A School for Unusual Girls Read Free Page A

Da Vinci and his—”
    â€œ Wings .” My mother cut me off and rolled her eyes upward to contemplate the ceiling. She employed the same mocking tone she always used when referring to that particular incident.
    â€œNot wings,” I defended, my voice a bit too high-pitched. “A glider. A kite.”
    Mother ignored me and stated her case to Miss Stranje without any inflection whatsoever. “She’s a menace. Dangerous to herself and others.”
    â€œI took precautions.” I forced my voice into a calmer, less ear-bruising range, and tried to explain. “I had the stable lads position a wagon of hay beneath the window.”
    â€œYes!” Father clapped his hands together as if he’d caught a fly in them. “But you missed the infernal wagon, didn’t you?”
    â€œBecause the experiment worked.”
    â€œHardly.” With a scornful grunt he explained to Miss Stranje, “Crashed into a sycamore tree. Wore her arm in a sling for months.”
    â€œYes, but if I’d made the kite wider and taken off from the roof—”
    â€œThis is all your doing.” My father shot a familiar barb at my mother. “You never should’ve allowed her to read all that scientific nonsense.”
    â€œI had nothing to do with it,” she bristled. “That bluestocking governess is to blame.”
    Miss Grissmore . An excellent tutor. A woman of outstanding patience, the only governess in ten years able to endure my incessant questions, sent packing because of my foolhardy leap. I glared at my mother’s back remembering how I’d begged and explained over and over that Miss Grissmore had nothing to do with it.
    â€œI let the woman go as soon as I realized what she was.” Mother ignored Father’s grumbled commentary on bluestockings and demanded of Miss Stranje, “Well? Can you reform Georgiana or not?”
    There are whispers among my mother’s friends that, for a large enough sum, the mysterious Miss Stranje is able to take difficult young women and mold them into marriageable misses. Her methods, however, are highly questionable. According to the gossip, Miss Stranje relies upon harsh beatings and cruel punishments to accomplish her task. Even so, ambitious parents desperate to reform their daughters turn a blind eye and even pay handsomely for her grim services. It’s rumored that she even resorts to torture to transform her troublesome students into unexceptional young ladies.
    Unexceptional .
    Among the beau monde , being declared un exceptional by the patronesses of society is the ultimate praise. It is almost a prerequisite for marriage. Husbands do not want odd ducks like me. Being exceptional is a curse. A curse I bear.
    I care less than a fig for society’s good opinion. Furthermore, I haven’t the slightest desire to attend their boring balls, nor do I want to stand around at a rout, or squeeze into an overcrowded sweltering soiree. More to the point, I have no intention of marrying anyone.
    Ever .
    My mother, on the other hand, languishes over the fact that, despite being a wealthy wool merchant’s daughter with a large dowry, and having been educated in the finer arts of polite conversations, playing the pianoforte, and painting landscapes in pale watercolors, she had failed to bag herself a title. She’d married my father because he stood second in line to the Earl of Pynderham. Unfortunately, his older brother married shortly thereafter and produced several sturdy sons, thus dashing forever my mother’s hopes of becoming a countess. As a result, her desire to elevate her standing in society now depends on puffing me off in marriage to an earl, or perhaps a viscount, thereby transforming her into the exalted role of mother to a countess.
    A thoroughly ridiculous notion.
    Has she not looked at me? My figure is flat and straight. I doubt I shall ever acquire much of a bosom. I have stubborn freckles