2. Mireille
2
MIREILLE
I stood in the hallway of Garner Academy, trembling with cold and fear despite my wool coat. I’d survived the voyage with everything intact, including my virginity, which had been in jeopardy. A young woman traveling alone was not the safest thing, but my parents felt they had no choice.
A secretary, Miss Abrams, had picked me up from the train station. She now escorted me down a long hallway. “You’ll meet Miss Mayfair first, and then she’ll take you to your room, where your trunks await.”
“Thank you, Miss Abrams,” I said politely.
“Your English is excellent,” Miss Abrams said. “Just a hint of an accent.”
“My mother’s American. We spoke English and French at home.” The thought of my mother made my chest ache. Missing her was like a fever. One that didn’t seem in any hurry to leave me.
Apparently, Miss Abrams had seen the signs of homesickness many times, because she was quick to offer comfort. “Ah, there now. Don’t you worry. Pretty soon this will feel like your home.”
I doubted that but nodded politely. Mama and Papa had always insisted on good manners.
“Come along. Miss Mayfair is waiting to welcome you.”
She led me down the hallway, where dark wood floors gleamed under the light from sconces hung on burgundy walls. We passed a library packed with books and girls hunched over their studies. At the end of the hallway, Miss Abrams knocked on the door and was told to enter by a female voice on the other side.
Miss Abrams held the door open for me, and I passed through into a large office. Behind a substantial desk, the headmistress, Miss Mayfair, stood to greet me. I’d not expected her to be young or pretty, but she was both. She wore an impeccable wool tweed suit, and her dark hair was styled in gentle waves that hung just above her neck. Green eyes took me in as she extended her hand.
“Welcome, Mireille. We’re delighted you’re here.” Miss Mayfair had a melodic, clear voice that exuded both warmth and education.
“Thank you, ma’am.” I bobbed my head deferentially as I’d been taught to do my entire life. I’d gone to a school in the city of Bordeaux that was run by nuns who had insisted on respect. A rap on the hand for anyone who defied orders kept us in line.
“Please, Mireille, have a seat. We’ll have a chat before I take you to your room.”
I did so, crossing my ankles and clasping my hands in my lap. The warmth from a lit fireplace thawed me a little.
Miss Mayfair returned to her chair behind the large mahogany desk. A stack of books stood next to a typewriter, which had a piece of paper inserted, wilting over the cartridge. “Your roommate’s been awaiting your arrival with great expectation. Betsy’s former roommate, unfortunately, was expelled recently, leaving her alone in her room. I hope the two of you will become fast friends.”
Expulsion? The very idea made me shudder. What had she done? Is that why they’d had an opening for me?
“What did she do?”
“Cheated on an exam. We take that very seriously here. We want you to grow into well-mannered young women, but we want you to come away with an education beyond that of a finishing school.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My stomach churned. Would I be smart enough to pass my classes?
“We run on a tight and predictable schedule. Breakfast at seven. Morning classes until noon, where you’ll have lunch. Two more periods after lunch, followed by an hour of physical activity. You may choose from tennis, walking outside, or dance class.”
I cheered a little at the thought of dancing. “I shall prefer dancing. Thank you.” I’d taken ballet since before I’d started school. I would never be a professional, but I enjoyed it more than anything other than reading.
“We have a curriculum designed to prepare our young ladies for marriage but also a foundation in academics. Garner girls are well-read and educated in art, history, mathematics, and language. What’s your favorite subject?”
“I like literature, Miss Mayfair.”
“Yes, reading is one of life’s great pleasures. Now, it is time to meet Betsy. She’ll escort you to lunch. On Saturdays and Sundays we allow our girls to enjoy some leisure time, choosing their own schedules, but those privileges are taken away if one falls behind in their studies.”
“I’ll do my best to ensure that doesn’t happen.” I wasn’t worried. Academics and discipline were innate to me. Other than mathematics. “Are there tutors available? For math, in particular?”
“We’ll provide help should you need it.” She stood, straightening her suit jacket over her slim hips. “Shall we?”
I followed her out of the office, heart thudding with such intensity it felt like a drum against my rib cage. Would the American girls accept a stranger from France? What would it be like to sleep in a room with someone else? As an only child, I had no idea.
Please, let them like me.
If I’d imagined what an American girl would look like, it would have been Betsy Westbrook—tall and slender, with fair skin flushed with just the right amount of pink roses and big sapphire eyes in a heart-shaped face. She evoked images of a benevolent queen in a storybook, complete with her shiny cornsilk hair and long, slender neck. I was slightly shocked to see that she wore wide-legged trousers paired with a cashmere sweater instead of a dress. At the moment, she was on her bed, scandalously long legs curled under her, with a book in her lap.
Seeing us, Betsy leapt from the bed, tossing the book aside. “You’re here at last.”
“Betsy, this is your new roommate, Mireille Perrin,” Miss Mayfair said. “I’ll trust you can show her around and look after her these first few days?”
“Leave it to me, Miss Mayfair. I’m more than ready for the challenge.” Betsy grinned, bouncing on the toes of her feet.
No, not a queen. More Thoroughbred horse than queen. When she took both my hands, the strength of her grip and arms hinted at athleticism. My instincts told me this was a girl who’d spent a lot of time in the outdoors, riding horses and playing tennis. A sporty girl.
“Goodness me, you’re a little doll.” Betsy stepped back, her gaze sweeping the length of me. “So tiny.”
“Though she be but little, she is fierce,” I said, quoting my mother, who quoted Shakespeare. Why had I said that? I sounded pretentious, like a show-off.
Betsy clapped her hands together, clearly delighted. “ Midsummer Night’s Dream is one of my favorites. Even though I shall feel like a clumsy oaf around you, I’ll not let my envy ruin our chances of friendship.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Miss Mayfair said in a tone both indulgent and amused. “Enjoy your afternoon.”
We thanked her and returned our attention to each other.
Betsy stepped back, sitting on the edge of her bed. “You must tell me absolutely everything about your life, sparing no details. I’m dying to hear about France. But first, let’s get you settled. Your trunk’s under the bed, and I’m happy to help you unpack. Lunch is in an hour. You’ll sit next to me, so I can introduce you to the other girls. They have us sit according to class at these frightfully long tables that make it impossible to chat with anyone other than those sitting right next to you. After lunch, I’ll take you around the campus and tell you all the secrets.”
Secrets?
“Are there ghosts?” I asked.
Betsy laughed, a throaty noise that sounded like warm honey dripping from a spoon. “What makes you ask that of all things?”
“I don’t know. I’m scared of the dark, and if ghosts are real, they would be here, don’t you agree?” I lowered my voice to sound more dramatic. “All these decades of students? Surely one of them died on the grounds in the most horrific of ways and stayed to haunt Garner Academy evermore.”
Betsy’s eyes widened, and then she laughed. “I’ve not run into any ghosts during my time here. At least not yet.”
We shared a grin before I pulled out my trunk to unpack. I was happy to see my dresses and a few things from home, including a small painting of me and my parents we’d had done right before I left. Mama had sent this trunk directly from home, so that it arrived before me. I’d packed a small suitcase for the ship and was tired of wearing the same two dresses over and over.
While I moved about, Betsy returned to sit on her bed, chattering away. I learned she had a brother, Peter, who was studying at Princeton. “He just started his first year. I absolutely adore him. My mother and father live about an hour from here on the train. Mother will insist you accompany me home for holidays and school breaks.”
“She will?”
“My mother would rather die than think of anyone left behind while the rest of the students visit home. Anyway, we’re going to be best friends, and we’ll have such fun together in Greenwich. That’s the town where my parents live. Well, outside of town. Say you’ll join us for the Thanksgiving break.”
I wasn’t completely sure what Thanksgiving break entailed, but I agreed, not wanting to offend. “I will. Thank you.”
“Do you ride horses?”
I shook my head. “No, my family’s vineyard kept me too busy for much else besides school.”
“How romantic. A vineyard in France. It’s positively dreamy.”
I held the painting of my family, contemplating where it should go, and decided there was no place other than the small desk next to my bed, so I set it there. I lingered for a moment, gazing down at the faces of my mama and papa. Like me, Mama liked to read and dance, although it was with my father in the kitchen, not ballet. The image of my parents dancing together the week before I left made me want to weep. The pain of missing them nearly brought me to my knees.
“Are you all right?” Betsy asked softly. “Homesick?
“Yes. I miss them very much.”
She sprang from her bed and gathered me into an embrace. “I’ll be your family until you can return to them.”
I returned the hug before sitting in the chair at my desk, brushing away tears. “I’m grateful to be here, but leaving home and coming to a strange place is hard. I didn’t want to leave them.”
“Yes, but it’s good you did. You’ll be safe here, which will ease your mother’s mind, no doubt.”
“It’s a wonderful opportunity for me. Papa said he didn’t want me to feel obligated to run the vineyard when I’m older—that I should have choices about what I want for my life.”
“Yet you just want to be home.” Betsy yanked open one of her desk drawers and handed me a rose-scented hankie.
“That’s correct.” I dabbed at my damp cheeks.
“I was the same way when I came here, and I was only an hour away. You’ll get used to it. I promise. Soon, you’ll feel like this is your second home.”
“What happens to the girls who can’t go home for breaks?” This was my biggest fear. Being stuck here all alone in the months that school ceased.
“They work around campus, I think. I’m not really sure. Most girls go home. Anyway, you’ll come with me. We’ll spend the whole summer riding bikes and swimming. My brother and George will be home for the summer, too. Peter will teach you how to ride a horse. George will keep us laughing.”
“Who’s George?”
“He’s my brother’s best chum. He’s a riot. You know the type.”
“Not really.”
“Quick and witty. Charming. I’ve never had a friend who didn’t fall in love with him. It’s maddening.”
“Are you in love with him too?”
“Me?” She laughed, tossing her head back. “Heavens no. He’s like a second brother.” She crossed her arms over her stomach and shuddered, a shadow crossing her face. “It’s tragic, actually. His mother was our mother’s best friend. Both his parents were killed in an accident when George and Peter were sixteen. Mother and Father took George in and treated him as their own.”
“How sad.” The idea of losing both parents created a crevice in the pit of my stomach.
“It truly is. I suppose it adds to his appeal to girls. The sad orphan story is one women can’t seem to resist. In general, I mean. Not me. George Winchester is a dear, and I love him, but he’s not a man I’d wish for any of my girlfriends to marry.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure how to say it exactly. He’s not a serious kind of boy. At least not that he shows to anyone.” Betsy played with a loose curl that had fallen over her forehead. “I’m sure part of it is the suppression of deep sorrow, but one can’t get beneath the surface of things with George. Most don’t mind, I suppose, but girls like us—we want depth and vulnerability—a man we know deeply.”
I thought of my own father. He was the kind of man she described. The way he looked at me sometimes, as if I’d invented the world and he was happy to be part of it. “Well, I won’t fall in love with George Winchester.”
“I hope you can keep that promise. He’ll notice you, I’ve no doubt. But the man’s a cad. He’s had a dozen girlfriends, at least. My brother Peter would be a better choice, but he’s so quiet no one notices how special he is. Especially when George is monopolizing the conversation.” She raised her arms over her head, stretching. “I must get out of this room and get fresh air before lunch. Come with me? I’ll show you all my favorite places.”
We walked down the hallway together, arm in arm, and out into that fresh air Betsy craved and walked carefully along the rock walkways that had been recently shoveled of snow, leaving them icy and slippery.
I don’t know how she’d done it, but Betsy Westbrook had made me feel as if we’d known each other forever.
My time at school passed quickly, especially after the tight squeeze of homesickness eased. I continued to miss my parents, but Mama sent letters once a week, filling me in on life back home. They were growing more and more concerned about Hitler but were safe thus far.
I wrote back faithfully, telling them about my classes and new friends. There were always stories to share about Betsy and all the fun we had together. As it turned out, there wasn’t a girl who didn’t love Betsy Westbrook other than a girl named Helen Miller, who was clearly drowning in jealousy. She was horrible, and no one liked her other than a few girls she had under her thumb. Betsy told me there was always a girl like Helen at any school she’d attended. “They live to be mean.” However, Betsy shrugged it off. She didn’t seem to care what people thought of her, maybe because most thought so highly of her.
Surprisingly, it was me she chose to be her best friend. I would have settled for less; just being in her group of friends would have been more than enough. Instead, the two of us became close, like the sister neither of us had but wished we did. By Thanksgiving, I didn’t feel as nervous to join her family for the long weekend. If they were anything like Betsy, it would be a wonderful holiday. By then, I’d learned about the Thanksgiving tradition, celebrated the last Thursday of November. Betsy assured me that the entire weekend would be full of good food, outdoor activities, and cozy nights by the fire.
Betsy’s mother had arranged for a car to take us to the train station the day before Thanksgiving, where we then boarded the train, chattering the entire time about this and that, including gossiping about the other girls in our class. Betsy was the type of person who noticed and remembered every detail about a person, whether it was directly shared with her or through her keen observation. She could recall the exact conversation she had with almost anyone she met, like some kind of savant. Sometimes, I wondered if it was a burden, having all those details swimming around in her head, but she seemed to thrive on it.
By the time we reached our destination, snow had begun to fall in lazy, dry flakes. The train lurched to a stop, causing me to drop my handbag. I reached down to get it, noticing a scruff on my shoe. Since arriving at school, I’d become more and more aware of my shabby clothing. The other girls were from wealthy families, and their clothes were expensive and well-cut. Mine were not.
Betsy pressed her nose against the glass. “The boys are waiting for us.” She squeezed my hand, our leather gloves sticking slightly before she gently pushed me into the aisle. “I cannot wait for you to meet them.”
I followed her off the train, stepping onto the cold platform that carried the pungent, slightly sweet scent of coal smoke mingled with the damp, metallic tang of hot steam from the locomotives, layered with the oily aroma of lubricants and the sharp scent of steel rails and iron wheels. It was a smell I would forever think of when I thought of that day.
A gust of wind nearly blew my hat from my head, regardless of my carefully placed pins. Leather suitcases, steamer trunks, and parcels tied with string were stacked near passengers and porters. A half dozen people pushed past us, damp woolen coats carrying scents of travel and perfume.
Betsy linked her arm through mine, and we stepped onto the wooden platform dusted with snow, salt spread everywhere to prevent slipping.
George Winchester and Peter Westbrook stood under a lamp, snow falling all around them. I knew immediately who was who, as Betsy had described them perfectly. George possessed thick, almost black hair and laughing brown eyes. There was a lanky, almost elegant air to him but that could also be interpreted as careless. A cigarette dangled from his full mouth as if he’d forgotten it was there.
Peter was the taller of the two by a few inches and considerably wider. Like his sister, he’d been blessed with sapphire eyes and a shock of honey-blond hair. He shared her height and long legs, plus fair complexion, but his features were a little larger and more angular. Like Betsy, he was athletic, presumably from his love of outdoor activities, such as riding horses, swimming, and playing tennis. He also loved to read, according to his sister. “Sometimes he’s so immersed in the pages, he doesn’t hear Mother calling him for dinner. I love books too, but not enough to miss dinner,” she’d said to me the day before we left.
Betsy ran to her brother, who enfolded her into an embrace. His gaze met mine over his sister’s shoulder, and the way he looked into my eyes gave me a jolt as if I knew him already. But no, it was only that his blue eyes were the same as Betsy’s. That was all.
Betsy presented me as if I were a prize. “This is Peter. And George. Boys, this is Mireille Perrin. My best friend in the whole world, other than you two, of course. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
The corners of Peter’s eyes crinkled as he held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You as well,” I said, shaking his hand, staring into his eyes for a moment too long. A girl could get lost in all that blue. “Please, call me Mireille.”
George stepped forward, reminding me of a puppy crawling over his brothers and sisters to get to steal all the attention for himself. “It’s good to meet you, Mireille.”
I held my hand out and he took it, bringing it to his mouth, never taking his gaze from me. “No one said you were so lovely. I’d not have complained about going out in the cold to fetch you from the train.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you .” I flushed under his obvious admiring gaze. “None of it good.”
He laughed, his eyes twinkling as he clutched at his chest. “All lies. Every one of them.”
“A lie for every heart you’ve broken?” I asked, letting my eyes sparkle back at him.
“Pray tell, what has Boo told you?” George glared over at Betsy.
“To stay far away from you, Mr. Winchester.” George had a way about him that made me feel braver than usual. I’d never flirted with a boy in my life. With George, it was as if I were a Betsy kind of girl instead of a shy, reserved Mireille.
“I’m shocked to hear of such a betrayal from the woman I think of as my sister.” George pulled Betsy into an embrace. “I’ve missed you, Boo.”
“You know it’s all true, you beast.” Betsy playfully slapped his chest. “And stop calling me Boo. I am no longer nine years old.”
“To me, you will forever be nine years old.” George grinned, never taking his eyes from me. “How sad you’ve ruined my chances by telling Mireille of my so-called exploits. I’m wounded. Truly.”
“As long as you keep your paws off her, you’ll be safe from my claws,” Betsy said.
George gestured toward the parking lot. “Shall we get out of the cold and get home? Mrs. Westbrook has asked the housekeeper to make hot toddies.”
“If it continues to snow, we might be able to sled,” Peter said. “Have you ever sledded before, Mireille?”
“No. It rarely snows where I’m from,” I said.
“Too near the coast,” Peter said. “Isn’t that right?”
Impressed that he knew about Bordeaux weather, I nodded. “Yes. It can get cold at times, but mostly it’s temperate. But I’d like to sled. If I were able, that is.”
“She’s perfect, and neither of you are allowed to break her heart or anything else.” Betsy guided me into the station. “Which means legs and arms too.”
“Boo broke her arm sledding when we were kids,” George said to me. “Ghastly. Bone sticking right out of the skin.”
“It was horribly painful, and George here thinks it’s a grand story.” Betsy smacked George’s arm as he held the door open for us to enter the parking lot, where cars were lined up, snow accumulating on their tops.
“I was quite noble about the whole thing,” George said. “Carried her all the way from the sledding hill into the house.”
“That’s not true. Peter carried me.” Betsy rolled her eyes. “You ran ahead to tell Mother and Mrs. Burns.”
“I don’t remember it like that.” George’s eyes twinkled with humor. “No, I’m positive I was the hero. I would never leave a wounded soldier behind.”
“What do you remember? Was it you or George who carried her to safety?” I asked Peter, curious what he would say.
“I can’t recall a thing about that day other than the sound of my little sister howling with pain. It’s not a thing one forgets, unfortunately.”
“Oh, Peter, you darling brother. I ended up no worse for wear.”
“Although Mrs. Westbrook was beside herself. She was mad at Peter or me for weeks,” George said. “Apparently, we were supposed to look after Boo here, which, if you know her, is impossible. The girl never listens to her elders.”
“You’re hardly my elders,” Betsy said. “Three years doesn’t make any difference at all.”
“We’re college men,” George said as we reached the car. “Isn’t that right, Peter?”
Peter smiled, wrapping his arm around his sister’s shoulder for a squeeze before opening the back door of the car and gesturing for us to get inside. “True enough, but my sister’s still the wisest of the three of us.”
“See? That’s why I love you the best.” Betsy grinned before dipping her head and flopping onto the seat.
Peter continued to hold the door for me. As I passed by him, I caught the scent of his skin—soap and sandalwood. Before he shut the door, we locked eyes for a second or two. I swear, I saw right into his soul. All the way down to the essence of who he was, good and strong and steady. A man like my father.
But as we drove out of the parking lot it was George who had us all laughing.