An Inconvenient Arrangement (Inconvenient Matches Book #2)

Chapter 2: Sylvie

"I imagine you all have an inkling as to why I have called you here," Mrs. Pinehurst, owner and headmistress of Mrs. Pinehurst's Finishing School for Gifted And Refined Young Ladies, addressed her senior staff who were assembled in her spacious office.

Sylvia Heartwood barely reigned in her delight. There had been rumors circulating for months that the headmistress was finally thinking of hanging up her hat after forty long years in the post. About deuced time, if you asked Sylvia!

"I have decided to retire after the summer term comes to an end,"

Good riddance, you hateful old goat!

"We'll be sorry to see you go, Mrs. Pinehurst. Our fine school is nothing without you at its helm," replied Mrs. Bootcombe, the Etiquettes governess or- as Sylvie liked to think of her- The Bootlicker. If there was anything that Mrs. Bootcombe was an expert at even more than etiquette, it was kissing the headmistress' bottom! "The young ladies in our charge shall surely suffer! Doubtless, it is your esteemed name that attracts the finest young ladies from all around this magnificent country."

"Indeed, we have seen much success with our alumni," Mrs. Pinehurst really wasn't the humble sort. Sylvie could recite her next words practically by heart. "Our girls have gone on to become countesses, marchioness. Why, last season I do believe we had a duchess."

Sylvia gritted her teeth to hide her irritation at the two elderly matrons who were fawning as if they had written the betrothal contracts themselves. Naturally, they found that a woman's greatest achievement lay in the man she married and this philosophy was reflected in the very halls of the school.

Young women were sent here with the express goal to make them marriageable. Smooth out any rough edges....like having a brain or a single smidgen of originality. They were taught English, only so they could make conversations about popular books and classics. They were taught mathematics, only enough so that they may tend to household accounts. The rest of their days were spent learning dances and curtsies and etiquette, important things to be sure – Sylvie was no fool, she knew that most women needed the protection of a man to survive in a world where women were set at a disadvantage just by virtue of their sex. What she absolutely loathed was the fact that places like this school denied young women the right to expand their minds.

Heaven forbid a man find out that women had space in their minds to accommodate more than fashion and gossip. But nay, if a woman was intelligent she was undesirable. If a young woman wished to talk of chemistry or Latin or history, she was somehow less. As if having an interest in academics diminished her ability to be a spouse or mother.

I adore your mind, Sylvie.

Well, there had once been a boy who had not seen her as less. A boy who had sent her all his books, who had taught her new things with kindness and interest. But that boy had never particularly considered her rather desirable either, so she supposed she was not exactly proving her point.

She still thought about him on occasion; that boy who had gone to war and had come back so very sad. The man she had held in her arms as he had wept when she had been nineteen. It was hard not to, given that she resided in the city that he had been titled after, even though they had not spoken outside of exchanging pleasantries in over a decade.

"Our girls have gained a most exquisite upbringing thanks to your leadership, Mrs. Pinehurst," chimed in Mr. Smyth, the dance master, loyally. "They are the epitome of feminine grace. We've even managed to cure most of them of their," he sniffed as if about to say something particularly unpleasant, "bluestocking tendencies."

Bluestockings, they called women like Sylvie, the word somehow infused with an inherent disdain. If Mrs. Pinehurst ever found out about Sylvie's extracurriculars, or the fact that she had smuggled a scientific pamphlet or two to girls who were interested, she would have been sacked without reference in the blink of an eye.