still have not.”

“I don’t feel like studying.” She whined

“We must often do things we do not feel like doing.”

“Could we not snuggle in front of the fire for awhile first?”

“We can do that when we have each finished.”

“But I want to do it now.”

“Then you should have ample encouragement to do complete your work.”

“A few minutes won’t make any difference.”

“If such is true then why do you persist in arguing with me?”

“Because I want a break.”

“How could you possibly need a break when you have yet to begin?”

“Charles…”

“Turn the book right side up and do your work.”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“You had better hope I heard you wrong.”

“I said, no.”

I pushed my chair back and stood up without a further word. Walking around the table, I grabbed Caroline by the wrist and pulled her out of her chair. She protested, but I ignored her and half dragged, half pulled her to the front door. I pulled it open and propelled her outside.

Dressed in only her nightgown and robe, she looked at me as though I had lost my mind. She shivered as soon as her feet hit the snow on our doorstep. I did not wait for her to protest more than she all ready had, but instead closed the door and turned the lock.

A moment later there was pounding on the door.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Charles you open this door this minute or you’ll be sleeping on the sofa for the rest of the year!” Caroline shouted through the closed door.

“Do you really think I am going to tolerate your threats or that they will motivate me to open the door any sooner?”

“I’ll freeze!”

“Are you going to do your school work if I let you back in?”

There was a noticeable pause and silence as she considered her options and response.

“Yes.” She finally answered.

“Why don’t you think about it for a few more minutes and I’ll check back to see if you are certain.” I said.

“Charles, it’s cold out here!”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

She started pounding on the door again.

“The sooner you stop pounding on the door the sooner I’ll think about opening the door.” I said.

“Charles!”

“You are going to stand out there for ten minutes of quiet whether it starts now or an hour from now is entirely up to you.”

Amazingly, there was silence. I sat back down by the fire and watched the clock tick away the minutes. Phillip came downstairs while I was waiting and sipping my tea.

“Where is Mommy?”

“She had to step out for a few minutes.” I said.

“I want some milk.” He said.

“I think we can manage that without her.” I replied.

The two of us went to the kitchen and I heated some milk on the stove for him and his sister. Phillip happily carried the glasses upstairs without a second thought about his mother, but I know the boy is far from dumb and most likely heard more than enough to know precisely where his mother was and why.

I glanced at the clock and decided it was time to bring her in even though it had only been seven minutes. I opened the door to find Caroline shivering quietly with her arms wrapped around herself.

“Are you ready to do your schoolwork?” I asked.

“Y-yes.” She said through jittering teeth.

I guided her back inside and sat her back down at the table with her books. Her seat was close to the fireplace so there was no doubt she would quickly be warmed by the flame. She turned toward the fire to warm her hands more directly.

“Schoolwork.” I ordered.

“Let me warm my hands.” She pleaded.

“Do you want to go back outside?” I asked.

“No.”

“Schoolwork.” I ordered.

“Yes, Charles.”

Peace at last. I am sure she expected a different reaction from me, but it is never good to be too predictable. No doubt the cold was far more effective than any additional warmth would have been on a cold winter’s morning like this one.

A Least Expected Letter

2008-11-29T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 29, 1896
Margaret Spooner

November 21, 1896

Dear Margaret,

With a little luck this letter will reach you in time to wish you a warm Thanksgiving but if it is late know I was thinking of you. I wish you would write more often, but I understand you are very busy at school. We do not talk enough when you are home and it is only while you are away I realize just how much I have to say.

I am proud of you. I know you do not think I am. You always think I do not understand you and sometimes you are right. The medical books are beyond my abilities, but I do know what it feels like to want something more for your life than the role dictated by society.

I saw so much of myself in you while you were growing up and I have tried to protect you from the disappointments I suffered. I can see now it was a mistake for many reasons. Most of all it was wrong because you are not me, you are more. I shared your dreams as a girl, but I never had your passion or your perseverance. I did not believe you as you do and that was my flaw.

When I met your father, my dreams were dying and I made the choice to be with him and let them fade away forever. Only they never left, they haunt me as what ifs. Watching you fight for yourself despite every obstacle in your path has made my memories all the more painful. It is not your burden though, it is mine and I apologize for not explaining all of this a long time ago. You deserved to know.

With all the turmoil in the nation right now, I worry about your safety. It is unavoidable because I love you and I will not ask you to surrender your dreams so that I might sleep knowing you are safe. You are a grown woman and you know full well the risks you take. This is your life to live and it should not be stolen from you for the fears of others. I think you know to what whom and what I refer.

In this spirit I want assure you if you choose not to marry at this time your father and I would understand. Edgar is a good enough man, his family is well connected and his future is undoubtedly bright, but none of that means he is the best choice for you. You have chosen a unique path for your life and only you can know if Edgar will be an asset or hindrance to it. The choice is always yours, but then I believe you know that all ready.

Warmest Wishes,
Mother

Meddlers

2008-11-28T06:00:00.002-05:00

November 28, 1896
Sarah Waters

“Edith wants to see you.” Emma said.

I had only just walked into our room with the thoughts on nothing more than curling up beneath my warm covers and falling asleep at the end of a long day. Emma’s tone was just smug enough in what she thought she knew to make me want to slap her. I did not give into the temptation although a wicked voice whispered in the back of my thoughts about how much better I would feel if I did.

Instead, I turned around and left as quickly as I had entered. I knocked softly on Edith’s door so as not to attract attention. The door flew open and I could see she had been impatiently waiting for me. I stepped inside and she closed the door behind me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She looked nervous. She did not look me in the eye but instead looked down at the floor. She shifter her wait from foot to foot like a naughty child waiting for parents to pass judgment. When my patience was reaching its limits, she finally spoke.

“I’ve done something and you are most likely going to be mad.” She said.

“What?” I asked.

“Just promise me you will listen to everything before you say anything.”

I regarded her carefully. My mind spun circles wondering what she could be talking about and how it would effect me and why it would anger me. Her eyes gave no clue except she was truly afraid I would not understand. I wanted to reassure her but I realized it could leave me in an awkward position if she was indeed correct.

“I will listen.” I said.

She nodded and gave me a brief smile.

“It started before I knew you well. There were the letters you received and I watched you tear them and discard them without ever reading them. You seemed so unhappy when you arrived and I tried to talk to you but you were always so defensive. I felt I had no choice.” She began.

I could have said many things as I began to understand just where the conversation was headed but I chose to bite my tongue and honor my promise to hear her out. She licked her lips and swallowed before continuing.

“I thought reading by reading the letters I would come to understand you better and maybe I would be able to help. Of course as you know, nothing ever goes according to plan.” She said.

She bit her lip as she paused and looked at me, perhaps searching for some sense that I understood.

“What have you done?” I asked.

“Nothing. Everything. They are only words on a page, but they come every week. That says something even if you don’t want to hear it or aren’t ready to hear it. I know it is none of my business and I had no right to invade your privacy like this, but you should really read this letter.”

She handed me the page, unfolded. There was no attempt to disguise she had read it. I took the page from her and held it in my hand. My hand shook with anger or fear or maybe both. I wanted to read the words and at the same time I wanted to throw it into the fire and forget I had ever known of it. In the end, it was the look in Edith’s eyes that made me read it.

November 18, 1896

Dearest Sarah,

I miss you more with each passing week and I do not know what more I can say to win back your affection. I am sorry for how I behaved after father’s death and for how I shunned you when you needed me the most. You were right about everything, but I was too stubborn to acknowledge it. If you could see your way to forgiveness and offer me another chance to be the brother you deserve, I will not fail you again.

I have given up hoping you will one day send me a letter. I wonder if you even read the pages I send, but I will never stop trying to make things right between us. Like it or not you are my little sister and I will always love you no matter where you are or what you have done. I was as broken as you at father’s passing, but unlike you I did not manage my grief. I made mistakes I would do anything to correct if only you will give me the chance.

Enclosed, I had sent you a ticket home for your Christmas break. I do not know if you are willing to come home, but I will wait at the station for you and pray you find your way. If you do not come I will understand how you feel. I know not all wrongs can be righted and not all sins can be forgiven and if I have crossed that line with you, it will forever be my shame.

As always, I hope this letter finds you well and that you are happy in all things. Mother and Deborah send their love and I send mine as well. I know you are more than capable of taking care of yourself, but I still worry about you everyday.

All my love,
Sam

I finished reading the letter and Edith shoved the train ticket into my hand. I was torn between anger and sadness. A tear dripped from my eye as I remember my brother from long ago, not the man who had shouted at me in anger in his attic, but the boy who had always stood by me.

“Go home for Christmas.” Edith said.

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I do understand. I can’t ever go home again because my family is gone forever. Yours is waiting for you and because of a tiff you are casting them off as though they are dead. Don’t wait until they really are gone before giving them another chance.” Edith said.

“It’s not that simple.” I said.

“Yes, it is. He’s apologized for what happened between you in every letter he has sent. The man knows he made a mistake now it’s up to you to forgive.”

“Some things can’t be forgiven.”

“Most things can be. Go home and give your brother a chance.”

“It’s not your business. You’ve had no right to interfere.”

“You’re right, but you are my friend and I’m only trying to help you. The longer you wait to go home the more likely you never will. Take a chance and give them one more.”

She was adamant about it. There was no swaying her opinion. She knew the facts well enough, the letters undoubtedly made it all clear. I wanted to be angry at her, but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew she was right and that made it impossible to be angry.

“All right. I’ll go.” I said.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2008-11-27T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 27, 1896
Edith Bowen

It snowed overnight. I looked out my window and it was as if the world beyond was a perfect portrait of a winter holiday. The ground was covered with a thick blanket of powdery white snow. It glistened in the morning sunlight without even a single set of footprints to mar the vision.

Every year since my parents death, I have dreaded the holiday season. While everyone else gathers with family I sit by a fire in solitude. Smiles, hugs and kisses are passed around and I have only myself to wrap my arms around. The tears cried are of joy and happiness, but not mine. Mine are sad and lonely tears longing for the days long past when I too had a family to love.

This year is different. I still miss my family but for the first time I am understanding family is more than blood. My friends are my family now, and for a change I have some. Sarah and Anna met me in the hall just outside my room. They were both smiling and so was I.

“Have you looked outside?” Anna asked.

“Yes, it’s beautiful.” I said.

“It’s almost like being home.” Sarah said.

“Does it snow often in Colorado?” I asked.

“Only half the year.” She replied.

We started down the stairs together.

“Where are you from, Edith?” Sarah asked.

It has been a long time since anyone asked me that question and an even longer time since I had thought about home. I was in too good a mood to allow bad memories to ruin it.

“I don’t remember.” I lied.

“That’s so sad.” Anna said.

I smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

“All of that was a long time ago, this is my home now.” I said.

“You’re right. Home is where the heart is.” Sarah said.

“I like that.” Anna replied.

“My mother used to say that when I was small.” Sarah said.

“I wonder why.” I said.

“She was far from any home she had ever known.” Sarah replied.

I nodded thinking of the simple truth in the words. We take with us all that we are in every step. Home is not a place but a feeling and the feeling comes from within us, from our strengths and weaknesses, and our hopes and dreams. If we cannot find peace and comfort in our own skin then we never shall.

I joined the kitchen staff for the day. It was Mr. Rollings suggestion I continue to practice what I had learned about measurements by helping with the large meal for Thanksgiving. I had no objection, surprising, I enjoyed the experience of baking. Not only did I learn, but I had fun doing it. Perhaps someday I will have a kitchen of my own.

The kitchen was busy all day long. Our girls rotated in and out helping in bits and pieces until at last the grand meal was prepared. Potatoes were mashed, gravy was boiled, turkeys were roasted, corn was shucked, pies were baked and rolls were buttered. It smelled like heaven. Of course no such day can go without incident and there were several to be sure, but I think one in particular will always belong to this Thanksgiving.

Victoria arrived late for her turn in the kitchen. No one wanted to make an issue of it so her tardiness was ignored although far from unnoticed. Timing being an issue, it should have been no surprise she burned her apple pie. It would have been ignored as well had she not thrown it across the room hitting Belinda square in the chest.

Belinda screamed as the hot fruit and juices soaked through her dress and burned her skin. I would have sent Victoria to her room and had Margaret tend to Belinda were it left up to me, but unfortunately for Victoria, Mr. Carrington was standing in the doorway at the exact moment she threw.

“Edith tend to Belinda. I will deal with Miss Mathewson.” He ordered.

I had not the courage to argue although I firmly believe holidays should be free of punishments. Deep down I knew Mr. Carrington was correct not to overlook such ridiculous behavior but would it really matter to wait until tomorrow? I think not but it is his kitchen.

I enlisted Margaret to assist Belinda and the two of the disappeared into the wash room. Meanwhile Victoria shrank back against the wall as if it could protect her from Mr. Carrington’s wrath. If anything it merely ensured she had no place left to go. Mr. Carrington grabbed a large wooden spoon off the counter as he closed in on the frightened Victoria.

“Turn around.” He commanded.

“Please, I’m sorry sir.” She pleaded.

“Turn around.”

She turned to face the wall. Mr. Carrington reached down and grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it up in the air. He then raised the spoon high in the air and swung it down to connect with a loud clap underneath her skirts. She jumped in response.

Mr. Carrington repeated the effort a dozen times leaving Victoria in tears and massaging her buttocks while jumping up and down like a little girl. Mr. Carrington stood there in front of her with the spoon still in his hand, lecturing her about safety in the kitchen, when Mrs. Carrington walked in.

“Mm… It smells good in here ladies. What’s cooking now?” She asked.

She was clearly oblivious to Mr. Carrington and Victoria by the wall. Without thinking I replied.
“Victoria.”

Mrs. Carrington looked confused until her eyes found Mr. Carrington holding the spoon menacingly at Victoria. Mr. Carrington turned around to look at me, shocked by what I said I think and when his eyes met with Mrs. Carrington’s they both smirked. The other girls began laughing and even Victoria had a rueful smile on her face. I blushed, embarrassed by my thoughtless remark.

A short while later, with the tables sat and everyone gathered, the meal was served. Mr. Carrington appeared happy and Mrs. Carrington was too. I looked around the room feeling content myself and I noticed not all the girls were smiling. Several of the freshman girls were not only sad but crying quietly in their seats.

I should have realized before, but I had not. Many of these girls were experiencing their first holiday away from home and family. I felt their tears as if they were my own because in a way they were. I glanced at Mrs. Carrington and her eyes shared my concern. In past years there had never been so many girls and as a result these days had been better managed. I pushed my chair back and stood up to the room.

“On the first Thanksgiving, the Pilgrims were far from home. They huddled in a dining room with friends and strangers, taking refuge from the cold winter outside, much as we are doing today. While there are no native Indians offering us food, there is a native family from these parts who offers us this shelter and the food on our table. The customs here may be different from those you are used to, and the scents and sounds may not be those which are familiar, but that is no different than those early Pilgrims either. They learned today was a day to be thankful not mournful.

And so, we should all remember no matter who or what we are missing today we have much to be thankful for as well. Be thankful, those you love are warm and safe. Be thankful, you are with friends. Be thankful for the warmth and food provided here for us all. Be thankful, for all that you have, not just today, but everyday.” I said.

Glasses were raised and clinked and while the sad looks did not disappear, there were less teardrops falling. Dinner was served and all was well. We laughed and we cried and we smiled and we frowned, but most of all we were thankful for each other.

After dinner I gathered with my new friends, Sarah and Anna, Elizabeth and Penelope, and Margaret. We talked about school and teachers and the futures we hope for. I listened with warmth in my heart and for the first time in a very long time, I felt at ease. All these years alone and finally I have a new family to call my own. Our sisterhood shall last long after we leave the halls of Carrington Manor and no matter the miles that come between us or the choices we make in the years to come, we will always have each other, sisters by choice, Primrose Girls forever.

Turkey Tears

2008-11-26T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 26, 1896
Charles Birchwood

Josephine cried and Phillip smiled. The difference between boys and girls is as simple as that. Whatever makes a boy happy will inevitably make a girl sad and the reverse is almost certainly true as well. Boys however are not permitted tears in their sadness so in manhood we, some men more than others, learn to brood, but more on that later.

The event of duality for the day was our annual selection of the Thanksgiving Turkey. I promise myself every year I will leave Josephine home the next year and yet she always manages to convince me to take her when the time comes again. Were she not a mere child I might consider her willingness to go each and every year some sign of a masochistic need, but I suspect it is a different, more elemental need the act expresses; the love of her father. She need not worry, I could not love her more if she were a neighbor’s daughter.

This year was no different, Phillip and I were on the doorstep to leave and Josephine came bouncing down the stairs. She held Rosie, her favored doll, in her left arm and gazed up at me with the saddest of eyes. They were big and brown and beautiful and wet with unwept tears. Her lower lip quivered and while her head was tilted down, her eyes were looking up. She inhaled a deep sniffling breath and held it for a moment before exhaling it in a wordless pout. Then she blinked and a single tear rolled down her soft cheek.

What was I to do? I am supposed to be indifferent to these feminine wiles and in most circumstances I am, but Josephine is not just any girl. She is my daughter and I her father. I shook my head and knelt down to her so I could look her in the eyes. I lifted a single finger and wiped the tear from her cheek and placed the finger in mouth for a moment as though tasting soup.

“Still the sweetest tears I ever tasted.” I said.

She tried not to smile but it was no use.

“They’re salty!” She exclaimed.

I crossed my arms in front of me and donned a firm expression.

“Sweet.” I said.

She pushed her lower lip up over the upper one and stared at me.

“Oh all right, they’re salty sweet.” I said.

She broke out into a smile and threw her arms around me. I nearly fell backward from her enthusiasm, but I returned the hug and kissed her ear. She giggled happy at last.

“Can I come daddy?” She asked.

“If you really want to.” I replied.

She bounced out the door to join Phillip on the doorstep. He rolled his eyes to the sky and Caroline laughed at me from the kitchen. I shook my head with a smile and left for the market, a child’s hand in each of mine. It was pure happiness until the moment of selection came.

On the way home, I carried a crying Josephine in my arms, much like the doll she carried in her own. I patted her back gently and kissed her wet cheeks with fatherly love. I swore to myself never again, but I know even now if it were tomorrow I would still take her with me because being right here with my little girl is better than being any place without her.

Joy In A Letter

2008-11-25T06:00:00.002-05:00

November 25, 1896
Elizabeth Bassett

November 17, 1896

Dearest Lizzie,

I am still shaking my head in amazement over how you and your friends handled that riot. A fire cart? Truly? I always knew they had to be good for something since they never seem to work on the fires. It speaks volumes to think three women and one hose could put down a massive riot like that. Of course the newspapers have a different version of events, but I suppose it is to be expected.

I am completely jealous to hear you voted. David would not let me try because he was too afraid if I was caught, there would be no one to take care of Thomas. It makes sense but it still felt completely unfair. It is too bad your votes were not enough to sway the election but I often wonder if these elections are not smoke and mirrors in any regard. You must admit it would be a clever ploy to let the common man think his voice was being heard when in reality the decision was made without his input at all.

David has been working long hours lately. He sends his love to you and I am almost jealous because he often forgets to send me any. Some nights he does not even come home anymore, but I understand because I have been there with him before. Once an idea starts coming together it can be impossible to put it down or let it go. You get to the point you feel if you stop working you will lose the flicker of brilliance at the edge of your vision. He promises to come home while you and your parents are visiting for Christmas, but we shall see if he remembers.

Thomas has been growing so quickly you will not believe it when you see him. He has David’s eyes and your father’s nose, but I think he has my smarts. Nothing is safe from his curiosity and my mother tells me I was the same when I was a baby. He has all ready figured out how to work latches, no place is safe.

David was going to send you a ticket, but your father insisted he would arrange your travels to us. We worry about your parents though, it seems times have only become worse for them and the business is teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Your father is a proud man and simply refuses to accept any assistance from us. Please wire us if you do not receive a ticket from your father soon. David and I will arrange your travels discreetly if necessary because we really want you to be here.

I would sit and write pages but I would rather talk in person when you arrive. Instead, I will come to an end here and wish you luck on your exams.

Love,
Sylivia Bassett

A Little Bit Of Home In A Letter

2008-11-24T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 24, 1896
Anna Cushing

November 18, 1896

Dearest Anna,

Warmest greetings from your father and I. We received your letter yesterday and took turns reading it last night by the fire. Your father smiled for the first time in weeks reading your passages and hearing of your adventures at school. The house is so empty without you. We miss you terribly, although your father will likely never admit it is so.

On Sunday, I had tea with Mrs. Kellogg. She was boasting, as usual, about her daughter Barbara having the attentions of three suitors. As you surely recall, Barbara seems to be constantly surrounded by suitors for years now, but she has yet to fetch a single proposal of marriage. I mentioned you were off to college and how proud your father and I are of your accomplishment in gaining acceptance to such a prestigious institution and she merely sighed. Clearly she knows nothing of education nor what achievements merit pride in a daughter.

I am pleased to hear you have made friends. I know it can be dreadfully lonely so far from home and good friends can help you forget, if only for a moment, you are alone. I worry about you constantly, you will understand when you have children of your own, and this Sarah Waters you mention sounds to be of questionable heritage. I know I do not need to say it, but be careful in your associations. They can come to haunt you when you least expect it.

I am relieved the riots we heard about were of little consequence to you. The newspapers had your father ready to board a train and bring you home. We are confounded your friends could have had anything to do with quelling the violence. No doubt it is your active imagination at work again. When you come home for Christmas your father intends to have a word with you on truthfulness.

With this letter your father has enclosed your ticket for traveling home. The attendant told him the first class cars could be overbooked. You should be sure to arrive at the station early and be clear with the attendants your father will not tolerate your travels being any different than your ticket. We are as eagerly anticipating your return home as I am certain you are eager to come. Have patience and the day will be upon us sooner than expected.

I hope you continue to be well and your Thanksgiving Day is a joyful one. We have much to remain thankful for even though there are far too many miles between us. As you spend this day far from home, know that we love you, are proud of you, and missing you.

All our love,
Peter & Georgina

Lecture By Post

2008-11-23T06:00:00.002-05:00

November 23, 1896
Penelope Sumter

November 17, 1896

Dear Miss Penelope Sumter,

I would have written sooner were it not for pressing matters of greater importance. Your mother and James miss you and wish for me to send their greetings to you. I would extend the same from myself, but I do not condone deceptions and I think you well know I am not happy with you, unless you believe me ignorant of your recent activities.

The fact I am disappointed in you yet again, should be of know surprise to you. For years I have endeavored to impart on you good manners, common sense and some shred of decency. At last I must accept my utter failure in these regards and indeed as your father.

Your actions during the riots in Providence are beyond reason. To believe you have any responsibility or right to intercede in the political and social methods of men defies all sense of rational thought. Not only did you put yourself and your friends at risk, but you did so without the slightest knowledge of what you were involving yourself.

The blame does not lie solely with you though as I understand Wilbur was at your side during this debacle. Were you not my own flesh and blood I would believe you both out to ruin me. I am sickened to know the two you are not only free of shame, but prideful of your actions.

I have for the last time interceded to protect you from the consequences of your careless actions. I cannot guarantee your friends will be so fortunate and I can only hope you will learn from their suffering as if it were your own.

Were it not for your mother’s pleadings I would not welcome you home at all this Christmas. Fortunately for you, I consider the well being of my family before the well being of myself. Although you may find it difficult, I would ask you leave your wild tendencies and radical politics at school. You are well aware of my thoughts on these matters and there is no purpose to their further discussion.

Wilbur will bring you home. I suggest on the way the two of you decide if you wish to continue calling this place home or want to leave it for good. I realize I cannot control you nor can I force you to believe in things which you do not. You are young and naïve, but that remains a mere excuse for the inexcusable betrayals. Ultimately your path and your life is your own. I have done what I can for you to choose right over wrong, good over evil, but I cannot make the choices for you. It remains for you to decide.

Your Loving Father,
Radcliffe Sumter

PS. I am aware you and your friends voted in the Presidential election with Wilbur’s help.

The Right Priorities

2008-11-22T06:00:00.000-05:00

November 22, 1896
Elizabeth Bassett

“The sheriff says it was an accident.” Penelope said.

We were walking past the still smoldering remains of what had one been Union Station of Providence, Rhode Island. The air remained hazy and smelled of wood and oil. I could not take my eyes from the charred ashes and images of Sarah surrounded by flames invaded my thoughts for what must have been the tenth time since I had heard the news.

“I believe Sarah.” I said.

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. I am wondering why the sheriff would lie.” Penelope replied.

The question was a good one indeed. Edith had told me he was a man to be trusted, but the evidence at hand suggested he was either inept at his job or lying. Neither possibility is flattering for the sheriff nor do they inspire confidence in him.

“There are only two reasons men lie; to benefit themselves or to benefit someone they care about.” I said.

“Unless he started the fire himself I don’t see what benefit befalls him for lying.”

“Unfortunately, men like that Mr. Parker make finding the benefits harder because they introduce greed and coercion into the equation.”

“I think we should try to find out the truth.” Penelope said.

“To what end?” I asked.

“For the same reason we attend Primrose.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Knowledge is power, Lizzie. The more we know about the sheriff and his weaknesses the better off we’ll be.”

“You almost sound as ruthless as Rockefeller.” I said.

Penelope giggled.

“How would you know?” She asked with a smile.

Before I could answer we were interrupted by the obnoxious honking of Mr. Sumter’s horn. We spun around to the street to find him sitting in his automobile waving at us. I smiled and waved back.

“Miss Bassett, Penelope, I’ve been looking for you.” He said.

We stepped to the side of the auto.

“Unless I’m mistaken you seem to have found us.” I said.

Wilbur donned a lopsided grin and beckoned us to get in.

“That I have. Come on, I want to talk to you both.” He said.

We climbed aboard and he sped off toward his apartment. Twenty minutes later we were sitting in his living room sipping hot tea. Mr. Sumter alternated between sitting down and pacing the floor while scratching his chin.

“You’re nervous about something.” Penelope said.

“No.” He replied.

“Then sit down and tell us why we are here.” Penelope said.

He looked at her for a moment and then decided to stand still rather than sit.

“Have you come to Primrose College to be educated or to become social activists?” He asked.
Penelope and I shared a confused look.

“I think perhaps this is a conversation you should be having alone with your sister.” I said.

“No, I’ve come to realize you and my sister are intertwined in matters.”

“I am my own person, Wilbur.” Penelope stated.

“I am not going to argue the point. There is an obvious connection between the two of you and it is straying toward the dangerous.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked.

“Because this town and your college are a powder keg and you are playing with matches.” He said.

“I can’t speak for Lizzie, but I’m here to learn.” Penelope said.

“The problem is once you learn the difference between right and wrong, you can’t pretend you don’t notice the difference.” I said.

“Did you ever consider the problem might be that you have learned just enough to be dangerous and not enough to be wise?” Mr. Sumter asked.

“What are you saying?” Penelope asked.

“Only that you have a very narrow view of right and wrong. Before you go judging how things should be maybe you should learn more about why things are the way they are.” He said.

“So you want us to focus on our studies?” I said.

“Yes.” He replied.

“I realize it might have escaped you, but I don’t answer to you, Mr. Sumter.” I said.

“True enough, but Penelope does.”

“What does that mean?” Penelope said.

“It means that one way or another the two of you are going stop messing around with those feminists and start focusing on your studies.” He said.

“You can’t make me do anything Mr. Sumter.” I said.

“I can punish Penelope for your indiscretions as well as her own.” He said.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Penelope shouted.

“I would and will.” He replied.

“Not only is that cruel, it is unfair.” I said.

“You could always agree to cooperate and accept punishment for your own indiscretions.” He said.

“What makes you think I care?” I asked.

“You’re still here.” He replied.

Kindle In My Pocket

2008-11-21T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 21, 1896
Sarah Waters

URGENT: Meet me on the platform at Union Station. 10PM Tonight. J. Goulding

The cryptic note had mysteriously appeared folded into my pocket. My first instinct was to discard it as trash and I nearly did so. What stopped me can only be described as an intuition because there was no other reason to keep it, let alone make the rendezvous it suggested. I think someone was watching me though and it was that feeling which piqued my curiosity to the point of caring.

In the past I would have gone out alone without a second thought to my safety or return, but that was before I learned there were others who could be trusted. Just prior to dinner I knocked on Edith’s door.

“Come in.” She called from inside.

I slipped into her room and closed the door behind me.

“Sarah,” She said, “what brings you here?”

“I am going out after dinner.” I said.

Edith raised a questioning eyebrow in my direction.

“My presence has been requested at the train station and I think it is important I go.” I explained.

“Who asked for you?”

“Mr. Goulding.”

Edith’s eyes narrowed.

“You should not trust him.” She said.

“I don’t trust him. That is why I’m here, but tell me why do you distrust him?”

“I barely know him, but Elizabeth and I dealt with him last year and I am still uncertain as to whether he was helping us or using us.”

“I would hear the entire story if you would share it.” I said.

“Perhaps another time.”

I nodded my understanding.

“How will you get out?” Edith asked.

“It is my night to assist with after dinner cleanup. I will slip out the side door when it is finished.” I said.

“And getting back?”

“If you could arrange to leave a window open in the study, I should be back by eleven.” I said.

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

“Stop in here when you get back. If I haven’t seen you by midnight, I will alert the Carrington’s you are missing.” Edith said.

“Fair enough.”

I turned to leave.

“Sarah.” She said.

I paused with my hand on the doorknob.

“Be careful.”

I turned my head back to her.

“Always.” I said and slipped back out into the hall.

It was hard to see by the moonlight as I approached Union Station, but a lantern would have left me vulnerable and easily seen from every dark corner. I crept up the steps and by the closed ticket window. There did not appear to be anyone around and even the mice were being unusually quiet.

I found a spot in the shadows from which I could peer out onto the platform without being seen and waited. The clock on the platform ticked to 10PM and still there was no one to be seen. I waited until five past and then decided it was possible Mr. Goulding was hiding himself and waiting for me to show. It is typical of men to assume a woman would not be cautious.

I walked out so that I stood illuminated by a dim circle of lantern light. I was hesitant to move further and give up any hope of escaping should the meeting be nothing more than a trap. Another minute ticked by and it occurred to me that the note might have been from another day meaning the tonight referred to had already come and gone.

Then I heard the voices.

They were barely more than whispers. In the quiet I was able to understand them although not well enough to identify to whom the whispers belonged. I stepped out of the light and back into the shadows, hoping I had not yet been seen.

“Your late.” A man said.

“The station isn’t going nowhere.” Another said.

“Did you bring it?”

“Here.”

“Are you sure this a good idea?”

“You getting cold feet?”

“No.”

“Then just get to work.”

“Shut up! Both of you. Now make sure it looks like an accident.”

I am not certain whether I saw the flames or heard the breaking glass first. Either way, before I could react I was surrounded by fire and the flames were growing taller by the second. The fire eradicated the shadows in which I had been hiding. Through the flames I saw one of the men and he saw me.

He was short for a man and young too. No more than a boy really, fourteen or fifteen years old. His sloppy hair was plastered to his head with sweat and the orange glow of the fire glistened like fear in his eyes. He froze for a moment staring at me, mouth agape.

“There’s a girl in here!” he shouted.

“What the hell?” Someone responded.

“There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here.” The boy said.

“It’s too late now, come on!”

The boy turned to look at someone else and then turned back to look at me. He closed his eyes and turned and ran. I was left alone with the raging fire. The smoke was causing me to cough and where I would have shouted for help, it sucked away all my air. I fell to my knees and raised up my skirt to cover my mouth and nose.

I looked around trying to find my best chance for survival. With the smoke and flames all I could see was the platform and it was ablaze itself. If I could make it to the tracks though I thought I would be safe. The only problem was the wall of fire guarding the path.

I sucked a last breath through the fabric of my skirt and then gathered it in my hand and ran. The heat blasted my face, but I kept running and just as I reached the wall I jumped hoping there was something beside flames beyond.

I landed on the wood of the platform with a thud and a creak. There was still fire all around me and my skirt was alight. I tried to yank the flaming material away from myself and ended up throwing myself to the floor. The wood of the platform creaked again and then gave way. I fell through to the dirt nearly four feet below. I grabbed the waist of my skirt and ripped it free, throwing the flaming garment back at the platform above.

On hands and knees I crawled in the dirt below the fire until I reached the edge of the platform. I kicked the wood blocking me in several times before the wood finally splintered and allowed me to rip a hole large enough to squeeze through. I ran from the station up the tracks until I was far enough away the heat no longer scorched my skin and eyes.

Looking back at the station it began to crumble in on itself collapsing as the fire destroyed each and every support from the inside. It looked like a camp fire for the gods, flames sparking to a point high above the station and the low crackles of fire all round. It was too late to save the station but the fire brigade arrived anyway.

I looked around to see where the men who had started it had gone and I nearly missed them. On a hill to the west a half dozen horse paused on the top of a hill. They were illuminated only by the dim glow of moonlight, making them more shadows than real. A thunderous boom from the final collapse of Union Station turned my head for a moment and when I looked back at the hilltop, it was empty.

A short while later, Edith opened her door to my quiet knock from the hallway. She was stunned by my appearance but quickly pulled me inside and closed the door.

“What happened?” She asked.

“He tried to kill me.” I replied.

“These look like burns.” She said.

He fingers lightly touched the skin my forehead. I shrank back from her touch.

“They are. They burned the station down.” I said.

“He tried to burn you alive?” She asked in horror.

Up until that very moment I had not made the connection with the Paper we had received. The article had suggest we be burned at the stake like witches and so now it seemed someone had tried. We did not need to speak a word. We both understood the significance and the threat.

“I’ll get Margaret. She can better tend to these burns than I.” Edith said.

“Better get the rest, we have matters to discuss.” I said.

Edith nodded and left. I sat on the edge of her bed and looked at her window. The reflection staring back at me made me shiver as if I had seen a ghost. I looked away again, afraid I could lose myself in the darkness.

Making Spirits Bright

2008-11-20T06:00:00.003-05:00

November 20, 1896
Anna Cushing

“Ladies, the next carol is something a little more modern written by James Lord Pierpont in 1857. You will note the influence of Mozart during the chorus. The carol is entitled, 'One Horse Open Sleigh'. Let us begin by learning the music.” Mr. Birchwood said.

On a normal day I dread music class. I do not dislike music, but my heart is not in creating it. Someone, somewhere once made the mistake of suggesting all ladies must be talented in the art of music. God only has female angels playing harps, therefore it follows that all women must be educated so that they may one day take their place in His orchestra. If I have to play the violin in Heaven, then I think I would rather spend eternity in Hell or rather Heaven would be Hell.

However, Christmas carols are a true source of joy. What child does not frolic whilst singing the songs of Christmas? The warm thoughts of a crackling fire, the fresh scent of pine wafting through the air and the glimmer of ribbons on neatly wrapped packages beneath the tree; it is all Christmas and yet it is empty without the gleeful singing of carols.

I was therefore quite happy to be selected to sing rather than insult the song with my meager skills as a violinist. Mr. Birchwood surprised me with the introduction of a carol of such recent origin, but it is a pleasant surprise and one I hope to share with my family around the Christmas tree when the time comes next month.

It took only a few minutes of practice for Mr. Birchwood’s selected orchestra to master the notes and nuances of the melody. It is pleasant and joyful and wonderful. The tune captures the wonder and excitement of children on Christmas morning. It was not just me either, I could see it in the smiles around the room and feel it in the air around me.

Then it was time to sing,

Dashing through the snow
In a one horse open sleigh
O'er the fields we go
Laughing all the way
Hear our voices ring
Making spirits bright
What fun it is to ride and sing
A sleighing song tonight

Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Jingle all the way;
Oh! what joy it is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh

A day or two ago
I thought I'd take a ride
And soon Miss Fanny Bright
Was seated by my side,
The horse was lean and lank
Misfortune seemed his lot
He got into a drifted bank
And then we—we got upsot

Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Jingle all the way;
Oh! what joy it is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh

A day or two ago,
The story I must tell
I went out on the snow,
And on my back I fell;
A gent was riding by
In a one-horse open sleigh,
He laughed as there I sprawling lie,
But quickly drove away

Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Jingle all the way;
Oh! what joy it is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh

Now the ground is white
Go it while you're young,
Take the girls tonight
and sing this sleighing song;
Just get a bob tailed bay
Two forty for his speed
And hitch him to an open sleigh
And crack! you'll take the lead

Jingle bells, jingle bells,
Jingle all the way;
Oh! what joy it is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh

Mr. Birchwood applauded as we finished. He was beaming like a new father and we all felt it. I think I began the laughing but there is no proof. Once it started though, it was contagious, even Mr. Birchwood enjoyed a chuckle. Then in the far off distance the tower bell began to ring, reminding us it was not Christmas Day but a school day.

Caroling Lessons

2008-11-19T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 19, 1896
Charles Birchwood

“Good morning, ladies.”

They all beamed smiles at me as I entered the classroom nearly five minutes tardy. I am not accustomed to being so, but I awoke with a fervent idea for the day’s lesson and could not leave until I found the appropriate sheets which Caroline must have tucked away in the wrong book at the end of last year.

“Good morning Mr. Birchwood.” The ladies replied.

I quickly removed my outer jacket and hung it on the rack behind my desk and then opened my satchel to remove the sheets I had brought with. Tossing the satchel beneath my desk I moved with a light gate to my podium. I do so enjoy this time of year.

“I have made a last minute lesson plan change for today and I trust no one shall mind. When I was creating the fall schedule this summer, I neglected to insert time for indulging in seasonal music.” I announced.

The ladies murmured amongst themselves no doubt confused and excited by the last minute change. Miss Mathewson raised her arm to gain my attention.

“Yes?” I responded.

“Are you referring to Christmas Carols?” She asked.

I could not help the wide smile on my face as I replied, “Precisely.”

From there, the classroom erupted into a gay discussion of everyone’s favorite carols. It took me several moments to quiet them down but being in a good mood for the day I did not resort to any chastisement for their sudden lack of propriety. They did settle down when I cleared my throat a couple of times.

“Before we begin I think it is appropriate we learn about the origins of our modern carols. Caroling is not as new as many of you might think. The earliest carols were first sung around the year 1150 in France. The first carols were related to festivals and not religious in nature. The original purpose was celebration and carols were sung in circles accompanied by dancing. Then when the Protestant Reformation began in 1517 carols nearly became extinct. Then as a result of our Revolution from Britain in 1776 a revival of carols began as an accompaniment to the religious freedoms insured by our Bill of Rights.” I lectured.

The ladies were surprisingly attentive despite the monotone of my voice. I give them credit for their interest in the history of such trivial pursuits as Christmas carols. Some of the ladies even seemed to leaning forward and eager to hear more. I was happy to oblige.

“Most of today’s carols are remnants of rural carols which had little or no religious significance. In the early years of this century many of our churches adapted new lyrics to the music to give them their current form as Christmas carols. Are there any questions?” I said.

The ladies sat still and quiet.

“Excellent. Let us move on then to the first carol I wish to teach you. Miss Mathewson if would please step up to the piano.”

Miss Mathewson nearly skipped from her seat to the piano bench. For the first time since I began teaching at Primrose I felt I was connecting with all my students. Pride does not adequately describe the feeling of satisfaction and happiness buoying my own spirit. I handed the appropriate music sheet to Miss Mathewson and she began to play.

“Does anyone recognize the song?” I asked.

An army of hands shot up in the air.

“Miss Waters, please sing for us.” I requested.

Miss Waters stood and straightened her back. She seemed suddenly taller than I ever thought she was and then I noticed she was smiling. Not just upturned lips but a real and beautiful smile of happiness and with it I realized I had never before seen the young woman to be happy.

She began to sing.

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree!
How are thy leaves so vibrant!
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
How are thy leaves so vibrant!
Not only in the summertime,
But even winter is thy prime.
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
How are thy leaves so vibrant!

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
Much pleasure does thou bring me!
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
Much pleasure does thou bring me!
For every year the Christmas tree,
Brings to us all both joy and glee.
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
Much pleasure does thou bring me!

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
Thy candles shine out brightly!
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
Thy candles shine out brightly!
Each bough doth hold its tiny light,
That makes each toy to sparkle bright.
O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree,
Thy candles shine out brightly!

As Miss Waters concluded, Miss Cushing’s hand was waving through the air.

“Yes, Miss Cushing?” I said.

“Those aren’t the lyrics.” She stated.

I chuckled.

“Aren’t they?” I said.

“No!” She said.

“Then perhaps you could sing the correct lyrics for us?”

Miss Cushing stood and began to sing her version.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
Your branches green delight us.
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
Your branches green delight us.
They're green when summer days are bright;
They're green when winter snow is white.
O, Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
Your branches green delight us!

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
You give us so much pleasure!
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
You give us so much pleasure!
How oft at Christmas tide the sight,
O green fir tree, gives us delight!
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
You give us so much pleasure!

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
Your branches green delight us.
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
Your branches green delight us.
They're green when summer days are bright;
They're green when winter snow is white.
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
Your branches green delight us!

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
Forever true your color
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
Forever true your color
Your boughs so green in summertime
Stay bravely green in wintertime
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
Forever true your color

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
You fill my heart with music
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
You fill my heart with music
Reminding me on Christmas day
To think of you and then be gay
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree
You fill my heart with music

Upon her conclusion I instructed Miss Mathewson to cease playing. The ladies began to argue amongst themselves as to which version of the lyrics was correct. I find it amusing how something so simple can create such conflict.

“Ladies, ladies, quiet please.” I said.

They ignored me. I slammed my fist down on the podium and half of them nearly jumped out of their seats. The room quieted instantly.

“Perhaps none of you were paying attention earlier when I explained the songs have been given new lyrics. Both Miss Waters and Miss Cushing were correct and there are nearly a dozen other variations. The verses learned are dependent upon where, geographically speaking, one learns the carol. The music is always the same, it is only the vocal accompaniment which changes. The lesson my dear ladies is simple, words come and go but music is forever.”

After Math

2008-11-18T06:00:00.000-05:00

November 18, 1896
Edith Bowen

If there is a subject I despise more than mathematics, I have yet to meet it. It is not the solving of sums, differences, quotients, or products which baffle me, those things make sense. No, the concept of measurements is the real problem. Only men could create a numerical system of divisional units of size which are based on randomly assigned functions of disconnected numbers.

An inch can be divided into 32 smaller pieces but 32 inches is 4 inches short of a yard which is equivalent to 3 feet where each foot is 12 inches or 384/32’s and that is just for length. Do not even get me started on tea spoons, table spoons, cups, quarts, pints and gallons! Suffice to say the confusion of these illogical systems defies the very definition of mathematics.

Mr. Rollings walked the front of the classroom slapping his yardstick against the side of his leg as he went. He was lecturing about the importance of understanding measurements in the kitchen, which I agree is an invaluable skill. I however cannot agree that the system is intuitive as he claims.

“A recipe requires 2 eggs, 4 cups of flour, 1 cup of sugar, ½ cup of milk, and 2 tablespoons of butter. The result is for a gathering of 4. Assuming you had a gathering of 32, convert the recipe as needed and adjust the units of measurements to best reflect the quantities needed.” Mr. Rollings said.

Inwardly, I groaned. I wrote the recipe down on my slate while I could still recall it and set to work doing the necessary math. As for converting units, that was a little more difficult. I have my notes for that but Mr. Rollings is insistent we learn the conversions without notes.

Mr. Rollings walked up and down the aisles of desks. He looked over all our shoulders one by one, gauging us and our command of the arithmetic and definitions required. Naturally, he paused when he came to my desk.

“Still having difficulty with units Miss Bowen?” He asked.

“Yes, sir.” I replied.

“I realize this material is difficult for you, but you must put forth the effort if you hope to teach others.”

“I am trying, sir.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Still, you are the only one in the class still struggling with this. Perhaps you should stay after class.” He said.

“Yes, sir.” I said resigned to my fate.

It seemed hardly a blink later and the tower bell was ringing. I gathered my things like the other girls but remained seated whilst they walked out the door. I expected a physical lesson soon, the kind most teachers call motivational. At least, he spared me the humiliation of suffering it in front of the others.

“Ah, Miss Bowen, alone at last.” Mr. Rollings said.

He sat on the desktop of the student desk directly in front of my and place his feet up on the chair. He folded his hands over his knees and looked at me through his wire spectacles. I twitched nervously with the feeling he was silently laughing at me.

“Now, how can I help you?” He asked.

I fluttered my eyelashes, shocked at the question.

“I-ah- I don’t know.” I said.

He nodded at me with a slight smile on his thin lips.

“You are not in trouble, Miss Bowen. I only wish to help you and barring a better suggestion from you, I do have a proposal.”

I had to swallow the lump in my throat before replying.

“Thank you. I welcome any help you can offer.” I said.

“I have found that some students learn best with practical experience. It is not always possible in the classroom to provide the real world examples necessary to make the connections between theory and practice. Therefore, I suggest we solicit Mrs. Carrington to allow us access to her kitchen.”

“The kitchen? I don’t understand.”

“Within the manor food is prepared for a great deal more people than most recipes are designed. By taking the mathematics lesson into the kitchen I can provide you a practical situation to connect with the lessons.”

“You’re going to teach me measuring unit conversions while cooking?” I asked.

I hope the incredulousness I was feeling stayed out of my tone.

“Yes, although I believe it is called baking.” Mr. Rollings replied.

“You know how?” I asked.

I know it was a rude question but it exited my lips before my brain could catch up.

“Shocking as it must seem, I do indeed Miss Bowen.”

I could not help but smile as the image of Mr. Rollings wearing an apron and covered in flour passed before my mental eyes.

“I will speak with Mrs. Carrington and make the arrangements.” I said.

He nodded and reached out to pat the top of my hand. I looked up at him still smiling and feeling relieved that my worst fears remained unrealized. Mr. Rollings winked at me.

“You see, I really don’t bite.” He said.

Isn't It Poetic?

2008-11-17T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 17, 1896
Penelope Sumter

Poets are poetic. The fact would seem obvious enough, but then obvious is only a perspective. Of more importance, and more interest, I am not a poet. The conclusion of which should reveal I am not poetic. This is of the obvious to those with perspective on such matters. Mr. Stark should have been among those aware, but as fate would have it, he was far from aware and the obvious was not.

There was a soft round of applause as Elizabeth finished her reading. The classroom was a solemn environment for the afternoon as each of us in turn would stand before our peers and reveal our deepest emotions in the form of moving text strung symbolically in rhyme. The page containing my attempt sat folded on my desk before me. Soon it would be my turn and it was apprehension alone sitting heavily in my chair, whilst my mind traveled the corridors to the outside where it rested peacefully underneath a willow tree.

“Miss Sumter.” Mr. Stark called.

My mind traveled back to the classroom and the task ahead. Nervously, I pushed myself upward on leaden legs and walked stiffly to the podium at the front. Upon arrival, I realized my first mistake, the folded page still sat waiting on the desktop I left behind. Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow as I turned around to retrieve it. The second journey forward was no easier than the first. The lead in my legs was joined by butterflies in my tummy.

I faced my peers with determination to survive the ordeal. Unfolding the page, I cleared my throat to clear the way. I looked downward at the page and for a moment I swear it was blank. The words came swimming back and I took a deep breath before I read aloud.

Gentle Breezes

Gentle breezes blowing through summer’s sweet grass
Pollen, cotton, wheezing, swinging, sitting on my ass
Bourbon in the study, tobacco smoke swirling thoughts best not ask
Behind closed doors, whooshing, thumping, swishing, being brought to task

Gentle breezes blowing through summer’s windows open
Pleading, crying, whining, stomping, writing with a pen
Flowers in the garden, water droplets falling, peace shall not last
Hot tea for two, sitting, sweating, sipping, remembering the past

Gentle breezes blowing through summer’s timely ending
Packing, cheering, waiting, singing, rejoicing with the sending
Smiles in the station, hugs and kisses coming, goodbyes are not forever
Step up, trembling, waving, jumping, needing the binding ties to sever

The End

I looked up from the podium wondering what the response would be. My peers were silent, not even a gentle applause for the effort. Mr. Stark stared speechless at me for a moment before suddenly slapping me across the face. I staggered back from the podium, stunned.

“That has to be the most disgusting and perverse attempt at poetry I have ever heard.” He said.
“I only did what you asked.” I replied.

He slapped me again. I cowered close to the floor.

“How dare you blame me for your vulgarity.” He said.

“I am sorry, sir.” I said.

It was instinct to plead forgiveness despite the certainty in my heart I had done nothing wrong. I wrote what came to me. I constructed the prose so as to rhyme. Is it my fault the result is less than spectacular? I think not, it is what it is. Poetry is not my choice for expressing myself and its rules made my attempt what it was not my heart or soul or mind.

Mr. Stark took the page from the podium where it lay and tore it to shreds before my eyes. He sprinkled the pieces on me like salt on an open wound. I would have cried but I knew the worst was yet to come.

“Forgiveness must be earned, Miss Sumter. Your disrespect for me, the assignment, and your classmates leaves me no choice but to discipline you and you should be thankful if I do not refer this matter to the Dean.” He said.

I stared at the ground, wrapped my arms around my knees. My chest felt like it would burst from the sadness.

“Prepare yourself.” He ordered.

I looked up at him questioning what it was he meant. His unblinking gaze revealed nothing, but made me look away.

“Sir?” I asked.

“Strip.” He said.

I flushed red in the face. There were boys in the class and they looked at me with greedy eyes.

“Please sir.” I begged.

“Strip.” He repeated.

And so I did.

I laid naked over Mr. Stark’s desk. My white buttocks plainly visible to my peers, one and all. I wanted to cry but there were no tears in my eyes. I pressed myself harder against the desk until its edges bit into my skin. The pain was only enough to dull my awareness of the scene I presented, not enough to hide within.

Mr. Stark swung a yardstick a dozen times. I kept my quiet and my tears. Unlike so many times, I felt no remorse, no sadness for my deeds. I felt only angry at the sting. The spanking was over soon enough but the humiliation is what never truly leaves.

When it was done I stood against the wall, my bare, red bottom on display. My hands quivered at my sides, struggling against the urge to provide comfort. Mr. Stark continued with the class as though I was not present at all. When at last the bell rang I had begun to imagine I was merely a part of the wall.

“Gather your things, Miss Sumter.” Mr. Stark ordered.

I turned around to find the room empty except for the two of us. I quickly knelt to the ground by his desk and retrieved my discarded clothes. Mr. Stark stepped to the side wall and opened a window to the outside. The cool air made me shiver.

“Throw them out here.” He ordered.

“Sir, no.” I said.

I backed away toward the door with my things held tightly to my chest.

“Throw them out the window, now.” He said.

I shook my head, no and continued toward the door. My fingers closed around the knob and turned it to open. I stepped out into the corridor and ran. I was almost at the stairs when I collided with Mr. Birchwood and we both tumbled to the floor.

“Miss Sumter?” Mr. Birchwood said.

I scrambled to collect my clothes afraid Mr. Stark would not be far behind. Mr. Birchwood grabbed my arm and helped me up.

“What has happened to you?” He asked.

It sounded like genuine concern in his voice. I shook my head too embarrassed to respond with the truth.

“Come with me.” He said.

He guided me forcefully by the arm into his private office and closed the door. I shuddered as I heard it lock. I backed away from him afraid matters had just become even worse.

“Get dressed.” He said.

I was surprised, but I wasted no time in obeying.

“Now, tell me what happened and who sent you out like that.” Mr. Birchwood commanded.

And so I did.

The Divide

2008-11-16T06:00:00.002-05:00

November 16, 1896
Margaret Spooner

I have a new routine. Studying at Edgar’s apartment was supposed to be a good thing. No distractions, like hours of gossip, and plenty of space and light. But, it seems theory and practice are worlds apart even when it comes to something so mundane. I was trying to study math and Edgar was trying to wear the rug out.

“Would you mind sitting down?” I asked.

Edgar grunted an unintelligible response and continued his back and forth wandering across the floor.

“Edgar!” I said.

He stopped and pivoted toward me like a soldier snapping to attention.

“What?” He asked.

“I can’t concentrate with you running a marathon in front of me.”

“What? Oh, I am sorry, dear.”

He was clearly distracted by something not me.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

He pulled out the chair across the table from me and sat down in it. He folded his hands on the table in front of him and his wavered from side to side as if it were a pendulum counting seconds on a clock. Then he stopped and settled an intense gaze upon me.

“We should talk.” He said.

“I’m listening.”

“I followed you.”

I was taken aback by the confession. Should I have been angry?

“When?” I asked.

“To your feminist meeting.” He said.

The word “feminist” spat from his lips like a curse. I shuddered at the obvious hatred in his tone.

“I would never have gone if you had not made such an issue of the note inviting me.”

It was the truth. He would not like it, but had he not made issue of it and accused me of lying I would have never given the note another thought. I had at the time completely forgotten of it and it was only his reaction to finding the note which peaked my curiosity.

“I am not a fool, Margaret. You would not have received an invitation if you were not a part of the movement.”

“I have not lied to you. I had no connection to them before.”

“But now you do?”

“Would it be such a horrible thing?”

“Yes.” He replied.

“They are only asking for women to be given the same rights and protections as men under the law.”

“To make these things the same is to take away from women, not to give them more. Surely, you must see how the law is designed to protect women from the dangers of the world?”

“I thought you of all men would have understood the disparity which exists is unjustified. You know me and what I dream of becoming, do you think me less capable than any man?”

“It is not about what you are capable of, it is about what you are. God created men and women to be different, unequal, for a reason.”

“And what reason is that?”

“So that we would all appreciate the gift that is life. It is my duty as a man to protect you and I will do so even if it is from yourself.”

“Do you think I need protecting from myself?”

“Are you going to endanger yourself by joining the feminists?”

“So now you believe me?”

“I do. I am sorry I did not listen before. I was only looking out for your best interests but I should have listened to you.”

“I forgive you because I do love you, Edgar.”

“And the feminists?”

“I will not band with a political group, but I cannot change who I am.”

“What does that mean?”

“Being a woman is not like joining a political group. I will always be a woman and I hope you do not consider it to be a bad thing.”

“Never.” He said.

He took my hand into his and leaned across the table to kiss it. It these moments with Edgar I cherish. I wonder though, as I look into his loving eyes, will they be enough? Or, will there come a day when the differences between us leave such an expansive divide no bridge can span the distance?

Curious Wilbur

2008-11-15T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 15, 1896
Penelope Sumter

“Tell me.” Wilbur ordered.

“It’s not important.” I said.

“Then tell me and I will know for myself.” He said.

“I can’t.” I said.

“Why not?” He said.

“You would not understand.” I said.

“Because of you or because of him?” He said.

“It’s complicated.” I said.

“So explain it.” He said.

“Wilbur!” I said.

“I know there is a problem. He singles you out. I want to know why.” He said.

“Maybe I don’t know.” I said.

“I think you do.” He said.

“You think it’s all my fault.” I said.

“Is it?” He said.

“Does it even matter?” I said.

“It does to me.” He said.

“Can we just forget about it? Please.” I said.

“Whether you like it or not, it is my responsibility to look out for you.” He said.

“I can take care of myself.” I said.

“But you should not have to.” He said.

“It’s not like I’m failing.” I said.

“I’m not going away and I’m not dropping the subject just because you don’t want to talk about it. You have a choice, you can either tell me what is going on with Dr. Phallic and you or you can go over my knee and then tell me what is going on. It’s your choice but you are going to make it right now.” He said.

“He thinks I’m capable of more and he tries to push me to try harder because he thinks I don’t try hard enough on my own.” I said.

“Is he right?” He said.

“There was a time when he was.” I said.

“But not now?” He said.

“Last year I was more interested in other pursuits. I am more focused now.” I said.

“You know father would not approve of your focus.” He said.

“He didn’t approve much of it last year either.” I said.

“If you are trying harder this year, why does Dr. Phallic continue to single you out in class?” He said.

“Maybe you should ask him.” I said.

“I’m asking you.” He said.

“I don’t know.” I said.

“What do you think his reasons might be?” He said.

“If you are leading to something why don’t you just say it?” I said.

“Do you want to go over my knee?” He said.

“No! I don’t know what you want from me.” I said.

“The truth, Penelope.” He said.

“I’m telling you the truth.” I said.

“But not all of it.” He said.

“What do you think you know?” I said.

“Why don’t you tell me?” He said.

“If I knew, I would.” I said.

“Fine, I’ll talk to Dr. Phallic. If I find out you’ve been holding back, you’ll be sorry.” He said.

“And when you find out I’m be forthright, I expect an apology for the accusations.” I said.

Art Is Joy

2008-11-14T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 14, 1896
Anna Cushing

If ever there was a subject meant for boys and not girls it is art. Seriously, how dare Mr. Carlton expect us to lay our hands in such filth as clay or paint or chalk? My father would never have allowed me near such things in my youth. It seems doubly odd to me as it is now that which boys played with in their early years that women are meant to mold and form into something of beauty in our collegiate years.

If the ability to create art is the woman’s domain then surely I am more man than woman. My art says it loudly enough that not only can I hear it but indeed, Mr. Carlton feels comfortable informing anyone and everyone who might not have heard.

“Are you daft girl?” He bellowed.

I jerked from the potter’s wheel, startled by his presence. Wet clay sailed through air and splattered in Mr. Carlton’s red beard. From a distance no one would notice but at such close range the dribble was unmistakable. I choked back laughter as he spat the goop from his mouth.

I stopped pedaling and tried to look sorrowful. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Carlton believes there is no such thing as accidents and so he perceives every action as deliberate. While I admit throwing mud in his face has occurred to me more than once in his classroom, I would never have acted on the impulse intentionally. Then again, it did happen.

“I’m sorry sir. You startled me.” I said.

“So, I see and did I also cause you to create that, that, that repulsive cylinder of slime?” He said.

I considered his question. Did he want the truth because if the truth was wanted he had most certainly caused me to make the slumping bit of mud on the wheel? It was supposed to be a vase but it looked more like excrement to be polite. Were it not for his insistence that every girl knows instinctively how to create a vase, I would certainly have never attempted the project.

Wisdom interceded before my tongue did irreparable damage.

“I fear I am without any artistic sense.” I said.

“Or is it you are without any willingness to put forth the necessary effort to succeed?” He asked.

I quickly became aware I was then the center of attention in the room. Every one of my classmates was staring and Emma even had the nerve to stick her tongue out at me as though she fancied the thought of me in peril.

“I would happily put forth whatever effort you require sir. I am your humble student for as long as you will have me.” I said.

Mr. Carlton stared hard at me for a long moment. I think he was trying to decide whether I was being sincere or not. In the end he no doubt decided I lacked the necessary aptitude for deceit, fool that he is. I fluttered my eyelashes as his expression softened.

“Very well Miss Cushing. Your attitude is more than acceptable even if your work is not.” He replied.

I blushed appropriately and pretended to attempt to hide a smile he must have thought was reserved just for him. He smiled beneath his red beard and then turned his head away from me and back toward the rest of the class. I took the opportunity to stick my own tongue out at Emma who was looking disappointed right at that moment. Her face darkened.

“Smile Miss Chesterfield, art is joy.” Mr. Carlton said.

My cheeks bulged as I fought back laughter. Emma seemed to take my bulging cheeks as a further attempt to ridicule her and she lost control of her rather short temper. She stopped pedaling at her wheel and with a wild swipe of her hand propelled the wet clay off the wheel and into the air. No doubt I was the intended target, but poor Mr. Carlton was in the way.

For the second time in a matter of minutes he was splattered with wet, slimy clay. This time it caught him not just in the beard and mouth but his entire face and hair. He spat and shook his head all at the same time sending a spray of clay and water all around him like a wet dog.

“Chesterfield! How dare you?” He boomed.

She jumped to her feet, face red from anger more than embarrassment it seemed to me and pointed her finger at me like I was a Salem witch. I blinked innocence and feigned an expression of disdain.

“It’s her fault!” Emma shouted.

Mr. Carlton closed the distance between himself and my indignant roommate in just two giant steps. I am sure it was just a trick of the light but I swear I saw steam rising out of his red hair. He towered over Emma but it was only when she looked up and saw his giant red face dripping with muddy clay that she realized just what she had done. Her fury abated and her red cheeks turned white.

“Outside.” He ordered.

Emma gave one last glare to me before she slipped outside of the classroom into the hallway. Mr. Carlton watched her until the door closed and then preceded to the sink. I decided being nice to him was in my best interest. I stood up and joined him at the sink. I picked up the cloth as he was reaching for it. He tilted his head at me in surprise.

“I may not be much use in shaping clay but I have plenty of practice cleaning up.” I said.

His anger noticeably abated. I began softly scrubbing his face clean with the cloth, careful to avoid getting anything in eyes, mouth and nose. It took the rest of the class period, which was fine with me, to clean the slime off of him. As the bell began ringing in the distance I wondered just what he was going to do with Emma.

I passed her in the hall as I left and she had the good sense to be embarrassed as we all walked past. A few of the girls looked sympathetic but most like me felt it was about time the haughty brat learned a lesson. She was always so smug about staying out of trouble with the teachers it seemed justice was finally being done to most of us. The only regret was that we would not be there to witness it or so we thought.

On the front steps of Primrose Hall a few of us gathered to gossip before the short walk back to Carrington Manor. It was serendipity that we waited because only a few minutes later, Emma was dragged out before us all, clad in nothing more than her bloomers. I think we all blushed at the sight. Mr. Carlton paid no attention to his rapt audience as he tossed Emma over the center rail for the stairs and withdrew a short strip of leather from his jacket pocket.

Wasting no time, he whipped it down on her white bloomers eliciting a yelp from Emma and a wild kicking of her suspended legs and a flailing of her arms. Mr. Carlton did not pause between strokes at all; rather he whipped her buttocks in time with horse at full gallop. Her yelps and flailing about became an almost comical routine unless one recalled just how much sting leather could impart on the backside.

Still it was hard not to smile when he let her up. She landed on her feet and immediately bounced back up in the air. Her hands grabbed her buttocks which were glowing red through her white bloomers and with a single sniffle she was off running back inside the building. Mr. Carlton followed her at a much slower pace.

The History Of Our World

2008-11-13T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 13, 1896
Sarah Waters

“It has come to my attention that some young women here believe they should have the right to vote alongside men.” Mr. Bard said.

I noticed Caroline Birchwood shift uncomfortably in her seat and felt a twinge of sympathy for her. She had endeavored on her own to do that which I and my new friends had succeeded, vote. Everyone knew she had been caught, arrested and dragged before the Judge to face penalties and further we knew her husband, our music teacher, had paid the fine without complaint and left with her smiling on his arm. Mr. Birchwood is a difficult man to know, but the incident with Caroline causes me to believe he is more friend than foe.

“Therefore, our esteemed Dean has requested I remind you of why women are not the equals of men.” Mr. Bard continued, “ There are of course the physical difference between men and women as designed by our Lord and Creator. Women’s bodies are obviously for the continued population of our species. In these regards a woman’s body is sacred, but she was not provided the strength or endurance to protect or defend herself. Men provide this role. Just as the woman’s body is dependent upon the man for protection so is her mind. The female brain is designed to nurture and teach the young but it lacks the necessary logic and reasoning to comprehend the political complexities of government which serves to protect us all.”

My father once told me, water always travels the path of least resistance and because it is one of the building blocks of life we as people are often inclined to do the very same. Of course that does not mean we are adverse to change, quite the contrary in fact, just as water will slowly erode a new path over hundreds of years, so shall people change the course of society. It was meant to be a lesson about patience, but then a man named Alfred Nobel invented something called dynamite.

Sometimes, you see, a new path is of such urgency you have to do a little more than wait for nature to take its course. Alfred Nobel understood that and he also understood that sometimes the path needing carving is not through the soft rock but instead straight through the hardened and entrenched rock. Those are the times you light a match to lead the way and plug your ears so as not to be dissuaded by the desperate cries for mercy in the face of inevitable and immediate change.

Dad said someday I would find my place in this world and Sam told me I was meant to change it. I think they might have been both saying the same thing and just now, I am starting to believe them. Suffice to say, Mr. Bard’s classroom seemed as good a place to light a match as any other. Patience and consequences be damned.

“Some of the greatest leaders in the history of the world have been women. I cannot believe you would dismiss them all as failing to understand the complexities of government. Nor would it seem appropriate to say they are unable to defend themselves.” I said.

Mr. Bard was not amused. He scowled at me like a naughty schoolgirl.

“I do not recall giving you permission to speak, Miss Waters.” He said.

“You did not and I would not ask you for it.” I replied.

“In my classroom you will pay me the respect I am due. In this room, I decide who speaks and who does not.”

“Then I shall await you in the corridor to discuss the fallacy of your grandiose statements.”

I pushed my chair back and stood as if to leave. The girls around the room were staring at me with a mix of horror and delight. I curbed my impulse to smile and kept my lips flat. I heard another chair scrape on the floor behind me.

“I don’t know about the rest of you but I’m with Sarah. If we cannot debate in civil fashion the merits of our sex then this classroom holds no lessons worth learning.” Anna Cushing said.

It took only a moment. Every girl in the room was on her feet. Most were smiling at the liberating feeling of standing up against oppression. I felt a surge of pride but did my best to keep it at bay. This was not the time nor the place for gloating. No battles had been won.

“Sit down. All of you.” Mr. Bard ordered.

“Why should we?” I asked.

Our eyes met across the room. He was scared. I was emboldened. The truth was laid open between us and while I will likely always see him as a small man, I must grant him some credit for his courage.

“If everyone will just sit down, we will discuss Miss Waters’ views.” He said.

All eyes turned to me. I think they expected me to march out the door, but it was in truth never my goal. I had wanted him to blink and now that he had, it was my turn to be gracious. I sat down in my seat and turned my attention back to Mr. Bard. Slowly, reluctantly, the girls followed my lead.

“Now that everyone has stretched their legs, are we ready to continue?” Mr. Bard said.

The classroom remained silent.

“Good. Now Miss Waters, you say some of the greatest leaders in history were women. Please identify some of these to whom you refer.” He said.

“Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Catherine II of Russia, and Queen Victoria of England.” I said.

“Cleopatra? An interesting choice to be sure, the woman responsible for the downfall and end of the Ancient Egyptian Empire. She was in fact so overwhelmed by the disasters she wrought that in the end the woman killed herself.” Mr. Bard said.

“The downfall of Egypt was assured long before she became the final Pharaoh. It was through her actions and alliances with Rome that Egyptian culture survived at all. She took the time to learn the language of her people, something no Pharaoh had done in over 100 years before her, so that she could understand for herself their needs and concerns. In my estimation, that is a great leader.” I responded.

“Your views are clearly tainted by your sex, but let us continue. Joan of Arc. If the stories are to be believed, she was a mere messenger from God. It is not to belittle God’s choice of a girl to carry his message but it was the power of God which lifted her above men, not the power of womanhood.” Mr. Bard said.

“God chooses a girl to lead in a time of war and you think he simply overlooked her gender? She gave hope to the French at a time when it was crucial and restored their faith as it was failing. God may well have been responsible for all that she did but is he any less responsible for the acts of any of us?” I said.

Mr. Bard appeared as if he would like nothing more than to beat his idea of sense into me.

“I will concede that their have existed women who have defied their station in life, but surely you have noted that they all end in death and destruction.” Mr. Bard said.

“Surely you would not call Queen Victoria dead or Britain in the throws of disaster?” I said.

“The Queen knows her place and relies on men for what they know best.”

“I believe she might take offense at your suggestion that she does not rule Britain.”

“Miss Waters you are but young and naïve.” Mr. Bard said.

“Perhaps, but I could as easily call you old and senile, though I shall not.”

Off in the distance the bell rang, ending our discussion and the class. Mr. Bard was boiling with anger but there was also relief in his eyes. I suppose there will come a day when I must face the consequences for my arguments but it is not this day.

It's Not Just Physics

2008-11-12T06:00:00.000-05:00

November 12, 1896
Elizabeth Bassett

There are days when I do not think the differences between Penelope and I could be more stark and then there are surprising moments when I am amazed by our similarities. Our approach to life is so different and yet I think we come from nearly the same place. Where she is free and unburdened I feel the weight of societies expectations upon me.

If I were only different, I might find the courage to say what I really want to say to the likes of Dr. Phallic among others. In truth it is not he who occupies my thoughts but Penelope’s adorable brother Wilbur. Sitting in Dr. Phallic’s physic class he was the only thing on my mind and the science was more chemistry than physics.

“Can anyone tell me one of Newton’s three laws?” Dr. Phallic asked.

He paced the front of the classroom in his white lab coat looking completely distracted from the day’s lesson. Several of the boys raised their hands for an opportunity to answer his question but he ignored them all in favor of calling on Penelope who was staring very hard at her desktop rather than volunteering to answer questions.

“Miss Sumter, name one of Newton’s laws.” He said.

Penelope looked up in surprise. She should know better by now but clearly she was still living in the fantasy land of her own creation. It is a wonderful place where nothing ever happens unless you want it to. I would never tell her but I envy her that confidence.

“An object in motion will continue unless it is acted upon by an outside force.” Penelope said.

I nearly fell out of my chair as the outside force of Penelope’s thoughts stunned me. Not only had she answered but she had answered correctly. Dr. Phallic might have been more surprised than me. He stopped his pacing and turned to look at her with a curious expression which seemed to me to reflect both disbelief and pride all in the same moment.

“Very good, Miss Sumter. Now can you tell me what force is acting on a wheel to cause it stop turning?” He asked.

Penelope looked thoughtful for a moment. I was sitting on the edge of my seat hoping she would get it wrong so that I might have the opportunity to reaffirm myself as the most intelligent woman in the room.

“I believe there would be at least two, sir. Gravity and friction.” Penelope said.

The boys around the room were becoming more interested in Penelope by the second and quickly forgetting I existed at all. Why want the girl with a brain, when there is one with beauty and a brain?

“Excellent, Miss Sumter. It seems you have done your reading for a change. Miss Bassett, another of Newton’s laws if you please.”

My mind raced for an answer that had only moments before been on the tip of my tongue. Something about being put on the spot makes my brain slow to respond. Finally, another of the laws came to me. I felt extremely self-conscious as I spoke.

“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” I said.

“Thank you Miss Bassett. Now, what is the equal and opposite reaction to your walking by on the sidewalk?” Dr. Phallic asked.

I wanted to say I did not know because that was in fact the truth, but being out done by Penelope was too distasteful for me not to try and salvage what I could. I considered the forces at work and began to imagine what could possibly be the reactive forces. The class was silent in anticipation of me blundering a response.

“I know if you were referring to me walking by, it would be all these boys turning their heads to watch.” Penelope said.

The classroom erupted in laughter.

“Thank you, Miss Sumter. I can see while you have grasped the material for the week you have not lost your unique ability to ridicule science at every level. We will discuss your interruption further after class.” Dr. Phallic said.

He turned back to me clearly still waiting for my answer.

“Wind?” I said hopefully.

“Thank you, Miss Bassett.”

The bell began to ring from the tower signaling the end of class. I felt relieved knowing I was at least out of the spotlight for another day. Penelope looked sour at the prospect of remaining behind as I exited the room. I would not wish to be in her shoes but when will she learn to guard her words?

Walking down the corridor I was struck by the illogic of my own thoughts. Was it not our very point in voting that we should not be forced to hide our opinions and thoughts from the world? Perhaps I am more the fool than Penelope will ever be for I am unable to make myself heard unless someone else gives me the permission to do so. Consequences or not, I think it might be time for a change.

“Where is Penelope?” Wilbur asked, coming in through the front door.

I smiled at him and then hid my face as I realized I was blushing just to look at him.

“Dr. Phallic kept her after.” I replied.

“What did she do this time?” He asked.

“She was smarter than he likes.” I replied before my brain realized it might not have been the best choice of words.

“Indeed?” He asked.

I bit my lip and scurried away before he could ask me to explain further. I think maybe I am not quite as ready for change as I wish to be. In the meantime, I can still dream and, watching Wilbur walk into Dr. Phallic‘s classroom, what a dream it is.

Simply Opinionated

2008-11-11T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 11, 1896
Charles Birchwood

“One hundred dollars or twenty lashes on the courthouse steps.” The judge had ordered.

Some would say if I loved my wife I should have allowed her to pay for the crime with lashes. I however, am not one to be so cold. The harsh discipline of an officer of the court will offer none of the loving correction necessary to truly rehabilitate and I fail to understand how allowing it would be demonstrative of affection. But, my decision was not predicated on anything so compassionate.

I doubt I will ever admit it beyond the rumpled pages of this journal, but my personal opinion on the matter of voting does not reflect the laws of the nation. While anyone can clearly see women and men are far from equals in many regards I have often noted a woman will always prove more than equal to a man whenever her opinion is solicited.

Take for example, the normally quiet and reserved Miss Spooner when I asked for her thoughts today.

“Miss Spooner, do you prefer the melody of an instrument or a choir?” I asked.

“I thought a choir was an instrument.” She replied.

Could it be that she did not understand my question or was she attempting to ridicule me in front of the class or was there something more? Of course, I could not simply move on. I had to find out what exactly her purpose was.

“In the most general of senses you are correct, but you have avoided answering the question.” I said.

“I was confused.” She replied.

“Now that you are no longer confused, perhaps you would grace us with an answer.” I suggested.

“Would that I were not but I am still confused.”

I blinked at her, desperately trying to follow her choice of words which were ironically, if not purposefully, confusing. My sensitive ears detected the faint giggles of some of the girls. I ignored them in favor of pursuing Miss Spooner.

“What has you confused?” I asked.

“How can I choose a preference when my choices are essence the same. Given a choice between salad and salad, I will have the salad.” She said.

It was a strain not to reach out and wrap my hands around her throat. How can such a quiet, unobtrusive young woman turn into such an annoyance? I rolled my eyes despite myself and chose a different approach.

“Do you prefer music which contains vocals enunciation of lyrics or music which carries the melody without a lyrical enunciation?” I rephrased.

“I do not believe the two are comparable. Music meant to be accompanied by lyrics sounds best with the lyrical accompaniment and music written without lyrics is indeed best without lyrics.”

“Miss Spooner, are you endeavoring to avoid claiming an opinion?” I asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then please explain why you are complicating an otherwise uncomplicated question.”

“I only want to be clear in what my opinions are so as they might not be misconstrued into overly generic and stereotypical.”

“Then perhaps you would like to phrase your preferences to musical styles in your own words rather than as an answer to my questions.”

“Might I have a week to reflect on it and provide you with my impressions afterward?”

“Music does not require reflection, Miss Spooner. Music touches us on emotional level and connects with us through our impulses and instincts. If Miss Clemence were to sing to you right this moment, what would your reaction be?”

“Umm…”

“No, Miss Spooner, your gut reaction is what I want. Do not think about it.”

“Is she crazy.” Margaret said.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“My first thought if she were to break out in song right this minute.”

I shook my head, truthfully in awe. Miss Spooner would give any lawyer or congressman in the nation a headache should they be foolish enough to argue with her. Fortunately, I have a simple way to win arguments although I admit it is not fair, it does work.

“Enough. If I cannot manage to get through to you with words perhaps my strap will do a better job.” I said.

Margaret visibly blanched. I almost felt sorry for her too, but then I recalled the giggles. There would be no giggles now.

“Front and center, Miss Spooner. Remove your dress and touch your toes.” I ordered.

She stood up at her desk, trembling. Her eyes were ready to sprout tears from that instant as she considered the fate her mouth had delivered upon her. No doubt, she blamed me more though. Her head down, she dragged her feet to the front of the room. There were several girls smiling in their seats which made me wonder just what Miss Spooner had done to them.

Her fingers struggled to reach the zipper on the back of her dress. Watching her it occurred to me that the only reason for such a design would be the designers firm belief that a woman’s dress would come on or off not on the woman’s wishes but the man’s to whom she belonged. I reached out and pulled the zipper down for her.

She blushed at me before slipping out of the shoulders and letting the dress fall to the floor. She picked it up and hugged it to the front of her as though the white slip still covering her skin did not exist. She looked at me with the obvious question of what to do with the dress on her face.

“Lay it on your desk.” I said with a lack of patience.

When she returned to the front I did not have to say anything more. She turned her back to the room and bent down, stretching her arms and fingers to touch her toes. I removed the small leather strap from my jacket and laid it lightly on the silky white slip stretched taunt over her buttocks. It was in many ways a more attractive sight than a fully bared bottom.

I swung the strap with a loose arm and followed through with the blow dragging the strap down and off her buttocks after the initial impact. She jerked noticeably but made no sound at all. I waited for the sting to build.

I finished silently counting to ten and swung again. Miss Spooner jerked again and for an instant her fingers left her toes. I decided to ignore the movement although I was annoyed enough the thought of adding extra did cross my mind. The class took a collective breath as I raised the strap high in the air preparing to swing again.

I waited until my arm was getting tired and then I allowed it to fall free again and with an awful snap, it connected once more. Miss Spooner moaned softly and then sniffled as tears no doubt began to fall. I felt satisfied as that was indeed the point of the exercise.

I did not make her wait as long for the next two. I swung the strap quickly for them, back to back. She cried out and nearly stood up as the second landed only moments after the first. She was crying in earnest then with tears dripping down to her toes.

I raised the strap high in the air for the last one and counted once again to ten. When I dropped my arm it was with a flurry of speed designed to make the impact something Miss Spooner would remember for a long time to come. She nearly leapt into the air and her hands grabbed uselessly at her buttocks. I smiled.

Margaret hopped from foot to foot and waved her arms in the air as she turned in a circle. She could not seem to decide whether to hold her bottom or let it bounce free. Looking at the class from the corner of my eye, I could see most were as amused as I.

“I think I have discovered Miss Spooner’s taste in dancing music.” I said.

The Stir

2008-11-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

November 9, 1896
Edith Bowen

The halls of Carrington Manor were alive with quiet gossip. The girls clustered together in corners and shadows with copies of our publication in every hand. Conspiratorial whispers were the order of the day as every girl feared I or Mrs. Carrington or perhaps even Mr. Carrington might discover the pages in their possession. I smiled at the girls as though oblivious to the goings on but privately I was beaming with pride.

I descended the stairs to the main hall with the intention of a late morning walk. Mrs. Carrington was waiting for me at the base. Her expression was not one of amusement, one might even have called it horror. My smile began to fade. In her hand was a folded copy of the publication. She waved it wildly in the air toward me as if she needed to gain my attention.

“Have you seen this?” Mrs. Carrington asked.

I pondered the waving object of her contempt for a moment. Should I admit that I had or would it be better to lie?

“Is it the Paper from Brown?” I asked.

Was my tone innocent enough?

“No, it certainly is not.” She replied.

“What is it then?” I asked.

“An abomination!” Mr. Carrington said.

He strolled into the hall to join us at the stairs from the dinning hall. His hands carried at least a dozen copies and by all appearances he was clearly trying to confiscate ever one in existence. I tried not to smile.

“You find this amusing, Miss Bowen? Read it and I think you will quickly change your mind.” Mrs. Carrington said.

I took the copy from her hand, careful not to appear to anxious. I began reading it, although it is admittedly hard to read an article that one has all ready read several time before. I went through the motions just in case either of them might suspect I was somehow involved. Given my previous actions and involvements it would be foolhardy to think I was not at the top of their list in suspects.

“Some of the girls have created a publication for women.” I said.

“This is not a publication it is an abomination. I cannot imagine what girl would be capable of writing such filth and lies but if I find them within these walls they will be expelled.” Mr. Carrington said.

Were I not being mindful of how I was being perceived I might well have rolled my eyes and yawned. Mr. Carrington was overreacting to the point of hysterics which was ironic considering such reactions are supposed to be reserved to the domain of women. Mrs. Carrington was not under my same constraints and did roll her eyes although I believe Mr. Carrington missed it.

“You do realize this was clearly run on a printing press and there is not one within the confines of Primrose or this house?” Mrs. Carrington asked.

“Of course. What is your point?” Mr. Carrington replied.

“My point is that they boys of Brown have long been publishing an underground paper and this is most likely their work as well.” Mrs. Carrington said.

I wanted to kick myself. Why had I not thought of that myself? It was the easily accessible, plausible grounds for denial we had wanted. The simple childhood politics every girl learns before she is five, blame it on the boys.

“You are quite right, ma’am. How silly of me to think a girl could have been behind any of this.” I said.

Mr. Carrington shook his head, unconvinced.

“No self-respecting boy would dare right this dribble.” He said.

“Unless they wanted to stir up trouble.” I said.

“I’m sure it is just something of a prank. No doubt we should not worry unless it happens again.” Mrs. Carrington said.

“I completely agree.” I said.

Mr. Carrington looked at us with suspicion in his eyes. I smiled. He relented.

“All right. Collect the rest of these and burn them and we’ll forget it ever happened unless it happens again.” He said.

He looked me in the eye as he spoke and while I continued to smile as though nothing was amiss, I had the distinct impression he no longer suspected but simply knew I was involved. Maybe it was my imagination but his final words on the subject sounded like a warning to my ears.

My Pen For An Apple

2008-11-07T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 7, 1896
Penelope Sumter

When John Hancock signed the Declaration of Independence, I wonder if he realized the historical significance of the moment. Perhaps it is only in retrospective one can see the great achievements of the past and yet I cannot escape the feeling I have become a part of history. We lost the election but nothing will ever take away the votes we cast nor the inescapable fact they were counted with equal weight to those of men.

This year there were not enough of us and four years from now I do not expect there to be a substantial change, but in the ensuing decades left to come, one day, it will be the voice of women deciding the next President. Dare I dream even that someday beyond it might even be a woman elected to lead the nation? Perhaps someday such a thought will not have the ridiculous tone it carries today.

This day I am my father’s nightmare. Everything he was afraid I would become I have. Though he will never acknowledge the truth of it, he has driven me to this and all it entails. I can still remember the days in which my thoughts were overburdened with nothing more complicated that finding a good man to marry. Those times are long since past ending not so long after I first came to Primrose College.

I stepped of the train that first day in Providence with a vow to find a husband in two months. Two months later I told myself it would only be a short while longer, after all what is two year learning about the world compared to a lifetime living in it? And then, somewhere along the way I found it was easier to invent a man than to deal with a real one. I pretended I still had the same goals and I believed myself well enough to convince my father, but the truth in my heart was not to be denied.

So, here I am, a Primrose Girl. It means more than simple education and study. This is a sisterhood in which we all recognize in someway our future is wait for us to declare it. What we were once given in privilege can no longer be taken away no more than Adam could give back the apple. We are destined to be together, to support each other, now and forever. None stand alone whether within these wall or beyond them.

I am afraid though not for myself. Those girls who do not yet understand what they have become a part of and the role they must yet assume are the ones I fear for. Mr. Howe promised us trouble was coming and not just from those we expect but from those enemies who’s names we do not know and faces we have never seen. They will come and we will be waiting, but the true threat, the one to fear the most is the one sleeping in the beds next to us. The girls in our midst who lack the faith of our convictions or the courage to stand in the face of overwhelming odds. It is inevitable we will be our own greatest threat.

“What do you think?” I asked.

Edith had just finished reading my contribution aloud.

“I had no idea you could write so well.” Elizabeth said.

I politely smiled at what I believe was a backhanded compliment. Clearly, I have not been as openly devoted to my studies as Elizabeth, but why would she assume I was incompetent with a pen?

“It’s perfect. Thank you, Penny.” Sarah said.

“We need a name for the publication.” Margaret announced.

“How about The Gazette?” Edith said.

“Primrose Times?” Elizabeth suggested.

“Women’s Monthly?” Margaret said with a snort.

We all laughed.

“The Primrose Periodical?” Sarah said.

“What about simple, The Primrose Girls?” I said.

They all looked at me and nodded.

“The Primrose Girls, has a nice ring to it.” Margaret said.

“I like it.” Edith said.

“The Primrose Girls is it is then.” Sarah decided.

Deep in the oldest bowels of Brown University, Margaret flipped the switch turning the great printing machine on after setting the last of the plates in place. The roar of the machine was deafening, but I ignored it standing by the iron bar window looking out from the cliffs onto the moonlit shores.

A single star shot brightly across the sky, falling into the ocean at the edge of the world. A single tear slipped from my eye down my cheek and onto the stone floor. We are devils or angels and I know not which to be true, but in these depths with the heat rolling off the machine and its demon-like screams, I know which my father would sooner believe.

Stark Contrast

2008-11-06T06:00:00.002-05:00

November 6, 1896
Edith Bowen

From that first day at the train station, I think I knew the moment I saw her, my life would never again be the same. Sarah Waters has brought forward within me the dreams I myself did not know I had. It is not merely her, but it is everything any part of her touches is forever changed and while at first I saw only the possibility for destruction, now I see hope.

Even the newspaper headline declaring William McKinley, President of the United States failed to dampen my spirits. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that winning the little battles will in their own time lead to winning the war, but in the meantime the war continues to advance against our cause of for every battle we win there remain thousands we are losing. Someday that will change, I truly believe that now.

These thoughts occupied me instead of the English lesson Mr. Stark was endeavoring to teach. It was not the wisest of things I have done but in perspective it is also far from the dumbest. Still, not paying attention while being the only female in the room could be looked upon as masochistic in the very least.

“Is my lecture boring you Miss Bowen?” Mr. Stark queried.

I nearly jumped out of my desk. The boys seated around me laughed. Mr. Stark silenced them with a single look before turning his attention back to me.

“I am sorry, sir.” I replied.

“Indeed you are Miss Bowen. A sorry excuse for a student, a sorrier excuse for an English student, and the sorriest excuse for an aspiring English teacher as I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Sit up straight!”

I inhaled deeply and pushed myself farther up in my chair. I kept my head locked straight ahead despite every impulse demanding that I look away. Mr. Stark towered over me, standing in front of my desk. I stared straight ahead at his belt buckle rather then tilting my head up to see his face.

“Take out a sheet of paper and begin writing the sentence, ‘I will not daydream in Mr. Stark’s classroom because if I do, he will paddle my bare bottom blue.’ 500 times if you please, Miss Bowen and I will have them before you leave this room today. Am I understood?” Mr. Stark said.

I swallowed hard before answering.

“Yes, sir.” I replied.

“I certainly hope so for your sake Miss Bowen.” He said.

He resumed his monotonous lecture about the variances between American English grammar and British English grammar. I set about to my task in best penmanship and again tuned out his droning voice.

His lecture had long ended and the sun was setting outside by the time I finished the 500th repetition of Mr. Stark’s sentence. My hand was long passed cramping and simply numb I shook it without notice as I stood and collected my many sheets to deliver to Mr. Stark. He remained sitting at his desk, ignoring my existence entirely.

“Have you finally finished?” He asked.

“Yes, sir.” I said.

“Let me see them.”

“Here they are sir.”

“You may stand and wait while I review them.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Stop wringing your hand girl, it is supposed to hurt.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.”

There was silence as he looked over the pages I handed him. When he finally put the down he looked rather pleased with himself.

“I realize you do not like me very much Miss Bowen. I am not as lenient with you as Ms. Maple no doubt was and I will not change my methods on the grounds that they irritate you. As you wander off to your dormitory tonight, think about this; I could have bent you over your desk and paddled you in front of all those boys today and I would have been entirely justified to do so, but I did not. Instead I chose to attempt to teach you a lesson in the same way I would have tried to teach it to one of those boys. Take heed and do not test me again for next time I will do precisely what you have written here. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.” I said.

“Excellent. I will walk you to the Carrington Manor if you will just wait by the door for a moment.”

“It is not necessary.” I said.

“I will be the judge of that.” He said.

I waited by the door and after only a minute as he promised, Mr. Stark offered me his arm and donned his hat. The walk to Carrington Manor was pleasant if unusual. I felt safe next to him even in the relative darkness and that surprised me. He did not stop at the steps but escorted me all the way to the door.

As I stepped inside he tipped his hat to me and bowed just slightly.

“It has been a pleasure, Miss Bowen. I wish you a pleasant evening.” He said.

Caroline's Folly

2008-11-05T06:00:00.001-05:00

November 5, 1896
Charles Birchwood

“What were you thinking?” I demanded.

Caroline barely looked at me. At first I thought it was shame. Then as I watched her pace the floor I realized she was actually proud of herself and afraid of me. I shook my head at her.

“This absolutely has to be the dumbest thing you have ever done, Caroline.” I said.

She stopped pacing and turned to look me straight in the eye.

“Dumb? It is dumb for a woman to desire a voice in an election that effects us all? Is that what you think Charles?” She said.

The tone in her voice I remembered only too well. For years she had addressed me with it in our every conversation and only in recent months had it begun to slip away. I did not like its return and moreover she had no right to be disappointed in me.

“This is not an appropriate location to have that discussion.” I replied.

“There is never an appropriate time or place.” Caroline said.

She turned her back to me and began pacing the small cell of her confinement. I shuddered considering the reaction of Dean Steadward if he were to learn of this. I sighed heavily and walked back to the sheriff’s office.

“How much so I can take her home?” I asked.

The question sounded of hilarity to me as I spoke it but I did not laugh. The prospect of paying to take the woman home who at that very moment wanted nothing more than to escape my very presence was far to sobering to appreciate the comedy.

“That will be up to the judge.” He replied.

“When can we ask him?”

“He’ll be holding court on Friday and decide then.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Afraid so. I can’t release her until the judge sees her.”

“Surely arrangements can be made?” I asked.

“This isn’t a small town, Mr. Birchwood. I have to answer to people for what I do and she broke the law.”

“She attempted to break the law. You caught her before she was able to do so.”

“The attempt is a violation of the law. I’m sorry but it’s out of my hands.” The sheriff said.

“She is a woman, a mother and a wife, this is no place for her and I will be damned before I leave her here alone with you.”

“Maybe if you’d taken better care of her while she was in your home, she wouldn’t have ended up here.”

The sheriff was bristling with a touch of anger. Clearly words alone would not solve the problem. It was time for action. I reached into my pocket and took out my wallet. I took a twenty dollar bill from it and slapped it down on the sheriff’s desk. He looked less than amused. I slapped another down and before he could say a word I lifted the keys from the corner of his desk and walked back to the cell holding Caroline.

“Mr. Birchwood, I cannot allow you to take her out of here.” The sheriff said from behind me.
I unlocked the cell to a surprised Caroline. She looked about to hug me when her expression turned from joy to concern. I turned around to face the sheriff. He had his gun drawn.

“She’s going home with me sheriff and I promise to have her in court come Friday morning, but unless you’ve got the nerve to use that thing, we are leaving.” I said.

I grabbed Caroline roughly by the arm and pulled her in step with me. The sheriff stared hard for a moment but then relented and holstered his gun as we went out the front door.

As soon as we reached our home I sent her immediately to wait for me in the bedroom. I added the instruction for her to removed my suit that she was wearing once she got there. She did not speak but went up the stairs without argument. As she went I noticed she no longer seemed quite so disappointed in me.

I drank two glasses of whiskey to calm myself before ascending the steps to our bedroom. Caroline was sitting nervously on the edge of the bed without a stitch on from head to toe. Were I not so angry it would have been a pleasant enough sight but such was not the case this time. Her body, beautiful as it is, could not distract me from the disgrace she had brought to us.

I picked up her hairbrush from our dresser and took the chair away from the wall. I sat down in it and before I could say a word she was standing at my side, waiting to be pulled over my lap.

“This is not because you tried to vote.” I said.

“Then why?” She asked.

“Because I am your husband and you have no right to jeopardize my reputation without at least affording me the courtesy of knowing that you are doing so.”

“I thought you would try to stop me.”

“Have you ever wondered why I never spanked you before you left me no choice?”

“Everyday, but what does that have to do with me voting.”

“Everything, you have disrespected me for years because I have tried to respect you as an equal. You of course, have done everything you could to make it impossible both before and now again.”

“I…I never realized.”

“Of course not. “

“I’m sorry Charles.”

“As you should be, now get over my knee.”

She laid herself over my lap without fuss or complaint. As I began swinging her hairbrush down on her plump cheeks it was almost as if she was raising them up to meet the brush. She cried to be sure, her legs kicked wildly in desperation before I was done, but not for the first time I realized she craved the discipline.

When I stopped she seemed not to notice at all. She continued to kick and sob for close to a minute. When at last she began to regain some sense of calm, I lifted her to stand and turned her so placed her hands on the seat of the chair. Quickly, I lost my suit as well and then took her from behind in a frenzy. Exhausted, we fell asleep in our bed, arms and legs intertwined like young lover.

The Importance Of Being A Voter

2008-11-04T06:00:00.002-05:00

November 4, 1896
Sarah Waters

“Name?” The judge asked me.

Instantly, I wanted to turn and run from the scene, but it was too late. Decisions had been made, actions had been taken and now there was nothing left but to face the consequences, whatever they would be. I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat and looked the judge square in the eye with a confidence I did not feel.

“Daniel Waters.” I said in my deepest voice.

The judge handed me a ballot and waved me inside the tent without a second look. You might think I would have been relieved but I was not. The tension grew greater as I stood between two real men at the table and stared down at the ballot in front of me. The pencil shook in my hand. I prayed the men beside me would not notice, for I cannot imagine any man would quiver so before casting his vote.

I took a deep breath and forced calm on myself. Carefully I leaned forward to rest my hand on the table and therefore steady it. I blinked the beginnings of tears from eyes and tried to focus. The simple act of reading seemed more like an impossible chore as my heart pounded in my chest.

That is when I got angry. I slammed my fist down on the table making the men around me jump. I grunted annoyance at myself and silently cursed my own weakness. I hated myself for being afraid and then I remember the real Daniel Waters. The man who was my father and would never again be able to claim his right to vote because of wealthy, greedy men who were more concerned over an extra dime in their pockets than the life of a single man.

If any woman should have the right to cast a vote then I was that woman. I have sacrificed for it in blood and tears, in peace and war. No man can claim more service than that to the country and if those sacrifices are the claims to patriotism and democracy as so many men claim, then it is my right by the scars I bear.

To truly care for my father, to believe his death was not in vain but for some higher purpose, then voting is not a matter of right or wrong, but a burdening responsibility. For all the Daniel Waters, for all their daughters, I must fulfill the civic duty on their behalf because it is right and more importantly, because it is just. My one voice may be insignificant in the chorus that is America but there is no chorus without the individual voices that constitute the whole.

My sight turned clear and the names on the ballot stood bold in black print against the white of paper. I picked up the pencil I had allowed to roll on the tabletop. My grip was firm and steady as I marked an “X” next to the Democrat, William Jennings Bryan. Proudly, I folded my ballot and dropped it in the locked box on my way of the tent.

A few blocks from the voting booth, I was joined by my new friends. We greeted each other with calmness of men but the excited energy was rolling off of each us. In mass we walked the sidewalk proudly and entered the home of Penelope’s brother, Wilbur Sumter.

He stood to greet us as we entered. His forehead was clammy with sweat and anyone could plainly see he had been worried about us. Penelope had somehow blackmailed the poor man into lending us his suits and hats for the days activities. We had spent the morning in his bedroom dressing as men and convincing ourselves we could do the impossible. I think not a one of us was convinced when we walked out the door, least of all Wilbur Sumter.

“Did you succeed?” He asked.

“No, but it was a good start.” Penelope answered for all of us.