thousand miles away. Luckily grandmother had no power over the moon.
CHAPTER 8
Then there was the affair of the recitation.
They were getting up a school program at St. Agathaâs to which only the families of the girls were invited. There was to be a short play, some music and a reading or two. Jane had secretly hoped to be given a part in the play, even if it were only one of the many angels who came and went in it, with wings and trailing white robes and homemade halos. But no such good luck. She suspected that it was because she was rather bony and awkward for an angel.
Then Miss Semple asked her if she would recite.
Jane jumped at the idea. She knew she could recite rather well. Here was a chance to make mother proud of her and show grandmother that all the money she was spending on Janeâs education was not being wholly wasted.
Jane picked a poem she had long liked in spiteâ¦or perhaps becauseâ¦of its habitant English, The Little Baby of Mathieu, and plunged enthusiastically into learning it. She practiced it in her roomâ¦she murmured lines of it everywhere until grandmother asked her sharply what she was muttering about all the time. Then Jane shut up like a clam. Nobody must suspectâ¦it was to be a âsurpriseâ to them all. A proud and glad surprise for mother. And perhaps even grandmother might feel a little pleased with her if she did well. Jane knew she would meet with no mercy if she didnât do well.
Grandmother took Jane down to a room in Marlboroughâs big department storeâ¦a room that had paneled walls, velvety carpets and muted voicesâ¦a room that Jane didnât like, somehow. She always felt smothered in it. And grandmother got her a new dress for the concert. It was a very pretty dressâ¦you had to admit grandmother had a taste in dresses. A dull green silk that brought out the russet glow of Janeâs hair and the gold-brown of her eyes. Jane liked herself in it and was more anxious than ever to please grandmother with her recitation.
She was terribly worried the night before the concert. Wasnât she a little hoarse? Suppose it got worse? It did notâ¦it was all gone the next day. But when Jane found herself on the concert platform facing an audience for the first time, a nasty little quiver ran down her spine. She had never supposed there would be so many people. For one dreadful moment she thought she was not going to be able to utter a word. Then she seemed to see Kenneth Howardâs eyes, crinkling with laughter at her. âNever mind them. Do your stuff for me ,â he seemed to be saying. Jane got her mouth open.
The St. Agatha staff were quite amazed. Who could have supposed that shy, awkward Victoria Stuart could recite any poem so well, let alone a habitant one? Jane herself was feeling the delight of a certain oneness with her audienceâ¦a realization that she had captured themâ¦that she was delighting themâ¦until she came to the last verse. Then she saw mother and grandmother just in front of her. Mother, in her lovely new blue fox furs, with the little wine hat Jane loved tilted on one side of her head, was looking more frightened than proud, and grandmotherâ¦Jane had seen that expression too often to mistake it. Grandmother was furious.
The last verse, which should have been the climax, went rather flat. Jane felt like a candle-flame blown out, though the applause was hearty and prolonged, and Miss Semple behind the scenes whispered, âExcellent, Victoria, excellent.â
But there were no compliments on the road home. Not a word was saidâ¦that was the dreadful part of it. Mother seemed too frightened to speak and grandmother preserved a stony silence. But when they got home she said,
âWho put you up to that, Victoria?â
âPut me up to what?â said Jane in honest bewilderment.
âPlease donât repeat my questions, Victoria. You know perfectly well what I
CHAPTER 8
Then there was the affair of the recitation.
They were getting up a school program at St. Agathaâs to which only the families of the girls were invited. There was to be a short play, some music and a reading or two. Jane had secretly hoped to be given a part in the play, even if it were only one of the many angels who came and went in it, with wings and trailing white robes and homemade halos. But no such good luck. She suspected that it was because she was rather bony and awkward for an angel.
Then Miss Semple asked her if she would recite.
Jane jumped at the idea. She knew she could recite rather well. Here was a chance to make mother proud of her and show grandmother that all the money she was spending on Janeâs education was not being wholly wasted.
Jane picked a poem she had long liked in spiteâ¦or perhaps becauseâ¦of its habitant English, The Little Baby of Mathieu, and plunged enthusiastically into learning it. She practiced it in her roomâ¦she murmured lines of it everywhere until grandmother asked her sharply what she was muttering about all the time. Then Jane shut up like a clam. Nobody must suspectâ¦it was to be a âsurpriseâ to them all. A proud and glad surprise for mother. And perhaps even grandmother might feel a little pleased with her if she did well. Jane knew she would meet with no mercy if she didnât do well.
Grandmother took Jane down to a room in Marlboroughâs big department storeâ¦a room that had paneled walls, velvety carpets and muted voicesâ¦a room that Jane didnât like, somehow. She always felt smothered in it. And grandmother got her a new dress for the concert. It was a very pretty dressâ¦you had to admit grandmother had a taste in dresses. A dull green silk that brought out the russet glow of Janeâs hair and the gold-brown of her eyes. Jane liked herself in it and was more anxious than ever to please grandmother with her recitation.
She was terribly worried the night before the concert. Wasnât she a little hoarse? Suppose it got worse? It did notâ¦it was all gone the next day. But when Jane found herself on the concert platform facing an audience for the first time, a nasty little quiver ran down her spine. She had never supposed there would be so many people. For one dreadful moment she thought she was not going to be able to utter a word. Then she seemed to see Kenneth Howardâs eyes, crinkling with laughter at her. âNever mind them. Do your stuff for me ,â he seemed to be saying. Jane got her mouth open.
The St. Agatha staff were quite amazed. Who could have supposed that shy, awkward Victoria Stuart could recite any poem so well, let alone a habitant one? Jane herself was feeling the delight of a certain oneness with her audienceâ¦a realization that she had captured themâ¦that she was delighting themâ¦until she came to the last verse. Then she saw mother and grandmother just in front of her. Mother, in her lovely new blue fox furs, with the little wine hat Jane loved tilted on one side of her head, was looking more frightened than proud, and grandmotherâ¦Jane had seen that expression too often to mistake it. Grandmother was furious.
The last verse, which should have been the climax, went rather flat. Jane felt like a candle-flame blown out, though the applause was hearty and prolonged, and Miss Semple behind the scenes whispered, âExcellent, Victoria, excellent.â
But there were no compliments on the road home. Not a word was saidâ¦that was the dreadful part of it. Mother seemed too frightened to speak and grandmother preserved a stony silence. But when they got home she said,
âWho put you up to that, Victoria?â
âPut me up to what?â said Jane in honest bewilderment.
âPlease donât repeat my questions, Victoria. You know perfectly well what I
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