Prologue
Sunlight fell on Rose’s face, warming her cheeks and nose as she tipped her head up toward the source of heat. She instinctively squinted against the powerful beams, which her damaged eyes still registered as too dangerously intense.
“Don’t look at the sun,” her mother told her.
“I can’t look at anything,” Rose returned, bitterness marring her otherwise tender young voice. “I’m blind, Mama.”
“As if we could forget, poor darling.”
Without warning, her mother enfolded her in an embrace, and the nine-year-old Rosalind Blake clung to her, wishing that she could see her, but happy she could at least inhale the florals of her mother’s perfume and feel the softness of her skin.
Rose very nearly died from the illness that took her sight. On the worst night, the doctors were certain she’d be gone before sunrise…but she lived, and the fever broke, and she slowly recovered. Which was when she learned that she would never see anything again.
“There now,” her mother whispered. “Don’t cry, my sweet. This school is said to be very accommodating, and came well recommended. You’ll enjoy it here.”
If they accept me, Rose thought.
Just then, her cousin Poppy slipped her hand into Rose’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Poppy had taken on the role of being Rose’s guide ever since the illness took her sight (Poppy also got sick that winter, but not nearly so badly).
“The place is very pretty,” Poppy whispered. “There’s a sign by the gate that says Bloomfield Academy for Young Ladies of Quality at Wildwood Hall. It’s a big building of red brick, and there’s ivy growing all over the walls. It must have been a very grand residence once. There are wings sprawling everywhere. Come, there’s a path up to the door. I’ll guide you.”
Inside the building, a woman ushered them into a parlor and told them Mrs. Bloomfield would be with them shortly. Rose felt more and more wound up, and Poppy had fallen silent, apparently also nervous in the new surroundings.
What if the school rejected her? Where would she go then? Rose couldn’t imagine. Her parents were near despair, lacking the temperament to learn how to adapt to a blind child, especially one who had previously been quite independent and required so little supervision. Her father was a barrister who spent much of his time working, and her mother was…well, rather unreliable.
Having Poppy come to live with them helped, because they were fast friends, and Poppy was naturally the sort of person who liked to help others. But Poppy was just a little girl herself, and could not be expected to provide for Rose’s education. Hence the search for a proper school for young ladies where Rose might get along.
“Good afternoon,” a smooth voice said then, startling Rose back to the present moment. “Welcome to Wildwood Hall. I am Florence Bloomfield, the headmistress.”
Rose turned toward the voice, trying to decide what sort of woman would fit the tones. Not very young, but not old either. Maybe her mother’s own age? And she sounded full of confidence and poise…which made sense for a headmistress who presided over a whole school of girls.
“Mrs. Bloomfield, is it?” Mr. Blake asked with a shade less confidence than usual. He was on strange ground for him…a world of women. “We are glad to meet you and see the school. This is my daughter, Rosalind Blake, and her cousin Poppy St. George, who would also attend.”
Mrs. Bloomfield spoke directly to the girls, her voice still warm and friendly. “Miss Blake, Miss St. George, how do you do.”
Rose was already on her feet, having stood at the sound of the new voice, and Poppy was by her side. They chorused back, “How do you do, Mrs. Bloomfield.”
“Well, I have no fears for their manners,” the headmistress said with a chuckle. “What charming deportment you both have.”
And then the talk began, adult talk of attendance and fees and expectations. It flew over Rose’s head for the most part.
At one point, her mother was explaining, “She was not born blind. A fever last year took her sight, and it has been…difficult since then.”
“Understandable,” Mrs. Bloomfield said. “Such a drastic change in one’s circumstances always requires a level of fortitude to cope, which Rosalind seems to have done admirably so far. Isn’t that correct, miss?”
Rose was surprised to be identified as a person of fortitude, but she replied, “I’ve done my best, ma’am.”
“Wonderful. There will be some challenges, of course, but much of the curriculum will not need to be changed for you. Perhaps you will not practice painting as some of the girls do, but the letter mentioned that you are fond of music?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rose said. “I like to sing and play the harp and the pianoforte…well, I did.”
“No reason why you should not continue here. We have a music room, and an instructor who comes once a week for lessons. I am sure she’d be delighted to have such an eager pupil. Now, let’s all take a tour of the building so that you’ll know where everything is. I believe it is good for the parents and guardians to know how their girls will be spending their days.”
They toured the instruction rooms, the main hall where everyone took meals together, the library, the dormitories. Along the way, Mr. Blake asked again, a little nervously, what sort of things the girls were taught. He clearly worried that Rose’s head would be filled with nonsense. (He was a man of his time and had the usual trepidation about women learning too much. That way lay suffrage and all manner of social unrest!)
Mrs. Bloomfield just smiled, having assessed his concerns and prepared a ready answer. “As you already know, the goal of the school is to educate the daughters of the gentry. The girl in the blue dress over there, you see her? Her father is Baron Rutherford.”
Mr. Blake made an mmming sound of recognition, though he was probably just pleased that Rose and Poppy would be rubbing shoulders with girls destined to have titles.
