Autumn, 1504
Toulouse, France
Mira
A stout woman dressed in blue sat at a broad wooden table, a leather-bound book open in front of her. In one hand she held a quill poised over the page. She looked up.
“Ah! The girl is here.” She put the quill back in its holder and stood up. “Come, approach.”
Mira walked to the desk.
“Take off your cloak.”
Mira untied the strings of her cloak and slipped it off her shoulders.
“Yes. Good.” The woman walked around her in a circle, looking her up and down. “Plain, modest. Except for that bauble.” Her gaze lingered on the scallop-shell necklace around Mira’s neck.
“It was my mother’s.”
“Pilgrim, was she?”
“My mother was a baroness.”
“That’s right. You told the lord you’re noble-born.”
“Yes, I am.”
The woman’s mouth slanted in a smirk. “Bastard, are you?”
Mira stared, her anger rising. “No.”
“You may call me Madame Heloise,” the woman said curtly. “I am the mistress of the household, though not mistress of the house. They are two entirely different things, of course. Lady de Vernier is the mistress of the house. It is possible that you may never meet her. And if you do, only speak to her if she addresses you first, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Your trial begins today. We will see how the children like you. If they do not like you, no matter how well you teach, you will be let go.” A fleck of spittle shot out from Heloise’s mouth and Mira felt it come to rest on her chin. Resisting the urge to wipe it away, she took a deep breath.
“Thank you. I hope I do not disappoint Lord and Lady de Vernier.”
“As do I.” Heloise walked across the room to another door and pushed it open. “The nursery.” She swept into the sunny, open space and held out her arms as if surveying it for the first time. “Books, paper, quills, ink.” She pointed to a table and a chest near a window.
Mira went to the table and picked up one of the books, a collection of poems. She smiled.
“Why that is worth smiling about I cannot fathom.” Heloise squinted at Mira.
“I smile because I love poetry.”
Heloise pursed her lips and made an unintelligible noise that Mira decided to interpret as a grunt of approval. She nearly laughed at the thought, and felt a slight loosening in the tension between her shoulder blades.
Another door opened on the far side of the room, and three young girls burst through it. In a blur of glossy dark curls and swishing blue skirts, they rushed forward and stopped an arm’s length from Mira. The morning sun passed through the glass panes of the tall window, bathing the girls with golden light. Three sets of dark eyes stared at her.
“Girls, I am Madame Mira, your new teacher.”
They regarded her in silence for a moment, then all three spoke at once, raising their voices in an effort to be heard. Above the chatter Heloise’s voice rang out.
“Girls!”
Silence fell over the room.
“You will speak when spoken to,” she snapped. “You will ask no questions of your teacher. She is here to teach you, not listen to you babble.”
The children kept their eyes trained on Mira, ignoring Heloise’s scolding.
“They are, in order of size from smallest to biggest, Blanca, Sophie, and Sandrine. Now I will leave you to your work,” Heloise said to Mira. “There is a switch to slap their hands if they grow insolent.”
She jerked her head toward the table. Mira saw a slender birch rod next to the pile of books.
“Thank you, Madame Heloise.”
When the door closed behind Heloise, the smallest girl stuck out her tongue at it, then glanced at Mira.
“That is not polite, Blanca.” Mira composed her face in a severe frown.
Sandrine turned to her sister. “Why are you so rude? It is a stain on our family when you do such things.”
“Madame Heloise is a sour rotten cabbage.” Blanca folded her arms across her chest.
Mira stifled a laugh.
“She is trying to help you become a lady,” Sandrine said.
“I do not want to be a lady.”
“Too bad. You will be one. As will I and Sophie.”
They both turned to Sophie, whose eyes had never left Mira’s face.
“Why did you not use the switch on Blanca when she stuck out her tongue?” Sophie asked.
“I see no need to.”
“Why?”
“I have taught many children to read and write, and I have never used a switch on any of them.” Mira pretended to consider something for a moment. “Unless, of course, you believe that you require the switch.”
“We do not! But if you do not use it, she will think you are a bad teacher,” said Sophie. “She will tell our parents to turn you out.”
“If you learn your lessons, she will have no choice but to believe I am a good teacher. Switch or no switch.”
A slow smile spread across Sophie’s face, and she nodded, pleased.
“Now, Blanca, Sandrine, and Sophie,” Mira said solemnly. “Let us begin.”