Page 16 of The Heiress's Daughter
“Are you nervous about doing this, Betty?” Clarissa asked.
Betty grimaced. “Not really, miss. I just…I don’t like these places.”
“You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”
Betty shook her head and said resolutely, “No, it’s all right, miss. I want to help. And I wouldn’t leave you to go in there by yourself.”
They rang the bell and were shown inside and in a few minutes a tall, severe-looking woman dressed all in gray came to receive them; the matron, who introduced herself as Miss Glass. On their way to her office, they passed a room where a dozen or so girls sat sewing in silence under the supervision of another woman. The girls were all dressed alike, in neat brown fustian.
“These are the exiting class,” Miss Glass said. “They will be leaving to take up work as soon as we find them respectable positions. Every one of our gels leaves for employment. Respectable employment.” She beckoned Clarissa and Betty in.
As one, the girls rose, curtsied, chanted, “Good afternoon, Miss Glass,” in a monotone, and resumed their work, their needles stabbing into cloth while they examined Clarissa and Betty with shrewdly calculating gazes. Their interest was understandable, but Clarissa found it a little unsettling. One of these girls would presumably become Izzy’s new maid. They all looked alike. How on earth could she choose?
Miss Glass then showed them to her office.
“Miss, can I wait outside?” Betty whispered, clearly unnerved, and Clarissa nodded.
Over tea and biscuits Miss Glass questioned Clarissa about her exact needs. “I have several gels who might be suitable,” she said when Clarissa had finished explaining. “I will arrange for you to interview them.” She rose and swept majestically out.
Deciding Betty should sit in on these interviews, Clarissa stepped into the hall, but there was no sign of her. A corridor led off to the right and, thinking Betty might be there, Clarissa went to investigate. But she still couldn’t see her.
Just as Clarissa turned back to return to the matron’s office, Betty came hurrying up. “Miss, miss, you gotta come and see this.” She was bright with excitement.
Clarissa hesitated. “I need to go back to—”
Betty grabbed her arm. “No, it’s urgent. You gotta come see. You gotta!”
She led Clarissa back down the corridor, turned left and led her through a rabbit warren of narrow hallways. “I went exploring,” she said as she hurried them along. “The front parts of these places are all nice for the visitors, but the back part—that’s where you get the real story.”
“But—”
“Look!” She stopped and pointed dramatically at a dark-haired girl who was halfheartedly cleaning a bold charcoal caricature off the wall. The girl had her back to them, but it was clear she wasn’t making much of an effort to remove the sketch, but cleaning around it instead. The subject of the sketch was unmistakable—the pointy nose, the sharp chin, the severe look—it was Miss Glass, wickedly unflattering, but uncannily like her.
“Yes, very clever,” Clarissa murmured, “but we really must get b—”
“Not the picture—the girl!” Betty darted forward, grabbed the girl’s arm and swung her around to face Clarissa.
The breath left Clarissa’s body. For a moment she felt almost dizzy. It couldn’t possibly be…
“See, I told you, miss. Unbelievable, ain’t it?”
Scowling, the girl shook off Betty’s hand. “Leggo of me, you.” She glanced at Clarissa, taking in her fine lady clothes, and her lip curled in scorn. “What are you starin’ at, lady? Come to gawp at us poor orphans, have you? Well, bugger off.”
“No. I’m just—” Clarissa swallowed, took several deep breaths and fought to calm herself.
“D’you see what I mean, miss? It’s uncanny, ain’t it?” Betty murmured.
Clarissa just stared, unable to think of a thing to say. Unlike the girls in the sewing room, this girl’s clothing was patched and worn, and fitted her badly. But it wasn’t her dress or the sketch Clarissa cared about: it was the girl herself who fascinated her. “Did you draw that?” she finally managed. “It’s very clever.”
The girl smirked. “Old Glass don’t think so.”
“Who are you?” Clarissa blurted.
The girl’s green eyes narrowed. “Zoë. What’s it to you?”
“You do live here, don’t you? You’re one of the…”
“Orphans, yeah, it’s not a dirty word, you know.”
