Just wait here.”
Jean did as she was told. The way they dismissed her so quickly hurt, but what was she to do? She wasn’t even sure who was talking.
She followed the railing around the inside of the gazebo and sighed as she sat down on the bench to wait. Their voices got fainter and more indistinct until she couldn’t hear them at all. She had no sense of how much time was passing. It seemed long. She listened for birds, but there were no sounds except a breeze whooshing through trees. She didn’t even know what kind of trees. Even that would give her something to think about. She’d been afraid to ask too many questions. Icy would have told her without being asked. She stepped out of the gazebo under the sky to try to smell what kind. Nothing. She couldn’t tell. No warmth fell on her face or shoulders. The sun must be low.
These were new friends. She knew none of them two days earlier. Maybe they had forgotten her. If they did, Miss Weaver would be furious, that much she knew. And then they’d resent her, and would have to drag her along just because they were told to.
She’d have to earn their friendship, that was all. Her resolve solidified. She sure wasn’t going to spoil it right off by being a baby. Was friendship something everyone else had to work so hard for? She sat on the bench and waited. A lone bird sang but she couldn’t identify what kind. If Icy were here, she’d look it up in her bird book. For some time she listened to its chirpy melody. It reminded her of a passage in a Chopin etude Mother had taught her.
A twig broke. When she heard voices, her breath came in a surge of relief. She stood up and wiped her damp palms on her hips. Someone said her name. Her name. At least that was something. “Boy, am I glad you came back,” was all she said. She made it a point to smile and look in the direction from which she heard her name.
Chapter Seven
The single chime signaled one o’clock. “Halleluia. No more French until tomorrow morning.” Jean heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I’ve got to admit it is getting easier.” She remembered Miss Weaver’s standard, all-occasion line, “Of course you can. Just set your mind to it.”
Elsa Flagstad slammed the book shut. “I’m never going to learn that frilly language. English is hard enough and I already speak good enough German.” Jean had been translating orally the French lessons into German for her. It gave her a sense of acceptance with at least one of the girls, but Elsa was different from the others, too. She was foreign. Maybe that was why Miss Weaver had them room together.
“Is German anything like Norwegian?”
“No, but all Norwegian children study German.”
As with the study sessions with Lorraine back at Bristol High, Jean and Elsa couldn’t stick to the subject and fell into talk about other things, usually Elsa’s mother, Kirsten Flagstad, the Wagnerian soprano making her debut at the Met that season. The world of music and opera librettos was far more interesting to both of them than conjugating French verbs in the pluperfect.
Jean gathered up her music and made her way to the piano in the parlor. The room smelled of roses. Eventually, the other girls thumped down the stairway in their riding boots, heading for the stables and riding ring. “See ya later, Jean,” Dody called into the room. Dody always did. Most of the others just walked right by every day.
For a moment after they passed, the room echoed with their footsteps. Then, alone again. She took a deep breath and started in on “Liebestraum.” It was a comforting melody but the awkward Braille music was slow going. She had to stop every few measures to read with her fingers. Maybe the Chopin etude Mother taught her last summer would be easier. She played the Chopin four times up to a point and each time the notes trailed off to nothing. Her hands dropped to her lap and she sat still for a long time. Always there was struggle. Always something
Jean did as she was told. The way they dismissed her so quickly hurt, but what was she to do? She wasn’t even sure who was talking.
She followed the railing around the inside of the gazebo and sighed as she sat down on the bench to wait. Their voices got fainter and more indistinct until she couldn’t hear them at all. She had no sense of how much time was passing. It seemed long. She listened for birds, but there were no sounds except a breeze whooshing through trees. She didn’t even know what kind of trees. Even that would give her something to think about. She’d been afraid to ask too many questions. Icy would have told her without being asked. She stepped out of the gazebo under the sky to try to smell what kind. Nothing. She couldn’t tell. No warmth fell on her face or shoulders. The sun must be low.
These were new friends. She knew none of them two days earlier. Maybe they had forgotten her. If they did, Miss Weaver would be furious, that much she knew. And then they’d resent her, and would have to drag her along just because they were told to.
She’d have to earn their friendship, that was all. Her resolve solidified. She sure wasn’t going to spoil it right off by being a baby. Was friendship something everyone else had to work so hard for? She sat on the bench and waited. A lone bird sang but she couldn’t identify what kind. If Icy were here, she’d look it up in her bird book. For some time she listened to its chirpy melody. It reminded her of a passage in a Chopin etude Mother had taught her.
A twig broke. When she heard voices, her breath came in a surge of relief. She stood up and wiped her damp palms on her hips. Someone said her name. Her name. At least that was something. “Boy, am I glad you came back,” was all she said. She made it a point to smile and look in the direction from which she heard her name.
Chapter Seven
The single chime signaled one o’clock. “Halleluia. No more French until tomorrow morning.” Jean heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I’ve got to admit it is getting easier.” She remembered Miss Weaver’s standard, all-occasion line, “Of course you can. Just set your mind to it.”
Elsa Flagstad slammed the book shut. “I’m never going to learn that frilly language. English is hard enough and I already speak good enough German.” Jean had been translating orally the French lessons into German for her. It gave her a sense of acceptance with at least one of the girls, but Elsa was different from the others, too. She was foreign. Maybe that was why Miss Weaver had them room together.
“Is German anything like Norwegian?”
“No, but all Norwegian children study German.”
As with the study sessions with Lorraine back at Bristol High, Jean and Elsa couldn’t stick to the subject and fell into talk about other things, usually Elsa’s mother, Kirsten Flagstad, the Wagnerian soprano making her debut at the Met that season. The world of music and opera librettos was far more interesting to both of them than conjugating French verbs in the pluperfect.
Jean gathered up her music and made her way to the piano in the parlor. The room smelled of roses. Eventually, the other girls thumped down the stairway in their riding boots, heading for the stables and riding ring. “See ya later, Jean,” Dody called into the room. Dody always did. Most of the others just walked right by every day.
For a moment after they passed, the room echoed with their footsteps. Then, alone again. She took a deep breath and started in on “Liebestraum.” It was a comforting melody but the awkward Braille music was slow going. She had to stop every few measures to read with her fingers. Maybe the Chopin etude Mother taught her last summer would be easier. She played the Chopin four times up to a point and each time the notes trailed off to nothing. Her hands dropped to her lap and she sat still for a long time. Always there was struggle. Always something
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