"More applicants than I have room for," she said complacently. "I think they are beginning to realize that they get the Schaffenbrucken treatment here. And of course there are so many parents who are against sending their daughters abroad ... especially when they can get the desired result in England."
Daisy was implying that my presence was an asset to the school and I couldn't suppress a rather smug feeling of satisfaction.
The term went on. English lessons, deportment, social graces, dancing waltzes and cotillions, taking the girls for their rides. Each day had its little drama such as who should be chosen for Prince Charming and Cinderella; whose drawing would be selected as the best of the month; who should be chosen by Mr. Bathurst to partner him in the waltz he was teaching. Mr. Bathurst was a young man of dark Italianate good looks and was a great favourite with the girls, and there was always excitement on the days when he came to the school to take the dancing class, which resulted in much romantic speculation. His visits were awaited with great anticipation and he was jealously watched, and the eider girls vied for the favour of being chosen by him to demonstrate the steps.
Autumn came. It was the time of Hunter's Moon. A whole year since I had gone into the forest and met the stranger! It seemed longer. I suppose that was because so much had happened. I was beginning to convince myself that I had imagined the whole thing; and I should have loved to see Monique, Frieda or Lydia again so that I could assure myself that we really had all been in the forest together on that day.
Fiona Verringer was at length chosen to play Cinderella and Charlotte was Prince Charming. They were the inevitable choices because Fiona was so pretty and Charlotte so tall. Charlotte was delighted and far more manageable than before, being absorbed in her role.
During November we were rehearsing and Mr. Crowe, the music master, wrote some songs for the girls to sing and there was great activity in Miss Barston's class putting the costumes together.
One morning I went into the town and in the little draper's shop I came face to face with Marcia Martindale. She seemed quite a different person from the heart-broken woman I had met in the courtyard. She was serene and friendly and asked me to call.
"I should be so pleased if you would," she said. "One doesn't see many people and it would be a great treat. Do you ever get a few hours free?"
I said I had a free afternoon on Wednesday unless something happened, such as one of the other mistresses being indisposed. Then I should be expected to take her class.
"Shall we say Wednesday then? I'll be so delighted if you can come."
I accepted, I have to admit, with alacrity for I was very eager to discover more about her. I tried to pretend to myself that her relationship with Jason Verringer was of no interest to me, but that I wanted to make her understand that circumstances had thrust me into the position of dining with him-as she had found us on that night when she had been so clearly distressed.
So I went to tea with Marcia Martindale.
It was a very unusual afternoon. The door was opened by a little woman with a sharp dark face rather like an intelligent monkey's. She had hair which was almost black, stiff and coarse, and stood out en brosse round her small face; her eyes were small and very dark; they seemed to dart everywhere, missing nothing.
She said: "Come in. We're expecting you." And she smiled, showing large white teeth, as though my coming was some tremendous joke.
She took me into a drawing room most graciously furnished with Queen Anne furniture which suited the house.
From a sofa Marcia Martindale rose and held out both her hands to me. She was dressed in a peignoir of peacock blue silk. Her hair was loose and about her forehead was a velvet band with a few brilliants in it which might have been diamonds. There was a similar band about her throat. She looked dramatic as though she were about to play some tragic role like Lady Macbeth or the Duchess of Malfi. Yet again she was quite unlike the woman I had so recently met in the draper's.
"So you have come," she said in a low voice; then raising it a little. "Do sit down. We'll have tea now, Maisie. Will you tell Mrs. Gittings?"
"All right," said the woman who was clearly Maisie, with more alacrity than respect. In her cockney voice was a jaunty suggestion of equality. She was a striking contrast to Marcia Martindale. She went out as though she were finding it difficult to suppress her mirth.
"My friends get used to Maisie," said Marcia. "She was my dresser. They get very familiar."
"Your dresser?"
"Yes. I was in the theatre, you know, before I came here."
"I see."
"Maisie remembers the old days. It was good of you to come. Particularly as you have so little free time."
"We're busy at the moment. We are putting on a pantomime for Christmas."
"Pantomime?" Her eyes lighted up and then became contemptuous. "I started in it," she went on. "It gets you nowhere."
"I think it is most interesting that you were an actress."
"Very different from being a schoolmistress, I daresay."
"They are poles apart,'-' I agreed.
She smiled at me.
"You must miss the theatre," I went on.
She nodded. "One never really gets used to not working. Particularly if ..."
She shrugged her shoulders and at that moment there was a tap on the door and a squat, middleaged woman trundled in a tea trolley on which were sandwiches and cakes and everything we should need for tea.
"Over here, Mrs. Gittings," said Marcia in rather loud ringing tones. And then more quietly: "That's right. Thank you."
Mrs. Gittings gave me a look and a nod and went out. Marcia surveyed the tea trolley as though it were John the Baptist's head on a charger. I did not know why these allusions kept occurring to me. It was simply because everything here did not seem quite natural. I wished Eileen Eccles were with me. We should have a hilarious time laughing over it all I was sure.
"You must tell me how you like your tea. I do think it is so good of you to come. You can't believe what a pleasure it is to have someone to talk to.
I said I liked it weak with a little milk and no sugar. I stood up and took the cup from her. Then I sat down. There was a little table beside me on which I set my cup.
"Do have one of these sandwiches." She seemed to glide towards me, holding out the plate, even infusing a certain amount of drama into that ordinary action. "Mrs. Gittings is very good. I'm lucky. But I do miss the theatre."
"I can understand that."
"I knew you would. I expect you wonder why I bury myself in the country. Well, there is the little one. You must see Miranda before you leave."
"Your little girl? Yes, I should like that."
"It's for her sake, really." She threw back her head with a gesture of resignation. "I shouldn't be here otherwise. Children break into one's career. One has to make a choice."
There were many questions I should have liked to ask, but I supposed they were all too personal. I became intent on stirring my tea.
"You must tell me all about yourself," she said.
I told her briefly that I lived with my aunt and that this was my first post; but I sensed that she was not really listening.
"You are very young," she said at length. "Not that I am much older than you ... in years."
She sighed and I presumed she was referring to her superior experience of life. I felt she was probably right about that.
"And," she said, coming to the point which I was sure was the reason why she had been eager for me to visit her, "you have already become friendly with Jason Verringer."
"Well, hardly friendly. There was that accident and I had to stay at the Hall with the girl who had been thrown from her horse. You remember you came when I was there."
She regarded me steadily. "Oh yes. Jason went to great lengths to explain. He was most apologetic. But I told him that in the circumstances he had to entertain you."