The Education of Bet Read online

  The Education of Bet

  Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  * * *

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Boston New York 2010

  * * *

  For Jack Baratz (1921–1992),

  my father, a man who believed

  in stretching the mind every day:

  I still miss you, Dad.

  Copyright © 2010 by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to

  reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions,

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Houghton Mifflin is an imprint of

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  The text of this book is set in Adobe Garamond.

  Book design by Susanna Vagt.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Baratz-Logsted, Lauren.

  The education of Bet / by Lauren Baratz-Logsted.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Denied an education because of both her gender and

  background, sixteen-year-old Elizabeth cuts her hair and alters suits

  belonging to Will, her wealthy patron's grandnephew, to take his place at

  school while Will pursues a military career in nineteenth-century England.

  ISBN 978-0-547-22308-7

  [1. Sex role—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Social classes—Fiction. 4.

  Orphans—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—History—19th century—Fiction.] I.

  Title.

  PZ7.B22966Edu 2010

  [Fic]—dc22 2009049710

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  45XXXXXXXX

  * * *

  Thanks go to:

  Julia Richardson, for being my kind of editor;

  Pamela Harty, for being my kind of agent;

  Lauren Catherine, Greg Logsted, Robert Mayette, and

  Andrea Schicke Hirsh, for being my kind of writing group partners;

  Lucille Baratz, for being my kind of mother;

  Greg Logsted, for being my kind of husband;

  Jackie Logsted, for being my kind of daughter.

  As you can see, my world is filled with my kind of people.

  I am a very lucky woman, indeed.

  * * *

  Prologue

  Everything I needed to wear beneath my clothes was already in place.

  I selected a shirt the color of unspoiled snow, eased my arms into the sleeves, slowly did up the buttons from narrow waist to chest and finally to neck. It felt peculiar to wear something on my upper body, in particular my waist, that did not bind my skin like a glove. How odd not to feel constricted where one expected to. The trousers that I slid up over the slight swell of my hips were made of black superfine wool, and I buttoned these as well. This was even more peculiar, the sensation of the expensive fabric against my calves and thighs.

  A sound in the outer hallway brought me up short. Was someone coming? The threat of intrusion, of discovery before I'd finished, terrified me. It was a danger I lived with daily, as natural to my new life as a lack of danger had been to my old one. But after a long moment spent stock-still, hearing no more noises, I concluded that the sounds were of my imagination's making, a product of my fears.

  I was well practiced in the art of tying ties, and I commenced doing so now, taking up the length of black silk and fitting it around my collar. Then I took the ends and fashioned a knot that I knew without looking would fall at a slightly rakish angle. My intention was to convey that perfect mix of convention (I was wearing a tie) and indifference to convention (I did not care how that tie looked). Over all, I put on a black superfine wool coat that matched the trousers.

  Only then, when I was fully dressed except for shoes, did I turn to confront my reflection in the looking glass.

  And what did I see there?

  A clean-shaven young gentleman about sixteen years of age, with thick black hair so wavy there was almost a curl to it—there would be, on humid days—and eyes nearly as dark; pale skin; generous lips; a fine straight nose. The young man looking back at me was handsome and gave off an air of self-confidence.

  There was just one problem; two, actually.

  The barely discernible bulge in the front of the trousers had been created by a carefully balled-up pair of stockings.

  And the young gentleman—I—was a girl.

  Chapter one

  "William, I am so disappointed in you!"

  Paul Gardener always addressed his great-nephew as William when he was displeased with something he had done.

  I was seated on a chair by the fireplace, sewing, my long skirts around me, as I had been just a moment before when a servant at the door to the drawing room had announced Will. The drawing room ran the length of the house, from front to back, and had large windows at either end that cast long shadows now that night was nearly upon us. The ceiling was a blinding white, while the walls were painted scarlet, punctuated with well-placed brass candle fixtures; the master of the house and I were seated at the room's far end. There was an enormous area rug, also in scarlet but accented with cream, and a large bookcase containing all of the master's favorite volumes, of which I'd read more than a few.

  "Bet." Will acknowledged me with a nod after first greeting his great-uncle, as was proper.

  "Will." I returned the nod but saw no reason to rise for the occasion, although I was happy to see him. I was always happy to see Will, no matter what the circumstances.

  Paul Gardener did not rise either. It was difficult for him to do so without assistance. In the past few years, he had aged a great deal. Indeed, both eyes, formerly a sharp blue, were now so fogged by cataracts that he glimpsed only flashes of the world through thick clouds, and it was one of my jobs to read to him from the papers or from books when he was of a mind to be read to. Still, despite his many infirmities, Paul Gardener took great care in his dress and appearance; his proud mane of hair was white and thick. I had seen artists' renderings of him when he was younger and knew that in his youth he had been nearly as handsome as Will.

  "I had somewhat hoped you would be happy to see me, Uncle," Will said with a wry smile.

  I dared look at Will no longer for fear I would break out into laughter, so I cast my gaze back down upon my sewing. It was not so much that the sewing needed to be done as that I needed something to do.

  "Of course I am happy to see you!" the old man sputtered. He looked befuddled for a moment as he corrected himself, "Well, that is, if I could see you." After that brief moment of befuddlement, he recalled his outrage. Raising a gnarled fist, he shook the sheet of paper he held clenched in his hand. It was a letter, and ever since I'd read its contents to him last week, he'd been holding it pretty much every moment I had seen him. "What," he thundered, "is the meaning of this?"

  Without needing to look at what his great-uncle was holding, Will knew to what he was referring.

  "It means," he said, "that I have been sent down from school."

  Which is a nice way, I thought, of saying that you have been expelled.

  "I understand that!" the old man said. "I may be blind, or near enough, but I am not stupid. But what I don't understand—what I cannot understand, William—is why?"

  Will's expression softened from its usual air of studied indifference. Whatever else Will was, he did not like to hurt his great-uncle; still, he would not do what was against his nature merely to please. He opened his mouth to speak—perhaps even to make an effort to sound contrite—but he was stopped by the grandfather clock at t
he other end of the room banging out the hour.

  "Oh." Paul Gardener lowered his fist. "It is time for dinner."

  No matter what was going on around him—including storms outside or within the house—Paul Gardener would have his meals on time.

  "The Boers could show up here in London," Will had said to me on his last visit home, "they could march up right to our door and enter, weapons drawn, and Uncle would say, 'You may kill me in half an hour, but first I must finish my supper.'"

  Will approached his great-uncle's chair and, placing his strong hand under the elderly man's elbow, helped him to his feet. "Uncle?" Will invited, holding his own elbow out so that he might escort the old man to the dining room.

  They were nearly through the doorway when Paul Gardener paused and cocked his head, listening. His eyesight may have been awful, but his hearing was perfect.

  "Elizabeth?" he called back to me, having detected the absence of any following footsteps. "Aren't you dining with us this evening?"

  He said this as though I were always welcome at the table, and yet I always waited to be asked, never assuming anything. I knew that indeed my presence was not always welcome.

  "Of course, sir," I said, at once setting aside my sewing. It would never have occurred to me to say no.

  As I followed behind them, I saw Will turn his head and glance back at me over his great-uncle's shoulder. His smile was devilish, and I returned it in full.

  You, Will, I thought, have just been saved by the bell.

  ***

  But that saving did not last long, not even through the soup course.

  "Really, William, how many times does this make that you have been sent down from a school? Is this the second or the third?"

  The dining room was another long room—really, the entire house was filled with long things—and the walls were covered in white wallpaper with a rose pattern. There were framed mirrors on three walls, a china closet, a curio cabinet, and a sideboard on which breakfast was often set out. A large Oriental carpet covered much of the hardwood floor, and the chairs we sat on were ornate, the seats and backs covered in rose crushed velvet, the carved mahogany trim intricate. The mahogany table itself could have sat twenty easily, but we three congregated at one end, Paul Gardener at the head while Will and I faced each other.

  Overhead, the chandelier shimmered brilliantly.

  "It is the fourth," Will admitted, at least having the grace to look embarrassed at this admission.

  "The fourth!"

  A maid entered, Molly, and she silently proceeded to bring the platter of roast beef to the master. Sara followed behind her with the potatoes, and Ann brought up the rear with the assorted vegetables.

  "This last does not really count as being sent down," Will said, smiling as though pleased to be able to make this distinction.

  The old man looked surprised. "It doesn't?"

  "Not at all," Will said as Molly brought the platter to his side. "Since it was end of term, and we were all going home anyway, this falls more under the heading of my being requested never to return."

  "Oh." The old man looked as though his great-nephew had succeeded in scoring an important point. "I see."

  Sometimes I wondered if there was anything Will couldn't get away with.

  Will studied the food on his plate, and I took advantage of his being preoccupied to look at him.

  Will and I had much in common in terms of appearance. Really, given how alike we were, it was no wonder I sometimes thought of Will as my brother. I was very tall for a girl, and we were both lean, although I had some slight curves in places he did not. We both had dark eyes—although his proud eyebrows were slightly heavier, and my lashes were longer—and black hair. The texture of our hair was even similar: wavy with a tendency to curl when the weather was humid. Of course, my hair was very long while his was trimmed much shorter. Oh, and I did not need to shave.

  Funny, I did not think myself pretty, and yet I did find Will handsome.

  "Miss Smith?"

  Those two words called my attention back, and looking to my side, I saw Molly standing there, waiting for me to serve myself from the platter.

  The servants always called me Miss Smith whenever the master and Will were around, but simply Elizabeth when they were not. It was a thing I had never gotten used to, as though I were two different people in one body.

  "Thank you, Molly," I said, helping myself.

  She dipped a curtsy, as she had done after serving the other two, but the one she dipped for me seemed to have some irony to it.

  Well, who could blame her?

  "Elizabeth?" The old man turned to me once all the servants had left. "Can you remember all the reasons William has been sent down from school or, er, requested never to return?"

  I wondered if he really could have forgotten them. I did not like being put in a position where I had to say anything negative about anyone else in the household—my own place felt far too tenuous—but I could not simply ignore a direct question. Well, perhaps if Will were the one asking.

  "Let me see..." I tilted my head toward the ceiling as though it would take a great effort to remember, as though Will's scholastic crimes weren't so notable that of course they sprang readily to mind.

  "The first time was cheating," I said, then stopped myself. "No, that's not right. Will had to build up to that. The first time was lying, it was the second time that was cheating, the third time was general mischief—too many fights and that sort of thing—while this last time, the fourth time—"

  I had to stop myself again, truly puzzled. "Why, I don't know what the fourth time was. The letter never said."

  His great-uncle and I both turned in Will's direction, questioning looks on our faces.

  "I, um, set the headmaster's house on fire," Will said.

  The old man practically jumped out of his seat. "You set—?"

  "But there was no one inside it at the time," Will quickly added.

  "You set—? You could have been arrested! You should have been arrested! Why weren't—"

  "It was a decrepit house," Will said. "The headmaster needed a new one." Then he laughed. "Really, I think he was rather grateful for my efforts, but of course he couldn't say that, so I was merely asked never to return."

  "You're an arsonist!"

  Will shrugged. "Not if I was never charged with any crime."

  Although I'd often thought that Will could probably get away with anything, I did marvel at times that schools kept accepting him, given his history. But then, all I needed to do was look around me, taking in the evidence of the enormous wealth of Paul Gardener and the power I knew went with it. As long as Will had a great-uncle who could buy him out of trouble, schools would continue to accept him; the ones that had been provoked into expelling him had done so only with great reluctance and much apologizing. Were it not for his great-uncle's money and influence, Will would no doubt have become a social pariah for his misdeeds, been kept away from the best of society.

  "I don't understand." The old man threw down his napkin in despair. "You have had every advantage. And you are smart! Why must you lie? Why must you cheat? Why must you do all of these awful ... things?"

  For once, Will, who always had an answer for everything, remained silent.

  If his great-uncle had asked me, I could have answered that question. But he hadn't, and I was glad of that. Will did not like to hurt his great-uncle, and I did not like to do so either; I would never even consider it unless something truly important was at stake.

  "It is almost," the old man said, as though he had seized upon a shrewd thought, "as though you do not want to be at school."

  I almost laughed out loud at this, and from the look on his face, Will was having a similar reaction.

  "But it does not matter what you want," the old man went on, steely now, no longer bothering to wonder why Will did the things he did. "By the end of summer I will have found you yet another school, no matter who I have to bribe or how much it co
sts me. I don't even care if it is the worst school in all of England—which is probably the only sort of place that would accept you at this point—this time, you will not get sent down!"

  ***

  We went back in the drawing room, where Paul Gardener asked for the pudding course to be served, following which he poured a glass of port and requested that I read to him.

  Will made to leave, but, having heard the sound of retreating footsteps, his great-uncle called him back.

  "You will listen to Elizabeth read," the old man commanded. "Who knows? You might even learn something."

  So Will slouched in a chair, hands clasped behind his head, long legs stretched out in front of him, looking bored out of his mind as I read from King Lear.

  The old man liked me to read Shakespeare to him, liked that I had a talent for creating different voices for all the characters so he never had to ask me who was speaking, but not many pages in he was snoring in his seat.

  "Come outside with me, Bet?" Will invited.

  I placed a piece of red silk ribbon to mark the spot where I'd left off reading and gently put the volume aside. Then I followed Will out of the room, to the rear of the house, and through the French doors that led to the back garden.

  Taking a seat on the curved stone bench, I watched as Will paced under the early moonlight.

  With no more sun, and with summer proper yet to get under way, it was chilly out. Could we not, I wondered as I rubbed my hands over my arms for warmth, have discussed whatever Will wanted to discuss inside?

  "If I have to go back to that school, I will go mad!" Will erupted.

  "Well," I said, reasonably enough, "you do not have to go back to that school. In fact, you cannot go back to that school."

  "Any school, then," he said, seething.

  "Will you please stop pacing?" I said. "It is dizzy-making watching you go back and forth like this."

  "Fine." Will still seethed but at least he obeyed my request, coming to sit beside me.

  "Your great-uncle is right," I said. "Your behavior makes no sense. You are smart enough to do well in school, very well, and yet you choose not to. You are good enough not to do the awful things you do, and yet you choose to do them anyway."