Some Things Never Change

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.

Sugar And Spice

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.

Take Me Away

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.

A Little Bit Of Home In A Letter

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

Making Spirits Bright

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.

Art Is Joy

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.

A New Generation

November 2, 1896
Anna Cushing

It was curiosity which led me to the back alley staircase. My discovery was by accident or at least it seemed that way. I was standing on the sidewalk waiting for my roommate, Victoria to collect a dress she had ordered. At first I was barely paying attention but after several minutes I began to notice there was an unprecedented number of women turning down into the alley. They were cautious, looking about themselves as though afraid they might have been followed and then in a dash they would disappear in the shadows of the alleyway.

I might well have ignored it were it not for the fact I recognized some of the women as fellow students. My mind entertained a number of possibilities, all of which I knew without doubt were false. So, without waiting for Victoria I crossed the street and disappeared into the shadows.

Nervously, I watched as women arrived alone and in pairs. The all quickly descended a staircase and then I would hear the opening and closing of door. Some of them looked curiously at me before descending but most ignored me entirely, which felt strange. Obviously they were worried about being spotted by someone but clearly I appeared to be no threat.

I decided I had to descend the stairs myself and find out what was beyond the door. Stepping carefully to the stairs and grabbing hold of the rail, my heart nearly stopped when a voice I recognized spoke to me.

“Anna?”

Calming myself I turned to find not only Sarah, but Elizabeth, Penelope, Margaret and Miss Bowen as well. I felt as though my mother had just caught me sneaking an extra lump of sugar into my tea, although I cannot say precisely why. I had done nothing wrong, unless pursuing a curiosity is wrong.

“It’s all right. You are not in trouble.” Miss Bowen said.

I hardly respect Miss Bowen authority to determine whether my actions mean trouble or not, but it was a relief to know there would be no argument this day.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“To be honest, we aren’t quite sure.” Penelope answered.

“We have these notes.” Margaret said, holding one up.

“Do you know what this about?” Elizabeth asked.

“No, I saw a number of women coming down this alley and I was curious to see what is going on.” I said.

“Let us find out then.” Sarah said.

She started down the stairs at a rapid pace. The rest of us followed.

Inside, the basement room was packed with women and only women. There was not a man in sight. It occurred to me, I have never before seen so many women together without men. There was chattering but it sound of the nervous kind. Everyone was waiting for something and to one side there were some extra lights and a few crates pushed together creating a makeshift stage.

Sarah moved toward the stage and the lights. We followed her, keeping close together. As we came to a stop an older woman stepped out of the shadows and smiled at us. She was dressed in a white blouse and long black skirt, her graying hair was mostly hidden by a red scarf tied around her head. She stepped up onto the stage and the room fell silent.

She cleared her throat and began to speak.

“Thank you all for coming. I know how difficult it is to be here. You worry about your husbands, your fathers, or your guardians, however you call them, the men in your lives. If they knew you were here, what would they do? What would they say?

You are afraid, but we cannot live in fear. You are here today because you know that simple truth. You are here because you think for yourselves, because you believe yourself as capable as any man, because you are ready not to ask but to demand equality.

This is the path of my life. From the time I was a small girl first allowed to attend school I dared to dream of a world in which I was not allowed to learn because a man said I could but because I had the very fundamental right to it. No woman should have to dream in secrecy and beg for a man’s approval of her heart’s desires. We are not furniture, but living breathing entities and we are entitled to the same rights as the Constitution affords the men of this great nation.

I believe in this, but despite decades of prodding for the realization of my dreams, they have not come to pass. But, there are new dreamers in this room today. I have been watching and I have seen courage from women as men would say belongs solely to them. I have seen strength of will, bravery, selflessness, camaraderie, and brazen defiance in the face of overwhelming defeat. My generation has failed to produce the change in the attitude of men that we set out for, but it would seem we have not failed to pass on this fight to our daughters.

I see before me today a new generation of women who are ready to take this fight forward. Some will lead, others will follow and others still will work from the shadows, to bring forth a single coherent message. We are not window dressing in the home, we are not beds or couches or stoves, we are women and we are strong.”

The old woman paused for a moment to catch her breath. She sipped beer from a mug and for just a moment I wondered how much beer she had drank before stepping up to speak. As quickly as the thought came, I sent it away again. This woman did not need liquid courage to stand her ground and speak. She only needed her voice and a box to stand upon.

When It Rains

October 25, 1896
Anna Cushing

The first real storm of the season came. You could feel it tingling in the air from the early hour of the morning and it was no surprise when the first bolts of lightning flashed across the sky. Everything turned gray and black. Rain drops fell free, landing in giant drops creating instant puddles in the dirt path to the stable.

I hurried along with a napkin full of carrots for Poseidon. My clothing was drenched by the time I entered the safety of the stable. The horses stirred as the thunder boomed in the distance. I shook from the wet and the cold sending a spray of water from my hair.

I thought I was alone when I started feeding Poseidon his treats. I was wrong. I heard the footstep behind me and nearly jumped out of my skin as I spun around to see who was there. I expected Mr. Carrington or maybe one of the girl, but not a stranger.

She was dressed in black from head to toe. A hood covered her head and she kept her face in its shadow. She seemed both young and old at the same time as though life had aged her more quickly than it should have. I could not see her eyes but I could feel them burning into me. Her voice was soft, like a whisper when she spoke.

“You shouldn’t trust her.” She said.

The accent was familiar but in my startled state I did not place it straight away.

“Who?” I asked.

“Sarah.”

“What does she matter to you?”

“She’ll betray you, like she has betrayed everyone she has ever known.” She said.

Then it connected. It was Sarah’s accent but she was clearly not Sarah.

“Who are you?”

“Nobody.”

“What do you want from me?” I asked feeling frustrated.

“This is for you.” She said.

She handed me a folded up newspaper. At the top it said Denver Post, May 31, 1896. I unfolded it to a headline reading, Woman Shoots And Kills Sheriff. I returned my attention to the woman in front of me.

“I don’t understand?” I said.

“Read it and you will. I must go, but we shall meet again, Miss Cushing.” She said.

She turned away and for just a moment the lantern light revealed part of her face. It was horribly scarred and I gasped. Her hand pulled her hood tighter and she hurried out of the stable and into the darkness without a further word. I wished I could have offered her some comfort or sympathy but something tells me she would not have wanted either.

Alone again, I read the story. It was about Sarah and her father. In black and white the facts were told, but they must be missing something because the courts do not let murderers go free. Should I tell Sarah about my encounter or should I wait and see what will happen next? I am torn but maybe the scarred stranger is correct, maybe I should not trust anyone at all.

Scattered Leaves On A Hill

October 13, 1896
Anna Cushing

“It was right here.” I said.

I was back on the top of the hill only this time it was Mr. Carrington and the sheriff with me instead of Sarah. The view was not as appealing as it had been. There was blood on the ground where we had last been together. Breath caught in my throat as we looked around for her.

I had rode back to Carrington Manor just as Sarah had asked. I told them she needed help, but no one listened. Finally I had found Mr. Carrington by the stables and when I tried to tell him Sarah was in trouble he called me hysterical. I slapped him across the face and on any other day it would have been the mistake of my life. Not this day, this day I had right on my side.

Jasper arrived just as Mr. Carrington was about to respond. His saddle was empty and he had thrown a shoe. One look in his eyes was it all took to know that if there had been anything else he could have done, he would not be before us. Mr. Carrington looked between Jasper and myself and only then asked me to explain. If only I had the presence Sarah has, they would have listened before it was too late.

Instead the evening hours had came and the trail was growing cold. The setting sun had brought a heavy wind with it and the fallen leaves scattered across the ground with every gale. There would not be enough light to search for very long.

“Sarah!” The sheriff called into the wind.

I stayed at the top of the hill as Mr. Carrington and the Sheriff began a descent on the backside of the hill. They spread out from me in a “V” trying to cover as much ground as quickly as they could.

“I should never have left her.” I said to myself and the hill I stood upon.

It may surprise you, I know it surprised me, but I meant those words. It is true that Sarah Waters and I are cut from different cloths, shaped from different molds, but despite it all, I think of her as a friend. I freely admit I did not begin with her as such, in fact my initial intentions were to teach her the proper place of a pauper such as herself, but that was before I realized she was much more than she appeared. In another time and place she might well have been royalty.

“Over here!” The sheriff shouted.

Mr. Carrington changed directions and headed for him. I started down the hill toward him, careful of my footing. As I approached I could see he was cradling a body in his arms. I fought tears back and forced myself to keep moving. Standing just above him, I blinked my blurry eyes clear. It was a boy in his arms, not Sarah.

The boy coughed and then howled in pain. The Sheriff held him still but it was a struggle and as I looked, I could see why. The boys right leg was clearly broken and his left arm looked to be in not much better shape. Mr. Carrington came up beside me.

“We’ll need help to get him down from here.” The Sheriff said.

“I’ll go.” I volunteered.

“No, it’s getting dark. Best if you stay here and try to keep him calm.” Mr. Carrington said.

The Sheriff nodded at him. I thought about arguing but decided this was neither the time nor the place for it. I knelt down beside the sheriff and brushed a strand of stray blonde hair from the boys forehead. He whimpered.

“Shhh… You’ll be okay.” I said.

The sheriff moved away for a private word with Mr. Carrington. The wind was blowing hard enough I could not make out their words. The meaning was clear enough though, no sign of Sarah and not enough light left to search by. The boy would take priority for the night and Sarah would have to fend for herself.

Mr. Carrington made his way off back toward Providence. The sheriff stood behind me and laid a hand on my shoulder. It was not much for comfort but there was strength and it would have do until there was something better.

“We’ll continue the search for Miss Waters at first light.” He said.

I nodded my understanding but kept my attention focused on the boy. He kept trying to move and I had to hold him still. The more I touched him the more he struggled. At last I lost patience and slapped him.

“Hold still!” I shouted at him.

“Stay away from me!” He shouted back.

The sheriff joined me on the ground and helped hold the boy still while he continued struggle. The boy looked at me with pure hatred it was disquieting to see and frightening to feel. The sheriff saw it as well.

“Did you encounter a woman like her today?” He asked the boy.

“She’s the devil.” The boy replied.

And then the sky began to rain.

Beyond My Control

October 3, 1896
Anna Cushing

It is all Sarah’s fault. Everything. Every little thing.

The day started out wrong and just got worse. My morning bath was cold water only as the furnace broke just before my turn. How is that Sarah’s fault you ask? She was the last one to get a warm bath this morning. She must have done something wrong with the furnace to break it. God knows the backwards girl probably never saw one before coming here.

Suffering through I managed to approximate cleanliness before returning to my room to dress for the day. I had laid my dress out carefully on my bed before heading to the bath and it was still there only as I started to put it on the seems began to rip out. Never have I suffered such humiliation before in my life and I was alone in the room! It can only be the rotted thread of Sarah’s ragged excuses for clothing that have caused the thread in my own things to begin to rot. The girl is a tragedy and she does not even know it.

After settling on a blouse and skirt combo for the day instead, I began to style my hair with the help of my mirror and brush. The mirror slipped from my hand as I was inserting pins to keep my hair up. The handle was greasy and slick, it must be from Sarah’s hair touching it. Her hair is always greasy and unkempt. The mirror shattered of course and that can only mean seven years of bad luck. If it is the last thing I do, I will see to it that Sarah gets those seven years.

Breakfast at least went without further disaster, but my first class revealed I had forgotten to bring my books and my homework with me. If not for all the disasters of Sarah’s making from my morning that would never have happened. It was completely unfair that I found myself bent over a stool, bare bottom waving at the class, while being spanked within an inch of my life. As if that was not humiliation enough the bastard made me wear the dunce cap and sit on the stool for the remainder of the class. It should have been Sarah and I swear it will be as soon as I can devise how.

Teasing from my fellow Primrose Girls was entirely unacceptable and completely unavoidable. A lady should never be subjected to such ridiculous and archaic methods, particularly for such a simple and completely understandable mistake. Naturally, I called home to complain to Daddy. He was unavailable though and Mom was practically gloating about my predicament. I responded as one does when ridiculed, by cursing and slamming the phone down without allowing Mom to reply.

Unfortunately, I turned around and ran straight into Sarah, knocking her down. She was walking and talking with Miss Bowen. Why could she not watch where she was going and stay out of my way? Does she not understand that it for peasants like her to steer clear of the path of ladies like me? Miss Bowen is equally ignorant of such matters, little more than a peasant herself. She demanded an apology from me. FROM ME!

I demanded the apology I was due.

“Excuse me?” Sarah stammered from the floor.

Miss Bowen helped her up but managed to stare disapprovingly at me the entire time. I waved her off before I said anything to create more trouble and walked away to focus on my studies. I should have known better by this point. I should have gone upstairs, crawled into bed and waited for tomorrow to come. Should have, would have, could have, none of it matters when you do none of the above.

The spine of my mathematics text was somehow damaged and as I tumbled through the pages to the appropriate section, the pages fell from the book to the floor. I screamed. I cried. I stormed out of the house for a ride in hopes something might go right for the day but when I got to the stables the door was locked.

Frustrated I went back to the house and took a nap until dinner. At the bell I came downstairs and took my place at the table, next to Sarah. I was still annoyed with her but I gave my best pleasant lady smile to her. She nodded at me as if that meant something. Strange girl.

Dinner was vegetable stew with cornbread. It was tasty enough and appropriate to the days cold weather. I sipped it with pleasure and tried to let the days misdeeds flow away into the warm comfort. Sarah however, kept bumping me with her elbow. I moved as far to my left as I could to avoid her but it made no difference. Obviously no one ever taught her table manners. Naturally, I took on the job. I dumped her bowl in her lap. That ought to teach her right?

Miss Bowen saw me. I thought she was preoccupied with Miss Bassett, but she saw anyway. I was sent up to my room to wait for her. I groaned on my way out but was smart enough to keep myself from saying anything to make matters worse. Sarah was getting all the sympathy and she was the real problem.

Who would have thought going to my room would actually lead to more trouble? Believe it or not it did. I arrived at my room to find the door open and a flickering light illuminating from within. I stepped into the doorway to see a man busily sorting through our schoolbooks and tossing them recklessly around the room which looked as if a tornado had ran through it. I cleared my throat.

The man froze and then looked at me. He was mostly in shadows so I could not get a good view of his features and then he threw a lantern at me. It hit me in the head and shattered. The man ran straight into me, hit me in the stomach and then kicked my feet out from under me, sending me crashing to the hall floor. He then disappeared. I am sure it was not into thin air but I did not see where he went.

Miss Bowen arrived a few moments later when I had managed to sit myself down on my bed. She looked around the room, looked at me and shook her head at me. I started to speak but she cut me off.

“I don’t know what is wrong with you today and frankly, I don’t care. Your behavior toward Miss Waters today is unacceptable and I will not tolerate it. Further I will not tolerate you destroying books or throwing temper tantrums in your room. I am going to let you off this time with a warning as long as you clean this mess up before bedtime, but make no mistake, if this behavior resurfaces again, I will not hesitate to give you a whuppin you’ll likely never forget. Understood?”

“But…” I said.

“Understood?” Miss Bowen interrupted.

“Yes, Miss.” I replied, defeated.

The Days Of Gloria, Part 4

September 18, 1896
Anna Cushing

"I knew her. Not well, but my parents are associated with hers." I said.

Victoria gave my arm a supportive squeeze from beside me. Emma gave a smile from across the room and Sarah was reading in bed again, ignoring all of us like she has done ever since I gave her the lamp. At least she has not told a soul it came from me.

"I cannot understand why a lady of privilege like Gloria would do such a horrible thing. It makes no sense." I continued.

I shook my head and stared down at the floor between my feet. A single tear dropped from the corner of my eye and ran down my cheek. My roommates, Emma and Victoria, were in full sympathy mode. Sarah was oblivious as always but controlling her was just as simple if not as direct.

"If I had been through the humiliation she went through in Mr. Bard's class I think I would have wanted to die as well. He was just awful to her. How can they continue to allow him to teach after what he did?" Emma volunteered.

Emma is a tall girl. She comes from wealth but her fashion sense is dated and her shoulder length brown hair has a habit of hanging in front of her face like it was as she spoke. She fancies herself as an activist, but I think she only says it because she believes it is a popular sentiment among ladies our age.

"I would have ran from the classroom if it had been me." Victoria offered.

Victoria is very tall and very thin. Her feet actually hang off the edge of the bed when she sleeps. She is the least friendly of our group but she has started to warm to me especially since news of Gloria Hill spread. She has very long, straight, black hair which she often brushes for hours in the evening much to my annoyance. Her deep blue eyes are penetrating and cold. She often stares unblinking and sometimes she can be looking right at you but it is like you are not even there.

"It is all just horrible. And you are right, Emma, that shameful excuse for a history teacher should have been dismissed immediately. I think I will call my dad and tell him to have him fired." I said.

"Mr. Bard did nothing wrong." Sarah said, startling the rest of us.

"You are not actually going to defend the bastard?" Victoria asked.

"No, I don't need to. Gloria Hill didn't kill herself." Sarah replied.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Look." Sarah said and then shoved a history text book in front of me.

"I am looking. It is our history book." I said.

"It is Gloria's history book." Sarah said.

"How did you get it?" I asked.

"It was in her room, under her bed."

"What were you doing looking under her bed?" Emma asked.

"That is unimportant." Sarah said.

"So it is her history book, so what?" I said.

"Look at the first four chapters." Sarah said.

I thumbed through them quickly not seeing anything of interest.

"Okay? What am I looking for?"

"The pages are filled with notes, underlines and circles." Sarah said.

"So, I do the same with mine."

"Gloria told Mr. Bard she hadn't read them."

"So she lied or she read them before she decided to..."

"She lied." Sarah said.

"Assuming you are correct, how do you get from there to she did not kill herself?" I asked.

"It is unlikely she would have read the chapters and taken such detailed notes if she intended to kill herself within a few hours. The fact that she lied to Mr. Bard discredits the assumption she killed herself because of the humiliation." Sarah said.

"It does no such thing." Victoria said.

"Gloria Hill deliberately created a situation where Mr. Bard had no choice but to discipline her in front of the class. I believe she wanted him to." Sarah said.

"That's ridiculous. No one in their right mind would do that." I said.

"The evidence is clear she had done the reading and even the homework. Look." Sarah pushed several folded pieces of paper in front me.

I unfolded the sheets and realized each one was a completed homework assignment she had failed to hand in. The most interesting part though was the dates on them. According to the dates written by Gloria's own hand, the assignments had been completed on the days they were assigned.

"Why would she do that?" I asked.

"I think she was curious." Sarah said.

"Curious about how painful and humiliating a spanking would be at school? I dare say if such was the case she found more than she expected or could bare." Emma said.

"I cannot know her thoughts or what she hoped to experience but I am quite certain from this evidence she deliberately created the circumstances of her punishment. I cannot believe she would kill herself after the event simply because it was worse or more than she expected." Sarah said.

"This does not prove she did not kill herself it only casts doubt." I said.

"If we were the authorities looking into her death I would agree with you, but we are not. This evidence was not even searched for by those who should have had an interest in finding the truth." Sarah said.

"You consider the evidence more conclusive simply because you found it?" I asked.

"In a sense, that is correct. What disturbs me is that no one else even looked. She could have had a diary or left a note somewhere in that room, but nobody looked. The investigation or lack of investigation raises my suspicions." Sarah said.

"If she did not kill herself, then who did?" Victoria asked.

It was the question on the tip of my tongue but the last thing I really wanted to ask. That was because I knew the answer all too well.

"Someone else." Sarah said.

"Your talking about murder." I said.

Knock. Knock. The door flew open to reveal Miss Bowen looking rather upset.

"Miss Waters, a word with you in private please." She said in the doorway.

"Just a moment." Sarah said.

"No, now." Miss Bowen commanded.

Sarah stared at her for a moment and then apparently decided the fight was not worth it. She stood and followed Miss Bowen out and down the hall.

Gifts And Horses

September 13, 1896
Anna Cushing

I went for a morning ride after breakfast. Back home, it was just a part of my daily routine but here it is something I only find time for on the weekends. I insisted on taking Prometheus with me and father eventually bowed to my wishes. He always does, even if he does not think so, but that is to be expected. Everything is simple when everyone knows their place.

The morning boded well for a cool autumn day, despite summer still being the official season for another week. Personally, I am ready for the end of summer. I detest the warm days which make it uncomfortable indoors and unbearable outdoors. The smell of sweat on men is pleasant enough but on a lady it is a disgusting affront. Were I able, I would hibernate through the warmest days of the year.

Upon returning from our ride, I found Sarah in the Manor’s stables. She was grooming a horse and at first I thought it might have been her weekend chore, in which case I was concerned for Prometheus. She did not look at me though, as I entered. She was so enraptured with the creature she seemed not to notice me at all. It was through this observation of behavior I deduced the grooming was not a burden or chore, but an act of love. The horse must be hers.

The revelation was surprising. The thought I might have anything in common with the peasant was almost revolting. I even pondered the possibility she was not as poor as she seems for a moment. The moment passed quickly though as I comforted myself, secure in the knowledge that no one would don the rags she wears day in and day out if they had choice to wear better. No, Sarah is an enigma of sorts but she is what seems, that is part of what makes her so unusual.
I walked over to the stall cautiously, so as not to startle the beast. I rested on the wooden gate and waited for her to notice me. Insultingly, she either did not notice me or she did not care. I smiled anyway.

“He’s gorgeous.” I said.

She did not jump or turn toward me, but instead she kept brushing him.

“Thank you.” She said.

“I was unaware you had a horse here.” I said, trying to initiate a conversation.

“Neither was I.” She said so quietly, I almost did not hear.

“He’s not yours?” I asked, wondering if I had erred in my assumption.

“No, he is. I didn’t know he was here or that he was even coming.” She said.

She sounded sad.

“I am certain your family only wanted to surprise you with a little bit of home.” I said.

She looked over at me at last. Her expression was more distrust than anything.

“Why are you talking to me?” She asked.

Obviously she has never been taught the conventions of socialization. Only a peasant would ask such a direct and rude question, but my goal was not to insult her or further aggravate our relationship.

“I realize we have not started out well, but we are roommates. We should try to be friends.” I said.

“And you think feigning interest in my horse is a good way to start?”

“I am not feigning interest. Poseidon, over there is mine. We have something in common, I thought it would be as good a place as any to begin from.”

She looked out to where I indicated Poseidon and for the briefest moment there was a softening of her expression.

“Maybe I was a little quick to judge. We could ride together tomorrow if you like?” She said.
Perfect.

“That would be pleasant. After breakfast?”

“I will be ready.”

I nodded at her and started to walk back to the Manor. A curiosity stopped me for a moment though and I turned back to her.

“What is his name?” I asked.

“Jasper.” She said.

Back in our room I was fortunate to find it empty. I took out the package I had bought in town on morning ride and laid it carefully on Sarah’s bed. I scribbled a quick note and sealed it in an envelope, placing it atop the small box. It was a minor thing, nothing extravagant but I was certain Sarah needed it, but I did not want our roommates to know I had purchased it. Sarah should be grateful and if she is, she will keep it between us.

Expectations

September 5, 1896
Anna Cushing

“You don’t seriously want to go away to that drab school do you?” Mom asked.

“It’s not drab. Brown University is one of the best traditional colleges in the country if not the world.”

“But you won’t be going to Brown, dear.”

“Primrose is part of it, whether anyone admits it or not.”

“I still don’t understand what you think you will gain there.”

“I know you don’t. You can’t.”

“Don’t go acting all superior, young lady. You aren’t too big to go over my knee and don’t you forget it.”

“I’m not being superior, mom. It’s just you can’t understand what this means to me because it will never have that meaning to you. Maybe someday I’ll know how to explain it better but I don’t think it matters.”

“Your grandmother was like that too. Always so much better than the rest of us. We could never do right by her and we could never understand things as she did. She was so misunderstood that no one even visits her grave. Is that what you want for yourself?”

“No, mom. I want to matter. I want to be something more than a wife and a mother.”

“So, now I don’t matter? Have I been such a huge disappointment to you?”

“No. Please, mom can we just agree that we don’t agree?”

“If this is what you really want, Anna. I don’t pretend to understand it, but if it makes you happy then I can accept it.”

“Thank you.”

She shook her head at me. There was a soft smile on her face but her cheeks were damp with tears. She was afraid of losing me, but I do not know why. We have never been close like mother and daughter should be. There have always been subtle disagreements, disapprovals in everything I have done from the day I was born to the first day I attended school to the day I left for Primrose College.

Maybe it is guilt that causes me to dream of that conversation almost nightly. Maybe it is because for the first time in my life I believed my mom actually cared about me. It is done with now though, so why does it matter to me?

Primrose College is everything I expected and nothing like what I expected. Contradictory as that may sound it remains true. I had known I would share a room with other girls. I had known there would be rules and discipline and schedules. These things I expected and accepted without remorse. I had however, expected the room to be at least as large as my bedroom at home. The fact that I am sharing a room with three other girls which is scarcely larger than my closet is an annoyance.

Then there is the matter of chores. At home we have servants to do the menial work and with the amount of money my dad sent the Carrington’s I would expect them to hire a few servants as well. Instead they opt for indentured servitude of the girls in their care. I had perfect nails when I arrived and now only one is not shattered to the quick. It is intolerable.

Even more so, when one of my roommates is nothing more than a servant herself. It is humiliating to be seen in her company. She wears rags and smells of dirt and sweat. If her hair has ever met a comb it is probably still lost in the tangled mess of it. And if all that was not enough, she knows not her place. In time that will change though, I will see to it.

Of course such things take careful planning and time. Mom always said you can catch more flies with honey and in this case she is doubly right. Helping the girl out will gain her trust and make living with her more tolerable in the meantime. By the time I am finished she will thank me for allowing her to do my chores and anything else I want.