Ada’s fists were clenched so tightly as she took the stairs down towards Miss Thornfield’s office that it was hours before the fingernail marks left her palms. It had become clear that she was not going to win a war of attrition with Charlotte Rogers and May Hawkins simply by ignoring or avoiding them. She would never concede, which meant that she was going to have to strike back, and in such a way that it would get them to leave her alone, once and for all.
She hardly even heard Miss Thornfield’s lecture about tardiness, and when the punishment was handed down – a fortnight of extra sewing duties, assisting the costumiers for the end of term concert, instead of attending Natural History Society – Ada was too distracted even to mount a protest.
She turned over the pieces of the puzzle all afternoon, moving them around, trying to force them to make sense, but it was not until much later that night, while Margaret, her roommate, was snoring softly on the other side of the room and Bilī was purring in her arms, that the idea finally came to her.
When it arrived, it was as clear as if someone had entered the room, tiptoed across the floor beside her bed, knelt down low and whispered the idea into her ear.
Ada grinned to herself in the dark: the plan was perfect and so very simple. Better yet, thanks to Charlotte Rogers, she had been given the perfect means with which to execute it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The end of summer term concert was an institution at Miss Radcliffe’s School for Young Ladies, and, as such, rehearsals had begun in the very first week of term. Miss Byatt, the thin, nervous speech and drama teacher, had held a series of auditions, whittling the show to a select group of fifteen performances comprising musical acts, poetry recitals and dramatic soliloquies.
Ada was to appear in the static, unspeaking role of Mouse Two as part of a scene from the pantomime of Cinderella; Charlotte Rogers, as the second cousin twice removed of Ms Ellen Terry, was regarded (not least by herself) as a formidable Shakespearean actress and was thus performing thrice within the show: a recital of one of the sonnets, a rendition of Lady Macbeth’s ‘Out, damned spot!’ monologue, and a parlour song sung to piano accompaniment provided by her friend, May Hawkins.
Due to the small size of the two halls within the house, it was customary to stage the concert within the long barn that stood at the top of the coach way. In the days leading up to the show, each girl was responsible for carrying chairs across from the house and arranging them in rows; those who had not been fortunate enough to be selected for the cast were automatically assigned to stage management tasks, including the assembly of a raised stage and the suspension of proscenium curtains from the rafters above.
In light of the punishment handed down by Miss Thornfield, Ada was especially busy, corralled into joining the sewing circle whose members were making final touches to the girls’ costumes. The occupation was not a natural fit; Ada was terrible at sewing, certainly not capable of making the rows of strong, neat backstitches necessary to anchor two pieces of fabric together. She had, however, been able to demonstrate that she was adept at trimming loose threads and was thus handed a small pair of silver scissors and tasked with ‘neatening the edges’.
‘She is the first one to arrive at each meeting, whereupon she barely makes a peep, such is her commitment to her work,’ the sewing mistress reported to Miss Thornfield, when asked, to which the deputy headmistress gave a thin smile and said, ‘Very good to hear.’
When dawn broke on the day of the concert, the entire school was abuzz. Afternoon lessons were cancelled in order to accommodate a full-cast rehearsal and the show was scheduled to begin promptly at four.
At two minutes before the hour, Valerie Miller, who had auditioned (unsuccessfully) with a rendition of ‘My Wild Irish Rose’ played on the cowbells, was given a nod by Miss Thornfield and started sounding one of her bells to alert the audience that the show was about to begin. Most of the girls and a smattering of parents and siblings, along with certain Very Important community members, were already assembled; but the ringing brought their chatter to an end, at which point the lamps within the hall were dimmed and the black curtains dropped, casting the audience into darkness and allowing the limelights lining the stage to take over.
One by one, the performers took their places within the glow of centre stage, singing and reciting with all of their might, to the warm appreciation of the audience. The programme was not a short one, however, and as the first hour ticked over, the crowd began to flag. By the time Charlotte Rogers appeared onstage for the third time, the younger children were starting to squirm in their seats and yawn, their stomachs to grumble.
Charlotte, ever the professional, was undaunted. She planted her feet squarely and blinked prettily at her audience. Her golden hair tumbled in curls, one thick ringlet over each shoulder, and from behind the piano, May Hawkins watched for a signal to start playing, deepest admiration writ large upon her face.
Ada’s attention, though, was on Charlotte’s costume: a rather grown-up blouse and skirt ensemble – modelled, of course, on one of the stage outfits worn recently by Ellen Terry – that made her look older than she was.
From her seat in the dark hall, Ada watched the other girl carefully, as if by the power of her gaze alone she might move matter. She was nervous – far more nervous than she had been when she was performing as Mouse Two. Her hands were balled in damp fists upon her lap.
It happened as Charlotte hit the highest note, one that she had been practising to reach for the better part of the month. Perhaps it was the significant intake of breath required to make it to high C, or else the way she thrust her arms out wide to entreat the crowd. Whatever the case, as Charlotte attained her note, she dropped her skirt.
The skirt did not drop sluggishly. It dropped suddenly and completely, in one fell swoop, to land in a puddle of white lace and linen on the floor around her dainty ankles.
It was one thousand times better than anything that Ada had dared to imagine.
As she’d trimmed a few of the stitches on Charlotte’s waistband, she had hoped that the garment might slip enough to cause agitation and distraction, but never in a million years had she envisaged this. The way the skirt fell! The exceptional timing with which it collapsed completely, almost as if an invisible force, controlled by Ada’s very mind, had swept into the hall and, on receiving a silent command, yanked down the skirt …
It was by far and away the funniest thing that Ada had seen in many months. And, judging by the thunderous surge of unrestrained laughter that filled the barn, lifting to roll and echo amongst the rafters, the other girls felt the same way.
As Charlotte, pink-cheeked, sang the last few lines, and the crowd continued their rapturous, hooting applause, Ada realised that for the first time since she had come to Birchwood Manor, she felt almost happy.
According to tradition, the supper after the concert was always a more relaxed affair than regular school dinners, and even Miss Thornfield, who generally considered it deeply improper to approach any school event in the spirit of fun, was induced to conduct the annual presentation of the ‘Good Sport’ awards. These were a series of amusing accolades, nominated and voted for by the students, with the aim of reinforcing the air of celebration and merriment that infused the school body as the academic year drew to a close.
For many of the girls, this would be their last school dinner of term. Only a handful of students – those who did not have homes that could be reached by rail or carriage, or whose parents had travelled to the Continent for the summer and been unable to make other arrangements for their daughters – would be staying on through the holidays. Ada was one of them.