Chapter 35

Spurred on by the looming threat of poverty overtaking our family, we dove into work. I mentioned to my regular customers that I was taking on new clients, and business began pouring in. I felt guilty for charging more than a single silver coin per scroll that I translated, even though my services were worth more. I knew most people couldn’t afford any more than that. But at the same time, I also felt guilty for not charging more because then I had to work long hours to earn an adequate wage and had no time to fulfill my promise to Cynthia.

Perhaps it was for the better. Just as Mother and I had needed a change in our lives to help us climb out of our despair, it seemed like us needing Cynthia helped her to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. She cleaned constantly, preparing the house for the opening of the finishing school.

Mother and Comfort drummed up several students in town. A finishing school in a town as small as ours was a novel concept, but many families had expressed great interest in enrolling their daughters. Mother, in particular, seemed eager to teach. She had always spoken of her finishing school days with such fondness. It was good to see her cheerful again, preparing yards of delicate fabrics in the dressmaking room, or arranging the furniture to have a dance floor available. Comfort pulled out her harp and could be heard practicing to get ready to teach pupils music and how to play instruments.

Mother asked me to teach a languages course for the finishing school, but I turned down the offer. Even though I no longer shied away from the prospect of a group of people staring at me, uncomfortable as it was for me, I had so much business that I had no extra time to prepare and teach a curriculum to a classroom full of girls.

But finally, finally, our finishing school was open! Cynthia had scrubbed the entire manor, inside and out. Even our cobblestone path gleamed. Flowers bloomed in the front courtyard, and I watched from the upstairs window as a trickle of girls traipsed up the front path for their first day of school, giggling nervously the whole way.

All throughout the day, noises echoed up the stairs: screeching attempts at music, exclamations over stabbed fingers during sewing, and arguments about who had to pretend to be the boy during dance instructions.

All the hubbub made it difficult to focus on my task at hand—squinting to decipher the dreadful handwriting of a local business owner who wanted to post prices for his goods in different languages to draw in a wider variety of customers. It felt satisfying to know that I was contributing to our family’s financial well-being and that I, along with Comfort and Mother, were going to make enough to support ourselves and Cynthia.

That evening, after all the students had gone home, Cynthia served up our supper. Mother and Comfort were so exhausted that they didn’t even seem to notice what they were eating. “I don’t think I ever sounded like those girls today,” Comfort said, massaging her temples. “I thought they would hit the right notes at least some of the time.”

“And we will need to scrub all of the dress fabric to get the blood spots off,” Mother added. “There were so many pricked fingers. I should have started with an easier project.”

“Yes, but an easier project won’t replace those odious dresses they wear,” Comfort said. “I can’t wait for the day when I can walk to town without seeing a dress that is orange and purple with giant bows!”

Mother chuckled. “That is a popular color scheme around here, isn’t it?” She turned her attention to me. “Truly, how is your work coming along?”

“Fine,” I said, not wanting to reveal how much more difficult my work had become with my concentration being broken on such a regular basis. I would have to find a different place to work. “I should be able to start on those genealogy charts and stories tomorrow.”

“Cynthia? How has your day been?” Mother asked, smiling at her stepdaughter.

“I cooked and cleaned and cooked some more. Not much to report,” Cynthia answered dully.

“Well this is delicious!” I chimed in. “Thank you so much for cooking.”

“Yes, thank you!” chorused Mother and Comfort.

Cynthia sat down to her plate of potatoes, leafy greens, and chicken seasoned with thyme without saying a word.

The finishing school students continued to be loud, but by retreating up to the attic, I was able to adequately tune them out. For several months, I stayed in the attic for the majority of each day, poring over tiny print in the poor light and copying out translations meticulously. Together with the income from the finishing school, we were making enough to live on and a little extra besides. But to earn even that meager amount demanded that I work every minute possible that I could squeeze out of each day, and Mother and Comfort did the same to prepare lessons and diligently teach their students.

Supper became our only time for relaxation. I laughed as Comfort and Mother described different students’ escapades, like when one girl had accidentally burned away a chunk of her hair when Comfort had been trying to teach them how to use a heated poker to style their hair, or when a sewing pupil had accidentally sewn her project onto the gown she was still wearing. With teaching, it seemed like there was never a shortage of humorous stories.

My day was never that entertaining, so I rarely had anecdotes to share. Cynthia expressed a similar sentiment. She would always state that nothing of interest had occurred, and quietly allowed Mother and Comfort to continue to talk.