Learned by Heart

Eliza’s trained herself to wake at seven, just before the bell.

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She sleeps in a garret, too low to allow her to stand up except in the very middle, beside her narrow cot. None of the Manor School’s bedrooms have carpets that might trip the girls or hold dust, but this one is the barest; the floor unwaxed. Eliza rooms by herself, since Jane (two years her elder) refuses to board. Among so many pairs and trios of sisters—two Misses Parker, Peirson, Simpson, and Dobson, three Burtons, and a full five Percivals—Eliza is effec- tively an only child.

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Of course having a room to herself could be considered a privilege. No one else’s noises or smells to impinge on her; no one to break in on her thoughts or disturb her sleep. It might be a mark of the Head’s trust in Eliza’s good conduct. Respect for her fortune too? Perhaps her guardian, Dr. Duffin, even pays Miss Hargrave extra for this privacy; Eliza’s never mustered the courage to ask.

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She catches herself in the mirror on the washstand. Of course she’s wondered whether Mrs. Tate—who sees to all housekeeping matters for her sister, the Head—was made nervous by her first glimpse of Eliza and chose to sequester her far from all the other boarders. A young lady of colour, though that common phrase irks Eliza, since everyone’s some colour or other. As little girls in India, the Raines rarely gave the matter much thought. But when they lurched off the King George in Kent, Eliza, at almost seven, felt…