Chapter 35
Spurred on by the looming shadow of poverty, we threw ourselves into work as if survival depended on it…
because it did. I told my regular customers that I was taking on new clients, and word spread faster than gossip at a cotillion.
Soon, business was coming in as fast as I could handle it.
I felt guilty charging more than a silver coin per scroll, even though my translations were worth far more.
Most villagers couldn’t pay more than that and it wouldn’t get me any work if I charged a higher price.
At the same time, I felt guilty for not charging more, because it meant I worked until my eyes and hands ached, and I had no time to fulfill my promise to Cynthia of helping her with the cooking and cleaning.
As it was, I still barely scraped together enough to help keep us afloat.
No matter what, guilt was my constant companion.
Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. Just as Mother and I had needed hard change to drag us out of despair after Father’s death, Cynthia seemed to need it too.
Grief can drown anyone if they sit too still.
We needed her, and in needing her, we gave her a reason to rise from bed each morning.
She scrubbed floors, polished banisters, aired linens, and cleaned like she was scrubbing grief itself out of the walls.
Meanwhile, Mother and Comfort drummed up students for their finishing school.
It was a novelty in our small town, and novelty always sold.
Mothers whispered to one another in the market stalls about turning their awkward little ducklings into swans.
By the end of the month, our small school had several eager pupils.
Mother lit up with her old spark of life again, humming while she prepared delicate fabrics in the dressmaking room or while rearranging chairs to form a makeshift ballroom.
Comfort dug out her harp and filled the house with beautiful melodies, preparing to teach music.
Finally—after two long weeks of scrubbing, stitching, and advertising, the finishing school opened its doors.
Cynthia had worked herself ragged until every surface gleamed.
Even the cobblestones on the path outside gleamed.
Flowers spilled color into the front courtyard, and I watched from my upstairs window as the first trickle of students arrived and traipsed up our front path.
They giggled nervously, clutching their satchels and cooing to each other about their outfits.
By midday, the manor shook with their chatter: off-key notes screeched from the music room, shrieks followed every stabbed finger in sewing, and arguments erupted over who had to pretend to be the boy during dance lessons.
All that noise made it nearly impossible to focus on my own work—squinting to decipher the dreadful handwriting of a merchant determined to post his prices in three languages to draw a wider range of customers.
But despite the distraction, I felt proud.
I was contributing. Together, the four of us were not only surviving, but building something new.
By working as hard as I did, I was making it so Cynthia was able to do something she loved instead of being forced into the workplace while still mourning her father.
That evening, after the students had gone home, Cynthia served steaming plates of food while Mother and Comfort slumped at the table, too exhausted to even notice what they were eating.
“I don’t think I ever sounded like those girls,” Comfort muttered, rubbing her temples with her eyes closed. “I thought at least one of them would find the right note on purpose. I would have even accepted them hitting the right notes on accident.”
“And I’ll be lucky if we can scrub all the blood out of the dress fabric,” Mother sighed. “So many pricked fingers. I was too ambitious. I should’ve started them on handkerchiefs.”
“Yes, but a handkerchief won’t save them from those atrocious gowns,” Comfort said with a small laugh. “If I have to see one more orange-and-purple monstrosity with bows the size of carriage wheels, I’ll scream.”
Mother chuckled, though her eyes were tired. “That does seem to be a popular color scheme here doesn’t it?” Then she looked at me. “Truly, how’s your work coming along?”
“Fine,” I said lightly, though my head was still throbbing from a day of deciphering chicken scratch while girls shrieked downstairs.
I didn’t want to reveal how much slower and more difficult my work had become with my concentration being broken on such a regular basis; I would need to find a quieter place to work.
“I should start on those genealogy charts and ancestor stories tomorrow for Lady Magdelena.”
“And you, Cynthia?” Mother asked warmly. “How was your day?”
Cynthia poked at the food on her plate. “I cooked and cleaned and cooked some more. Not much else to report.”
“Well, this is delicious,” I said quickly. “Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” echoed Mother and Comfort, but Cynthia only lowered her eyes and kept eating.
The days blurred into weeks. The school grew louder and, consequently, the time it took to do my translations dragged longer.
Eventually, I escaped to the attic where the students’ chaos was nothing but a muffled hum beneath the floorboards.
There, cramped and overheated as I hunched over parchment in the dim light, I copied line after line, hour after hour.
Between the school’s earnings and my own, we managed not only to survive but to set aside a little extra each month.
But survival demanded we give everything—every ounce of energy and every spare moment to working.
Even at night, Mother and Comfort would stay up late to prepare the next day’s lessons and I was always trying to capitalize on the quiet house to squeeze in just one extra translation.
Supper became the one time we relaxed. Comfort and Mother often burst into laughter, trading stories of their pupils’ disasters.
One girl had burned off a clump of hair trying to curl it on a heated poker.
Another had accidentally stitched her sewing sampler straight onto her own gown.
There was never a shortage of amusement in teaching.
My day was never that entertaining, so I rarely had anecdotes to share. Cynthia expressed a similar sentiment. So night after night, I listened to Mother and Comfort’s laughter and smiled, quietly grateful that at least someone in the family could still find joy in the chaos.