The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [29]
The following Wednesday at assembly Miss Bryant said, “Form Five will leave for lacrosse at two o’clock today. Hardy, come to my study after first period.”
I hung my head to hide my delight. Mr. Donaldson had written; perhaps he was already on his way. Fortunately the first period was arithmetic, and even in my distracted state, I was able to solve the problems. As soon as the bell rang I asked to be excused. Several times I had swept the corridor outside Miss Bryant’s study. Now, as I stood before her white door, the brass doorknob shone so brightly that I could see my tiny curved self in its sphere. I knocked boldly; a voice bade me enter. Inside a beautiful blue carpet led to a mahogany desk. With luck I would never see Miss Bryant again. Still, after a hasty glance, I did not dare to look at her directly.
For several seconds she studied me in unblinking silence. “So,” she said, “you have an uncle called Mr. Donaldson. Your aunt was surprised to hear that.”
She picked up an envelope from a pile of papers. It looked like my letter but so, I reminded myself, would any letter of Mr. Donaldson’s. “Mr. Milne,” she went on, “gave me this last week.”
“But he said he’d put it in the two o’clock post.” In my indignation I at last looked up; I saw her eyes narrow, her lips, thin and full, tighten.
“Mr. Milne has worked for me long enough to know that pupils don’t always act in their own best interests. Why else would you try to send a letter secretly? You are not the first working girl to find the rules hard.”
I understood then her mastery of the situation. For five days she had allowed my hopes of rescue to grow, knowing that my disappointment would be all the greater.
She handed me the letter. “Read it.”
My mouth was suddenly so dry that my lips stuck to my teeth. Sounding like Kendall, I stammered out my sentences. When I had finished, Miss Bryant rose from behind her desk. Noiseless on the thick carpet, she circled the room.
“You think Claypoole doesn’t care about exams,” she said softly. “You are wrong. You wouldn’t be here, none of the working girls would be, if our examining board had not judged you teachable. Perhaps in your case they made a mistake. Exams do not capture the moral life. When I spoke to your aunt I told her you might be too tough a nut for us to crack. Would you like to know what she said?”
She cocked her head, as if I had a choice. “She said, ‘Miss Bryant, under no circumstances can I have that girl back. My children aren’t safe under the same roof. If she can’t stay at Claypoole, she must go to an orphanage.’ These are strong words, and I take them seriously. You are small for your age, but you are a rebel. Even now”—she continued her steady circling—“I can feel you arguing with me. You forget that you don’t know everything, or indeed much of anything. Your letter could have harmed Mr. Milne. Certainly it has harmed Mr. Donaldson. Your aunt has talked to the headmaster of the school, and Mr. Donaldson will be let go at the end of term. Doubtless much of your relationship with him is imaginary, but it is up to teachers to contain the imaginations of their pupils. Apparently there were problems at his last school. It will not be easy for him to find another position.”
I pictured Mr. Donaldson’s expression when I had appeared at his door and knew she spoke the truth. “Please, Miss Bryant,” I said, “none of this is Mr. Donaldson’s fault. He didn’t even get my letter.”
Miss Bryant paused in her orbit near my left elbow. “Did I ask you to speak?”
“It is everyone’s duty to speak when they see injustice.” It was something my uncle used to say, and quoting him made me feel stronger. “Mr. Donaldson needs a job. He’s not rich. Please,” I said. “I’ll do anything.”
“Right now,” said Miss Bryant, “you will be quiet, but I am glad you understand that you made a bad mistake in writing that naughty letter. Let me remind you of some facts. You are ten years