Promise Me Tomorrow. Candace CampЧитать онлайн книгу.
her chest, but she squared her shoulders and thrust out her chin. She was not the sort to knuckle under without a fight. She thought of the way her father would ruffle her hair and chuckle, calling her his tiger.
“But I wasn’t by the side of the road,” she insisted.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I can see that you are going to be stiff-necked. Redheads are always trouble.”
“I am sure she will settle down,” the man said quickly, panic tinging his voice. “Once she has been here awhile, she will be all right.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” the woman replied with a faintly sardonic smile. She looked at him as if she, too, knew what he was thinking, Marie Anne noticed. “We shall take her. I am not one to turn away a soul just because she is obviously in need of improvement. We shall straighten her out soon enough.” The woman’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.
The man let out a sigh of relief and set Marie Anne down. “Thank you.”
He turned and hurried toward the door. Little as the girl had liked him, it frightened her to see him leave. Even he was better than this hard-faced woman.
“No! Wait!” Marie Anne shrieked, turning to run after him, but the woman hooked a hand in her sash and jerked her back.
“Stop it! Stop that behavior this instant!” The woman accompanied her words with a stinging slap to the back of the girl’s legs, bare below her skirts.
Marie Anne, who had never been struck in her life, whirled and gaped at the woman. The man hurried out the door, closing it after him.
“That’s better.” The woman nodded approvingly. “The children of St. Anselm’s do not act that way, as you will soon find out. The children of St. Anselm’s are quiet and obedient. Now…” Satisfied that she had set this unseemly child on the proper path, the woman looked her over. “How old are you?”
“Five,” the girl responded promptly, rather proud of her age.
“And what is your name?”
“Marie Anne.”
“That is scarcely a proper name for a child of your sort. No doubt you are that gentleman’s by-blow. Just plain Mary will do fine for you. Do you have a last name?”
Marie Anne stared at her. “I—I’m not sure. I am just Marie Anne.”
“Do you have a father?”
“Of course I do!” Marie Anne responded indignantly. “And he will come here and get me! And he will make you sorry!”
“No doubt,” the matron said dryly. “There are many children waiting for their fathers to come. In the meantime, we shall have to give you a name. Now, what do people call your father?”
“Chilton,” she answered.
“All right. Mary Chilton. That is your name. I am called Mrs. Brown. I am the matron of St. Anselm’s.”
“But that’s not my name,” Marie Anne protested indignantly.
“It is now. Do not contradict me. I told you before that that is not acceptable behavior.”
“But you’re wrong!”
Mrs. Brown’s hand lashed out and slapped Marie Anne sharply across her ear. “You will not speak to me that way. Do you understand?”
Stunned, Marie Anne nodded, her hand going up to her cheek. Never in her life had she been treated in such a manner. Even during the past few harrowing weeks, rocking about the countryside with Mrs. Ward and John and the baby, running from those bad people and having to pretend that they were Mrs. Ward’s children—even during all that, no one had ever raised a hand to her or talked to her in this way. Tears pooled in her eyes, and for a moment she wavered on the edge of bursting into tears. But years of aristocratic breeding came to her rescue, and she stiffened her back, gazing up at the woman coolly. Mama would say that this woman was déclassée, she decided. Papa, on the other hand, would say that what she had done was “bad form.” She clung to the words, hearing her parents in her head.
“Answer me when I speak to you,” Mrs. Brown snapped.
“Yes, Mrs. Brown,” Marie Anne responded dutifully, but her voice was chilly and carried all the humility of a duchess.
The older woman looked at her sharply but could not quite put her finger on what it was in the girl’s tone that raised her hackles. Finally she turned away, saying crisply, “Follow me.”
She led her up the stairs and down a hallway barely lit by a few sconces on the wall. The candlelight flickered and flared, casting strange shadows. Marie Anne felt fear rising up in her throat, but she pushed it back down. She could hear her Mimi’s voice the time she had gone running to her in tears when John and the boys were teasing her with scary stories: “Head up, my girl. Never let them know you’re afraid. It would give them far too much pleasure.”
Mrs. Brown stopped at a cupboard and opened it, pulling out a thin blanket and a folded brown dress. To the top of the pile she added a white petticoat, faded through many washings, a pair of rough lisle stockings, darned in several places, and an overly large nightgown. She handed the stack to Marie Anne.
“Here are your clothes and a blanket for your bed.”
Marie Anne looked doubtfully at the ugly brown dress. “But I have clothes. I like my dress better.”
The older woman cast a scornful glance at Marie Anne’s attire. “Your clothes are completely inappropriate. Far above your station. You are at St. Anselm’s now, and you will wear the dress I gave you.”
Remembering the stinging slap, Marie Anne decided not to argue. She merely hugged the stack of her new possessions tightly to her chest and followed Mrs. Brown into the room beyond the cupboard.
It was a long room, lined with narrow beds along either side. Beside each bed was a small chest with three drawers. In each bed lay a girl. Marie Anne had never seen so many people sleeping in one room before. Was she expected to sleep here, among so many other children? Where was her room? She thought with longing of the nursery at home, with her own snug little room, and John and Nurse and the baby all in their little rooms across the schoolroom from her.
Some of the children slept, but most of them awoke at Mrs. Brown’s entrance. In the glow of the woman’s candle, Marie Anne could see wide-open eyes peeking out from beneath their blankets. Mrs. Brown turned to Marie Anne.
“Now, I want you to undress and get into bed. Tomorrow you will be introduced to the other children and assigned your duties.”
“Duties?”
“Of course. Everyone earns their keep around here.” The woman turned and started away.
“But—what about the light?” Marie Anne asked, unable to completely hide the tremor in her voice at the thought of being left here in the dark. “How can I see to undress?”
“There is plenty of light from the windows,” the matron answered, indicating the tall, curtainless windows that lined either side of the room. “I don’t allow children to waste candles.”
With those words, the woman strode out of the room. Marie Anne watched the flickering light of her candle recede. Tears welled in her eyes, and her chin began to wobble, no matter how hard she struggled to keep it still. She had never felt so alone in all her life, even the night her mother had handed them over to Mrs. Ward, then hurried out the door, sobbing. At least then she had had John and Alexandra, and she had known Mrs. Ward, who was a kind, soft-spoken woman. But now—now she was utterly alone and abandoned.
A small hand slipped into hers, and a soft voice whispered, “’Ere now, don’t cry. It’ll be better tomorrow, you’ll see.”
Marie Anne turned to see a girl about her size, but with a face much older than hers. She looked at the girl curiously, her tears slowly subsiding. She wiped them away with her hand and