Arrival
Chapter Two
The car slowed as they approached a pair of great oak gates, their heavy timbers standing wide to welcome arrivals. The iron hinges gleamed, polished smooth with years of use, and just beyond the posts Emily glimpsed the neat sweep of the school’s drive. One car passed them heading the other way, then another.
They rolled forward, tyres crunching on the gravel. On either side stretched broad lawns, clipped and rolled to perfection, their greenness still fresh from the long summer. Rows of lime and poplar trees rose tall and straight, their leaves beginning to show the faintest hint of autumn. Low chain fences ran alongside the verges, a single link held between short white posts, not so much to keep anyone out as to mark the neat boundaries.
Here and there, beds of bright Michaelmas daisies had been planted, their mauve and violet heads nodding in the breeze, a September bloom that seemed to cheer the stately formality of the entrance grounds.
At last, ahead, she could make out the main building itself. The slate roof climbed into chimneys and gables, and crowning it all rose a clock tower, its face pale against the brick, the hands marking the hour with an importance that made Emily sit straighter. This was not just a school. It was a place of tradition, and history.
Through the windscreen she could see the clock tower and the crowd of gables drawing closer, and before long she could make out the ivy that crept along the old stone walls and framed the windows. At the centre of it all stood a great Elm tree, its branches stretching wide as though sheltering the entire manor beneath them.
“It’s big, isn’t it?” Emily whispered, leaning forward. Her mother nodded with a smile.
“Yes, Emily. St Elowen’s,” she said softly. “Your new home for the term.”
Her father added, “Here we are. Who would have thought it? My daughter at one of the finest schools in the country. Well done, Emily.”
Emily beamed, her heart pounding. She had read about St Elowen’s in prospectuses, but nothing could prepare her for being here in person.
As the car drew close to the entrance circle, a couple of the school’s staff were waiting to help the arriving families with their luggage.
The car slowed to a stop, and after a word with her father, one of them came forward with a friendly smile. “Miss Ashworth, welcome to St Elowen’s. We’ll bring your things along, don’t you worry. Head on through to the hall.”
Emily stepped out of the car, and hesitated for a moment, taking in the grandeur of the entrance.
“Thank you,” she said, straightening her skirt. Her voice felt small, but the kindly smile helped her nerves.
Her parents helped her lift the heavier bag, and together they made their way towards the grand doors. As they walked, Emily glimpsed girls in uniforms moving briskly through the hallways, some chatting in groups, others hurrying with determined expressions. She felt a pang of curiosity: which of them would be her friends, and which would be her rivals?
She looked around at the great oak beams overhead, the floors polished to a deep glow, and the portraits of stern-looking headmistresses gazing down from the walls as though weighing up each new arrival. The hall was so tall and so hushed that Emily felt she had stepped clean out of her own century and into some older, grander one, where her footsteps were not quite her own. The air was full of it: the scent of beeswax and polished wood, of flowers carried in from the gardens, and beneath it all something faint and bookish and old, the particular smell, she would come to learn, of St Elowen’s itself.
At that moment, a voice called out, warm and measured. “Ah, you must be Emily Ashworth!”
Emily turned to see a tall figure approaching. She was tall and upright, with grey hair neatly pinned, a navy skirt that swished as she walked, and a silk scarf tied with a careful knot at her throat. Her eyes were sharp, but there was kindness behind them.
“Welcome to St Elowen’s. I’m Miss Winthrop,” she added, extending a hand. Emily shook it, noting the firm but gentle grip. “Your parents will be pleased to know that you are punctual, attentive, and prepared. A good start is always half the journey, you know.”
Emily blushed slightly. “Thank you, Headmistress.”
Emily stood in the great oak-panelled hallway, the high windows spilling pale light across the flagstone floor. Her parents lingered a moment longer than perhaps they ought, each caught between pride and the tug of parting. Her father rested a steady hand on her shoulder, his voice low but firm. “You’ll gain much here, Emily,” he said, looking down at her with the sort of seriousness she had always known from him. “But do not be content only to take. Give of yourself too, your kindness, your courage, your best effort. That way you’ll leave more behind than you found.”
Emily nodded, her throat tightening at the weight of his words. She wanted to remember them exactly as he had said them, to tuck them away like a compass in her pocket.
Her mother bent swiftly, straightening Emily’s collar though it needed no straightening. Her eyes shone but her composure held, as any proper mother’s must. “Be kind, darling,” she whispered, “and be brave, and write to me the moment you’re settled. I shall have a letter of my own on its way to you before you know it, and there are one or two things in it I want you to read when you’re feeling far from home.” She kissed Emily’s cheek. “You’ll know them when you need them.”
Emily pressed her cheek against her mother’s for the briefest moment, then stood tall again. She would not cry. She would not give them cause to worry.
And then, just as quickly as they had come, her parents turned and made their way towards the great front doors, their footsteps echoing until the latch clicked softly behind them. Emily’s hand fluttered uselessly at her side, half a wave that never quite reached the air.
She drew in a breath, straightened her back. Miss Winthrop’s lips curved into a smile. “Come, let me show you around and to your dormitory. We have a few formalities to attend to, and then you will be settled in time for dinner.”
As they walked, Miss Winthrop explained the shape of the school, and Emily listened with all her might, for she did not want to miss a single thing. “Every girl at St Elowen’s belongs to a house,” the headmistress said, “and the house belongs to her, all her days here and long after. There are three. Elm, whose colour is green and whose virtue is steadfastness, for the great elm stands through every storm. Oak, whose colour is amber, for strength and endurance. And Holly, whose colour is scarlet, for courage and good cheer through the darkest of the winter. Your house will be your family within the family, Emily. You will sit with them, cheer for them, and win points for them, for good work and kind conduct and clean play, all totted up through the year towards the House Cup, which is presented on the last day of the summer term, and which Elm, I will tell you, has not held for three years, and would dearly love to hold again.” Her eyes glinted. “You are to be an Elm. I chose it for you myself. I think it will suit you. Miss Pemberton is your house mistress, and you will find her fair and fierce in equal measure, as a good house mistress ought to be.”
Emily felt a small, unexpected glow at the words, a feeling of being claimed by something, of belonging to it before she had done a single thing to earn it. An Elm. Already she liked the sound of it.
As they walked on through the hallways, Emily’s eyes roamed over the grand portraits of former headmistresses, all in dark dresses, their faces stern and thoughtful. The wooden floors creaked slightly under her shoes, and the smell of polished wax mingled with the faint sweetness of flowers from the side halls. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, glinting off the brass handles of doors and illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. Over one great doorway Emily noticed a board painted in three columns, green and amber and scarlet, with small brass hooks for numbers beneath each; the house points, she would learn, updated every Friday, and pored over by the whole school as though the fate of nations hung upon them.
Passing the classrooms, Emily glimpsed older girls reading, writing, and practising music. A piano in one room caught her attention, and she imagined sitting there, learning a new piece, or playing for her dorm mates during quiet evenings.
Finally, they reached the dormitory. A heavy wooden door opened to reveal a large, airy room filled with neatly arranged beds, each covered with pale green blankets, Elm green, Emily thought, with another small glow of belonging. The room smelled faintly of lavender and polish, and sunlight spilled across the polished floors.
“This will be your room for the term,” Miss Winthrop said, gesturing. “Most of your roommates have already arrived. You will be comfortable here, but remember, tidiness is important. Personal belongings should be kept in your lockers, and beds made each morning.”
Emily stepped inside and felt a flutter of excitement, taking in her new home for the term.
A girl with blonde hair tied in a neat braid looked up from the bed nearest the door and smiled. There was something instantly easy about her, a warmth, and a glint in her eye that hinted she knew where all the best mischief was to be found. “I’m Poppy. I’ve been here over the summer, so I can show you the ropes if you like. I know which floorboards squeak, which puddings are worth having, and which mistresses you mustn’t be late for. Frightfully useful things to know.”
Emily smiled, grateful. “Thank you, Poppy. I’d love that.”
Across the room, the others glanced up one by one, and Emily did her best to fix each face in her mind. Nearest the window sat Iris, a slight, dreamy-looking girl who was arranging a row of books along her shelf not by size or colour but, Emily rather thought, by some private order of her own; several of them, Emily noticed, were in French, their spines soft and well read. Every now and then Iris paused to gaze out at the grounds as though the trees were telling her something. Beside her, cross-legged on her bed with a notebook balanced on her knees, was Sophie, who looked up with quick, clever eyes, gave Emily a shy but genuine smile, and at once bent back to whatever she was writing, as though the world were simply too full of interesting things to be got down in time.
Near the mirror stood Felicity, or Flick, as everyone was very soon instructed to call her, turning her new school hat this way and that upon her dark curls and frowning at the effect with the seriousness of a girl who intended to be admired. She had the polished, confident air of someone quite certain she was the most interesting person in any room, though it was said, Emily thought, with enough sparkle that one could not entirely hold it against her. Nearby, Beth was folding her clothes into her locker, smoothing each garment flat and squaring the corners, saying little, missing nothing; the sort of quiet, watchful girl one might overlook at first and be very glad of later.
And in the far corner, half turned to the wall, a small pale girl sat clutching a beautiful doll against her chest as though it were the last solid thing in a world gone suddenly strange. This was Lucinda, and her eyes were pink at the rims, and she did not look up at all.
Emily felt a pang of sympathy for her. She remembered her own nerves that morning, and the small brave bump of Daisy’s doll in her own pocket, and she decided then and there that she would make a particular effort to be kind to Lucinda.
The girls chatted shyly at first, introducing themselves, exchanging little details about their hobbies, their previous schools, and the journeys that had brought them to St Elowen’s. Emily listened carefully, trying to remember names and faces, storing away little traits that would help her recognise each girl.
The dormitory door opened with a purposeful creak, and in swept a tall woman in a dark blue dress, her shoes clicking smartly upon the polished floorboards. She carried no nonsense about her; even the way she closed the door behind her spoke of order and authority.
“I am Mrs Cartwright,” she announced, her voice clipped and clear. “Most of the girls call me Matron, or Matron Cartwright if they’ve any sense. I am in charge of your dormitory and your well-being, though do not mistake that for indulgence.” Her sharp eyes moved quickly from bed to bed, as though taking the measure of each girl in an instant.
Emily sat up a little straighter on her bed. “You will keep your beds neat, your shoes polished, and your belongings in proper order. Meals are at set times, and you will not be late for them. If you are unwell, you come to me. If you are homesick, you may come as well, but do not expect me to coddle you. I am here to keep you in good health, good discipline, and good company.”
A small silence followed. Matron’s gaze softened only slightly as she added, “My quarters are just along the corridor. Should there be trouble in the night, you knock upon my door. Otherwise, you will find that everything runs smoothly if you follow the rules.”
With that, she gave a brisk nod and turned smartly about, leaving the faintest trace of lavender polish and starch in her wake.
As the door shut behind her, a collective sigh rose from the dormitory. Poppy flopped back on her bed and whispered, “She does like to put the fear of goodness into us, doesn’t she?”
Then she propped herself up on one elbow, for Poppy, having been at the school all summer, knew a great deal that the new girls did not, and dearly loved to share it. “Don’t worry too much, though. Matron sounds fearsome, but she’s not half as bad as she makes out. She won’t let you get away with an untidy locker or muddy boots, and she’s frightfully strict about lights out. But she’s fair, mind, properly fair. She never plays favourites, and if you’re ever really poorly, they say she’ll sit up the whole night through with you and not breathe a word of complaint.” She grinned. “Keep your shoes shiny and your sheets straight and you’ll get along with her splendidly. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t come between Matron and her thermos of tea. She carries it everywhere, and she guards it like a dragon guarding gold.” Emily smiled faintly, reassured despite herself. Already, she felt the mixture of nerves and excitement that came with stepping into a world so new, so bound by rules, and yet, just perhaps, full of hidden kindness too.
After a while, Matron appeared again. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. Please make sure you are presentable and ready. A bell will ring to summon all pupils.”
The girls nodded and began to tidy their beds. Emily tucked her diary carefully into her bag, placed her favourite pen in the top pocket, and smoothed her hair. She felt a curious mixture of nerves, excitement, and anticipation. This room, these girls, and this house would be her new world for the term.
When the bell rang, they walked together to the dining hall. The room was vast, with long tables of polished wood and high-backed chairs. Candles flickered in sconces along the walls, and the air was rich with the smells of roasting vegetables, fresh bread, and baked pudding. Emily found a place at a table with her dorm mates, and as they began to eat, she noticed the rhythm of the hall: polite conversation, laughter, and the occasional tinkle of a silver spoon.
Emily listened to the others chat, slowly joining in. She realised that each girl was fascinating in her own way: Poppy’s easy, knowing cheek, Iris’s thoughtful observations, Sophie’s bubbling curiosity, Flick’s flair for drama, Beth’s meticulous attention to detail, and Lucinda’s gentle timidity. Already, small friendships were beginning to form, delicate as cobwebs but strong enough to catch the attention of someone who needed a friend. After dinner, the girls were shown the washrooms and introduced to their evening routine. Beds were made, lights dimmed, and Emily found herself gazing out of the dormitory window. The grounds stretched wide beneath the fading sunlight: gardens, hedges, the Elm tree silhouetted against the sky. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of laughter drifted from another dormitory.
Emily took a deep breath, feeling the pulse of life at St Elowen’s. She thought of home, of her sister Daisy, and of the streets of London now far behind her. And yet, she felt an almost thrilling certainty: this house, these girls, and the adventures ahead were exactly where she was meant to be.
As she settled under the covers, Emily Ashworth closed her eyes, imagining the fun she would have. And so, the first evening at St Elowen’s ended, leaving her heart full of anticipation and wonder.