Free Wildthorn by Jane Eagland

and Mamma had agreed, I was amazed. But it made sense—she was glad to let someone else teach me and deal with my awkward questions.
    I'd been shocked when Papa had said no. But when he'd explained—that what girls did at school was a waste of time—spending hours lying on a backboard improving their posture, copying "Lord Tennyson is a poet" a hundred times, and making wax flowers, it all became clear.
    Mamma didn't want me to be educated—she wanted me to acquire what she called "some graces." She wanted me to be out of the way at school in the morning and then come home and be patient, cheerful and obedient and do boring ladylike things, instead of shutting myself in my room with my books.
    She had hated it when Papa arranged lessons with Mr. Fielding, the local schoolmaster, for me. She thought it was totally unsuitable that I should study the same subjects as boys. What did she say to Papa? "It will spoil her chances of marriage. Do you want her to become
mannish?
"
    Her mouth had twisted then, as if she was eating lemons.
    But I'd been excited to have a chance to study seriously—I couldn't wait to know all those things. And I thought it was a
chance to show Tom that I wasn't "just a useless girl." I thought he might even respect me for it. Silly of me. When he was home and deigned to take any notice of me, Tom teased me about my studies, obviously thinking it was a great joke.
    The lessons with Mr. Fielding—algebra, geometry, Latin, Greek, and science—were harder than I'd expected, but really interesting. And I hadn't told Mamma or Papa yet, but Mr. Fielding thought I would soon be ready to take some of the Cambridge Local Examinations, and not just the Junior ones but the Senior ones that boys took just before they left school.
    The reason I hadn't told them was because I was beginning to form a tentative plan for my future. But I wasn't as clever as Tom, who'd just started his second year at medical school in London. If I was going to pass these exams I'd have to work hard, which was why I couldn't afford to waste any time on pointless things like paying calls with Mamma.
    I sighed. For now, I didn't have any choice.
    ***
    I put my gloved hand to my mouth to stifle a yawn and tried not to stare at the clock. Mrs. Piper's drawing room, crammed with oversize chairs, little tables and ugly ornaments, was stuffy. I was warm in my bonnet and cloak, but my mother had warned me not to take them off unless I was invited to. I remembered Charlotte Mitchell. Apparently she had been right.
    She would have been at ease in this situation even at the age of ten. She wouldn't have had to search for another pair of gloves because she'd split one cramming hands that were too big into the delicate kid. Her face wouldn't have ached with the effort of smiling.
    Mamma and Mrs. Piper were discussing some charity or other. This was our fourth call of the afternoon. Mamma had told me it wasn't polite to stay for more than fifteen minutes, which was a relief, but each visit seemed to last an age. I wondered whether Grace had to put up with this. I couldn't see Aunt Phyllis tolerating such tedious conversation.
    My eyes slid to the clock again. Five minutes to go. I suppressed another yawn.
    The door opened and the parlour maid appeared. Unlike Mary, she wore a smart apron and cap. She bobbed a curtsey. "Mrs. Winterton and Miss Winterton, Ma'am." She withdrew.
    Mamma gave me a significant look. What did she mean?
    Two women entered the drawing room. The stout mother was squeezed into a dress in garish shades of green and violet. The daughter was older than me. Her grey gown with scarlet trimmings was a perfect fit; she had a handsome, but haughty face. My feet suddenly seemed enormous. I tucked them under my chair.
    My mother rose and coughed. After a second, I stood up too.
    To my surprise, Mamma said, "Goodbye, Mrs. Piper." She looked at me.
    "Oh, goodbye, Mrs. Piper," I echoed.
    I followed my mother to the door. As she passed the