said.
“Yes, indeed. It has Corinthian columns.”
“They’re Doric, dear.”
The Packard limousine pulled up to the porte-cochere behind a row of tulip trees.
“Do you see anybody?”
“Some lanky woman who looks like a giraffe is walking over here,” Father said.
“Good afternoon. I’m Miss Reynolds, the secretary. Won’t you please come in? Miss Weaver will see you in the drawing room.”
Lillian Clark Weaver greeted them with a low, gruff voice, but her words were kind enough. She was quick, even brusque, as if she’d always be in control. Just Father’s type. It sounded like she wore clumpy, old lady shoes, too. When Jean groped for a chair, Miss Weaver smoothly moved one right within reach, without losing a beat in her explanation of the rules of the school.
“All girls are to speak French exclusively until after one o’clock lunch every day, except during classes. Demerits shall be given for disobedience of this practice.”
Criminee, Jean thought. At least I don’t have to spell it.
“Accumulated demerits will prevent girls from going on outings.”
Like what, she wondered. Anything I could do too?
“Girls will dress for dinner. On Sundays their dinner attire shall be a floor-length gown.”
Tready would fit right in here, she thought. “How many girls are there?” she asked.
“Thirteen this year. At Andrebrook, education isn’t a mass process. We give a thorough, adult background in the liberal arts. Do you know what field of study you would like to pursue?”
“Physiology.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” She cleared her throat and sat down at a large antique desk. “Let’s keep thinking.” Deftly Miss Weaver steered her to a course of study heavy in literature and languages. “I think this is adequate, don’t you, Mr. Treadway? French, German, world literature, music history, piano, and western civilization.” Miss Weaver stood up without pausing for his response. “Now I’ll show you the buildings and grounds.”
She led them through the first-floor rooms. “We use these sitting rooms as classrooms, since classes are sometimes only three or four students. Larger classes are held in the library.”
“What’s this room?” Jean asked.
“The dining room.”
“It smells like sweet peas.”
“It has French doors opening onto a terrace,” Mother explained. “How light and airy.”
Miss Weaver led them outside. “We often eat lunch out here in good weather.”
“What a lovely garden. Jean, there’s a rose arbor around a sun dial,” Mother said. “And a wide lawn with Italian cedars at the edges. You remember what they look like, don’t you? What’s that behind those wisteria vines?”
“Tennis courts.”
“It looks like a stable out there beyond the grass, too.”
“Yes, and around to the right there’s a riding ring,” Miss Weaver added. “Girls will ride every day after classes at two o’clock, except on the groom’s day off. Andrebrook girls are permitted to ride on the Rockefeller estate bridle paths through the Pocantico Hills. They can pick up the trails right across the street. Girls will also be instructed in polo by our riding master, Herr Frederich.”
“Jean’s doctor has not permitted her to ride,” Mr. Treadway interjected. “He fears more damage because of the jolts.”
“Unfortunate. See what can be done to get permission for her. We don’t want her to be left out. Certainly she can learn to ride.”
Jean tried not to smile. Nobody had ever talked to Father that way.
“Life is to be lived, not merely observed,” she went on. Jean was bowled over. She’d give anything to have seen Father’s expression. Saying goodbye to him, she felt breezy and lightheaded.
Two days later they had an orientation week at Mohonk, a private lake where they stayed at an old fashioned hotel, “just like in Switzerland,” Miss Weaver said. They left the cars five miles below the lake and arrived by horse and buggy in time for afternoon
“Yes, indeed. It has Corinthian columns.”
“They’re Doric, dear.”
The Packard limousine pulled up to the porte-cochere behind a row of tulip trees.
“Do you see anybody?”
“Some lanky woman who looks like a giraffe is walking over here,” Father said.
“Good afternoon. I’m Miss Reynolds, the secretary. Won’t you please come in? Miss Weaver will see you in the drawing room.”
Lillian Clark Weaver greeted them with a low, gruff voice, but her words were kind enough. She was quick, even brusque, as if she’d always be in control. Just Father’s type. It sounded like she wore clumpy, old lady shoes, too. When Jean groped for a chair, Miss Weaver smoothly moved one right within reach, without losing a beat in her explanation of the rules of the school.
“All girls are to speak French exclusively until after one o’clock lunch every day, except during classes. Demerits shall be given for disobedience of this practice.”
Criminee, Jean thought. At least I don’t have to spell it.
“Accumulated demerits will prevent girls from going on outings.”
Like what, she wondered. Anything I could do too?
“Girls will dress for dinner. On Sundays their dinner attire shall be a floor-length gown.”
Tready would fit right in here, she thought. “How many girls are there?” she asked.
“Thirteen this year. At Andrebrook, education isn’t a mass process. We give a thorough, adult background in the liberal arts. Do you know what field of study you would like to pursue?”
“Physiology.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” She cleared her throat and sat down at a large antique desk. “Let’s keep thinking.” Deftly Miss Weaver steered her to a course of study heavy in literature and languages. “I think this is adequate, don’t you, Mr. Treadway? French, German, world literature, music history, piano, and western civilization.” Miss Weaver stood up without pausing for his response. “Now I’ll show you the buildings and grounds.”
She led them through the first-floor rooms. “We use these sitting rooms as classrooms, since classes are sometimes only three or four students. Larger classes are held in the library.”
“What’s this room?” Jean asked.
“The dining room.”
“It smells like sweet peas.”
“It has French doors opening onto a terrace,” Mother explained. “How light and airy.”
Miss Weaver led them outside. “We often eat lunch out here in good weather.”
“What a lovely garden. Jean, there’s a rose arbor around a sun dial,” Mother said. “And a wide lawn with Italian cedars at the edges. You remember what they look like, don’t you? What’s that behind those wisteria vines?”
“Tennis courts.”
“It looks like a stable out there beyond the grass, too.”
“Yes, and around to the right there’s a riding ring,” Miss Weaver added. “Girls will ride every day after classes at two o’clock, except on the groom’s day off. Andrebrook girls are permitted to ride on the Rockefeller estate bridle paths through the Pocantico Hills. They can pick up the trails right across the street. Girls will also be instructed in polo by our riding master, Herr Frederich.”
“Jean’s doctor has not permitted her to ride,” Mr. Treadway interjected. “He fears more damage because of the jolts.”
“Unfortunate. See what can be done to get permission for her. We don’t want her to be left out. Certainly she can learn to ride.”
Jean tried not to smile. Nobody had ever talked to Father that way.
“Life is to be lived, not merely observed,” she went on. Jean was bowled over. She’d give anything to have seen Father’s expression. Saying goodbye to him, she felt breezy and lightheaded.
Two days later they had an orientation week at Mohonk, a private lake where they stayed at an old fashioned hotel, “just like in Switzerland,” Miss Weaver said. They left the cars five miles below the lake and arrived by horse and buggy in time for afternoon
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