St Victoria’s

 

 

The cold English rain feels like a slap against my face. For months, I have looked forward to arriving in England. I’ve waited eagerly to witness the rolling countryside with its lakes, mountains and rivers and its birds chirruping merrily. I’ve relished in the thought of passing the grand houses and gardens of the rich and noble. I’ve dreamt of attending lavish balls in London and to visit the many hundreds of shops and boutiques the city has to offer.

   The grey sky and lingering smell of smoke and grime is hardly the welcome I was anticipating. I had expected the sun to be high in the sky smiling down on a quaint seaside port surrounded by squawking gulls, laughing children dressed in white dresses stained with ice cream, young men courting elegantly dressed women on the promenade and a village band playing traditional English folk tunes.

  Instead, all around me I can see big ships chugging away from the noisy and oily port, carriages rocketing past at an alarming speed along the littered cobbled road. Rather than sitting pretty in their Sunday best, women are selling fish and shouting against the noise for people to come and buy their wares. Sailors and fishermen are huddled in groups all walking toward the local public houses, cigarettes between their teeth and grease smeared across their off white vests. Small children in rags are hanging around by the luggage departments of boats, many of them fiddling with the locks on the cases that are being flung from the deck of the liner that brought me and my family here, some are even pestering rich gentlemen for a penny or two. There is no grass or flowers to be seen for what looks like miles, muddy puddles are the closest to lakes and the tall factory towers that loom over this miserable harbour bear the closest resemblance to mountains. Dogs and mangy cats wander the harbour sniffing around at the rubbish in the corners, gulls swoop down dangerously low carrying dead fish in their beaks. As is tradition, I am unable to hide my disappointment from my parents for father gives me a smile and a knowing wink.

  “Big smiles please, Rosetta.” He whispers so that mother will not hear him. At once I curse myself for not having the capability to rearrange my face into a passive expression at such times. I should be putting on a brave face simply for father’s sake. He never wanted to come to England, he was more than comfortable in our stately home in St Petersburg and did not understand why mother and I wanted to leave and go to live in mother’s more modest family home in the English country, as far as my father is concerned England has nothing that Russia has not. However, mother and I argued endlessly with him; Mother wanted to leave the climate behind, she wanted me to experience the same way of life as she had when she was my age, I wanted to leave so that I could enrol in the prestigious London School of Ballet which will be a marvellous grounding for my future career. Father was unconvinced:

  “We have a wonderful house in St Petersburg with the Royal Ballet and theatres around the corner of the road,” he would say “We have good food and drink and there are plenty of boutiques for you ladies to spend my money in!” but mother’s persuasion forced him to eventually give in much to my delight. Now I feel very much like a spoilt brat for my initial disappointment and decide to brighten up for father’s sake. I force a smile and adjust my hat just as mother turns to me;

  “You see Anatoly,” she says to father “Look at Rosetta’s face, she’s delighted!” At least if my ballet falls through I should make a convincing actress, I think. I follow mother and father down the cobbled street; I have to tred carefully to avoid catching a heel in between the stones and falling.

  Father calls for a cab and a dirty rider helps us to load our bags into his carriage. He smells of sweat and smoke and I have to wrinkle my nose when he leans across me to collect my bags. The carriage is far from the luxury ones that I used to ride in when out in St Petersburg, it is small and uncomfortable with hunks of cushion torn out of the chairs. I clamber into the pokey wooden carriage and hang onto the railings for dear life as we plummet down the bumpy street.

  Within minutes, we have left the grey port behind us and are travelling out of the unimpressionable town and out into the vast countryside. Once I am sure we are away from the fumes of the port I open the window of the carriage in an attempt to eliminate the stale smell inside. The air is clearer now and after a while the sky brightens and the sun appears. I look out of the window to admire the beautiful English countryside. We pass by meadows and fields highlighted with cornflower and wildflower; we pass through several villages each situated seemingly in the middle of nowhere. As we pass through the latest village I watch as a baker cycles past an old village church and waves at the vicar who is standing by the gates talking to a woman carrying a basket full of fresh fruit. Following this, we pass by a large woodland area where I see birds of prey circling their prey high above us in the sky. I smile as I spy a young fawn walking along side its mother towards the nearby meadow. Away from the gloom of the harbour I am starting to feel excited again. I sit back in my seat and shut my eyes allowing the cool breeze to caress my face.

   After what seems like an eternity, I open my eyes as the carriage slows down. We have eventually arrived at Worthington Place, the home of my grandparents and the place I shall now call home.

  It is a beautiful, large house with white stonewalls several balconies and a pretty fountain feature in the centre of the tidy lawn. A few trees and shrubs are scattered around the modestly sized garden, including a fir tree and some rose bushes. It is far from our grand home in Russia but it is no hovel either. As our carriage comes to a halt outside the large wooden front doors, I see my grandmother hurrying out to greet us. She is a slight woman with greying flaxen hair which is currently tied up in a bun.

  “My dears how pleased I am to see you again!” she gushes as she kisses my mother and father on the cheeks “And Rosetta!” she says turning to me her bright blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight, “My you’re turning into a real lady aren’t you?” she smiles and her face creases like old parchment.

  “Looks can be deceptive.” Father says as I clutch hold of his arm in order to prevent myself from tripping as I stumble down the wobbly steps of the carriage.

  Grandma calls for the front man to collect our bags and leads us inside the house. I can vaguely remember the plush red carpet from when I visited as a child but the dark wooden bookcases and tall drapes are unrecognizable. We follow her down the corridor and into the large, bright sitting room where we find my Grandfather sitting in a cream chair at the window, cigar in one hand and a tumbler of scotch in the other. He smiles as we enter and rises to his feet with a large grin.

  “At last! It’s so wonderful to finally see you” he says happily embracing my mother as if she was still a child he shakes my father’s hand and turns to me with a big smile on his crinkled face. “Rosetta! My dear you look beautiful.” He says as he embraces me tightly. He smells of cigar smoke and I have to hold back a cough. “How was your voyage?” he asks offering us all seats on the large couch. “I heard the sea was a little rough,” I feel my chest tighten as mother and father both begin their contradicting tales of how dreadful the Russian liner was or wasn’t and I know I am in for a long afternoon.

  After we have all embraced and shared sentiments Grandma calls for tea and cakes from the parlour, they look quite splendid but mother gives me a stern look when I reach for my second cream cake. As the afternoon progresses, mother shares her stories of the Russian winters and how they played havoc with her hair. Father sits quietly speaking only to reply to Grandfathers questioning and I know he is biting his tongue against my mother’s complaining.

  At five o’clock a young maid walks in with a second trolley full of delightful looking cream cakes and buns topped with icing and stuffed with jam. As the tea is served the conversation turns to how the food in England is far better than in Russia. I see father chewing at his bottom lip, a trait of his that reveals his irritation and I know he is trying to stop himself from saying something he may regret. Being the patriot that he is, my father has difficulty hearing of Russia being compared to other countries in such a negative way, as far as he is concerned Russia is the greatest land on earth. My heart goes out to him when mother criticises the architecture of the theatres of St Petersburg and calls Moscow an ‘ugly place.’ I smile at him when nobody else is looking and he raises his eyebrows knowingly which indicate his inner smile.

  “How is your ballet coming along, Rosetta?” Grandma suddenly asks. I am caught off guard since I have not been spoken to since the tea arrived, in fact I had been more interested in the grand piano in the corner of the room and had been daydreaming of having a handsome British suitor play me a self composed melody.

  “Very well thank you.” I reply a small crumb falling from my mouth; I redden as all of the eyes are suddenly focused on me. I pop the crumb onto my china plate and gulp. Mother turns to Grandma and says

  “I do believe she is my finest pupil.” Now I redden even more, it is unlike mother to compliment me but considering she was ballet tutor I realise that she is in fact praising herself. Mother ran a class in one of Russia’s finest ballet institutions and I was her pupil, and whilst my ballet skills are more than adequate I am far from her best pupil. Potential was the word my mother would always say to me. I have potential to be brilliant. I have good posture; my balance is perfect as is my flexibility and my dream is to perform on stage with the Mariinski Ballet in St Petersburg, something I apparently have the potential to do.

  “It must be such a pity for you to give up such a unique and beautiful skill now that you’ve moved here,” Grandma says to me with a sympathetic look. “Still it isn’t proper is it?” I am puzzled, have I missed an element of the conversation? What does she mean by that? I am to attend the Ballet School in London am I not?

  “I am afraid I’m not quite sure what you are implying Grandma.” I say looking at both mother and father for an explanation. Grandma gives my mother a strange look and adds another sugar cube to her tea. Mother shuffles in her seat and turns to my father who looks very uncomfortable. He clears his throat and turns to me with a wary look.

  “Rosetta my dear,” he says, “Now that you are here in England you will no longer be able to continue with your ballet classes.” My heart skips a beat.

  “What?” I ask feeling my chest tighten. Nobody replies. “Why not?!” I ask with more volume than is considered polite.

  “There are no ballet schools in the area, my dear.” Mother says placing her hand on my arm. She’s lying now for there is a school in London but she eliminates that too; “The London ballet is simply not good enough for you and I shall not have all your potential wasted in an amateur institution like that!” I am in a state of shock and I’m still not entirely sure what is going on. Are my parents actually telling me that I will not be continuing with my ballet? What will I do without it? It is the only thing I am good at. 

  “Well then, what is it I am supposed to do?” I ask trying not to let my voice crack.

  “Why, you will attend a proper school of course!” Grandma says sternly. I blink hard to stop any tears from escaping from behind my eyes. I don’t understand what she means by proper school, I was taught like all the other girls in a wonderful schooling establishment in Russia until I attended my mother’s classes in the ballet school.

  “I don’t understand,” I admit hoping that this is all a twisted and horrible part of my daydream.

  “Rosetta, you will be attending St Victoria’s Academy for Respectable Young Women whilst here in England,” Mother says “It’s a finishing school with a very high reputation, just like the one I attended when I was your age. You will learn how to be a proper lady and by the end of your year you should be in preparation for becoming a good.”

  “And you will marry into a good family” Grandma adds casting a small look at my father. I suddenly realise that Grandma must have had some input in this idea. She would often write to mother telling her not to let me continue with my ballet for it would ruin my feet and bones. Now she wants to marry me off to a stranger within the year! I feel physically sick.

  “But…I wanted to be a professional dancer.” I say feebly sounding rather spoilt. “You said I had potential!” I add accusingly at my mother who avoids eye contact with me. Grandma laughs heartily.

  “Nonsense,” she laughs “That is no life for a woman; you mustn’t lower yourself to that kind of life, it isn’t respectable in this day and age.” For a split second I actually hate her.

  “But…” I say feeling my neck and face redden and the tears coming dangerously close to falling.

  “No ‘buts’ Rosetta,” says Grandma “you will enrol at St Victoria’s next week on the first of September and that is final.” I open my mouth to protest but mother shoots me one of her sternest looks and I have to remember my manners and sit in silence as they continue to plan out my life.

 

I spend the rest of the evening feeling drained and heartbroken. I keep telling myself not to cry for it would upset everyone. I get the feeling that the room is divided in the decision to send me to this finishing school because throughout the conversations that followed the revelation both father and Grandpa look uncomfortable.

   I do not want to cause a rift in what should be a happy reunion but I cannot help hating them all; Grandma for taking control over my future, Mother for agreeing with her despite all her enthusiasm towards my ballet and Father for allowing this to happen to me and not doing something about it. I went upstairs to change for dinner and to wipe my eyes which are glassy and soaked. When I am called for dinner my stomach spins and I feel sick,

  How can I possibly think of eating at a time like this?

I scold myself for sounding like such a thespian but inside the pain still gnaws away at my insides. I feel so betrayed and used. It is an injustice! Had I broken a toe or injured myself I could come to terms with no longer dancing but I had I so much potential!  

   Dinner is a large helping of roast lamb and seasonal vegetables served with lots of red wine and water for me. Even father manages to enjoy the un-Russian banquet, and tucks in gratefully. I however am too upset to even think about food. I barely touch it, not that anyone notices, they are all too busy enjoying themselves and having a good time. After swallowing as much of the dessert I can bear I excuse myself to bed.

  Upstairs, I sit on the balcony where the air is cooler and calming. My room overlooks the gardens that I had been fantasizing about, with the colourful flowers and willows that hang over the edge of the sapphire pond. My despair cannot be soothed even by the view. I am broken hearted, to think I was the one who encouraged father to leave Russia with mother. I have brought this upon myself. Had I not been such a fantasist I would still be in Russia now preparing for my latest routine. I go inside and I lie on my bed allowing the tears to finally flow like waterfalls. I sob into my pillow not caring whether anyone can hear me or not.

   How can this be happening to me? Coming to England was supposed to be a new beginning for me, the next chapter of my life. My life, not mothers or fathers life, my life, I  should be the one who decides whether or not to continue with my ballet, I should be the one who decides what career I want and I certainly should be the one who decides who I shall marry! The unfairness of it all causes me to weep even more and I bury my face in the pillow.

  I cry until I am drained. It is dark now. The moon is high in the sky and provides the only light in my bedroom.  I sit up on my bed and stare hopelessly at the mirror on the opposite wall, only to see my dishevelled face glare back at me. I walk to the mirror to try and amend my image. Seeing my miserable, swollen face makes me want to cry again, my green eyes are bloodshot and puffy as are my cheeks and forehead. My lips are permanently drooped and my red hair is a tangled mess. I really shouldn’t cry so. I take a deep breath and decide that now that my life in England has been decided I might as well begin to go ahead with it, my lower lips trembles uncontrollably;

  Pull yourself together Rosetta, you look a state. There is no turning back. You are to attend St Victoria’s Academy for Respectable Young Women.

  I try to smile.

 

 

 

The next morning I am to accompany Mother and Grandma into London in order to purchase new dresses to wear at St Victoria’s Academy. Despite still feeling as though the world has come to an end the thought of visiting London brightens me up slightly, because it I have always wanted to explore the famous, historical city. We travel there by train and even Waterloo Station makes me as excited as a six year old at Christmas.

  We reach central London at twelve o’clock just in time to hear the chimes of Big Ben sound all across the city. My heart gives a little leap it is almost magical. I have dreamed of this city since I was a young child. I grew up reading books about the adventures people have in London, about the grand architecture and about the wonderful people that reside there. I’ve pictured the mazes of streets and markets, and the old buildings like the Tower of London and St Pauls Cathedral countless times.

   Mother and Grandma lead the way down the bustling London streets but I dawdle behind staring up at the houses of Parliament that loom over my head trying to absorb as much of their beauty as possible before my feet must drag me onwards.

  “Rosetta! Come along!” Mother snaps. I hurry to catch up with them and decide to stay close to them to avoid being scolded in public. As we continue on our way I spy a small cobbled street bustling with people buying fruit and vegetables and ladies selling flowers from their wicker baskets.

  “Look mother,” I say pointing out the street which is to the side of the one we are walking down. “Let’s go down that street.” I relish the thought of what wonders lie down there and what kind of people I’d meet.

  “Do not be ridiculous Rosetta,” she says frowning “We shall not go anywhere near such a horrendous street, goodness knows what sort of strange people frequent there, now hurry along!” she tugs at my arm slightly.

  I follow sulkily glancing back at the street which disappears from view.

   Grandma leads us to a grand building filled with shops that are awfully similar to those in St Petersburg and I spend the next three hours being measured by the fitting ladies and receiving sympathetic smiles from them as they record the measly measurements of my chest area. Eventually we are finished and have bought three ghastly dresses each in varying shades of navy and grey, they are nothing like the fabulous clothes I wore in Russia but Grandma assures me that all girls in England are more conservative and I shall not look out of place. Judging by the extravagant dresses the women are wearing in London I fear she is mistaken.

  “I must say I am quite exhausted.” Mother says as we leave the store. I roll my eyes in irritation and have to adopt my father’s habit of biting my lip.

   You’re exhausted? You didn’t have to stand around like a scarecrow for three hours!

    A decision is made to have some tea in one of Grandma’s favourite teahouses. It is a small shop on the high street, over dressed with lace and frills and the air smells of strong, sickly perfume and sugar. I despise the place at once and want nothing more than to turn around, exit and find somewhere nicer to visit.

  Grandma and Mother select a table at the window so I at least can have a view of the outside hustle and bustle. As we sit waiting to be served a group of Grandma’s apparent friends enter the teashop and are asked to join us. After a brief introduction I am left in the corner to endure my tea, which is far too weak for my liking. Mother and Grandma talk about some scandal that occurred last week, though it is beyond me how mother should know so much about it since she only arrived in the country yesterday. Grandma orders a tray of cakes to share with the other old biddies, I reach out for a cream scone but mother taps my hand sharply,

  “Figure Rosetta,” she says to me pushing the cake aside “you can barely fit into the dresses we bought you.”

Not when they are purposely two sizes too small, in order to ‘enhance my figure,’ no, mother.

  Hungry and miserable I sit in silence and endure the idle prattle the women natter about at our table.

  A woman dressed in a high-end dress and hat enters the shop carrying what looks like an assortment of flyers. She glances around the room and then suddenly comes over to our table and offers my mother a leaflet.

  “Join the Suffragettes and support Votes for Women!” she says cheerily and with a determination in her voice. Mother pushes the leaflet away with a flick of her hand;

  “Certainly not!” she says “I should not care to lower myself to such a measure, real women know their place.” She adds with spite that generates nods and sounds of approval from the geriatrics at our table. I on the other hand thought she was quite rude and sink a little in my chair.

  “Why Madam, real women stand for what is right!” the woman says still smiling despite my mother’s cruel refusal “Why should men be the only ones with the right to vote? Women are entitled to the same rights as men! Real women should be allowed to pursue their own ambitions without being frowned upon by men and society! The new century dawns and the time for change is upon us!” she rallies on with a seemingly well-rehearsed speech, and I cannot help but smile at her steel. She notices me smiling at her. “What is it you aspire to become my dear?” she asks me, I see mother stare at me angrily. I know that really I ought to side with my mother and not shame her in public but this woman is too good spirited for me to say anything unkind to.

  “I…I should like to perform in the Mariinski Ballet.” I say much to Mother’s horror.

  “Rosetta!” she protests grabbing my wrist.

  “I assume your dreams have been demolished have they not?” the woman continues talking to me loud enough for the whole tearoom to hear. Grandma’s friends are glaring at me and tutting noisily at Mother.

  “Enough of this now Rosetta, we’ve been through this ballet talk and we’ve decided that it is now out of the question.” Mother says sharply.

  “You mean you’ve decided!” I say turning to look mother straight in the eye. I have no idea what is coming over me, but the anguish of the news I received yesterday is still burning inside me like a wildfire. I turn back to the smiling woman and explain “I am to attend an academy instead, to become a proper woman.”

  “Now is the time for change! A ballet dancer is as real as all of these women sitting around you” the woman says to me smiling brightly “Join with the Suffragettes and fight for change!” she pushes the leaflet toward me, my fingers reach out to rake it but suddenly the woman is pulled away from me, the leaflet falling to the floor. There is a scream and many gasps as a police constable drags the woman out of the tearoom.

  “Your lot have caused plenty of trouble today!” he says as she struggles against his grip.

  “You will not silence the restless cry of women!” she begins to shout as though in battle, she still smiles brightly as though glad for the controversy. The constable lifts her slightly off the floor to stop her from running. She however clambers higher onto him as though he were a podium.  “Men are no longer the leaders of the world! Why, England itself is being ruled by Queen Victoria the greatest monarch in our history, closely followed by her majesty Queen Elizabeth – alas another woman!” the police constable struggles to pull her out from the teashop. “Votes for Women!” she cries over and over “Join the Suffragettes!”

  When she has finally been carried away, mother turns to me with a look as vicious as an angry python.

  “I have never been so ashamed in my whole life!” she says to me her face reddening “It’s a good thing you are going to St Victoria’s else I shall end up with a Bohemian as a daughter!” she and Grandma stand hurriedly and make for the door. “Come Rosetta!” Mother snaps as she leaves. I stand and follow stopping only to pick up the leaflet that lies carelessly on the floor.

 

The journey home is unbearable, neither mother nor grandma look at me let alone speak to me and I begin to dread what the conversation at dinner will be. Back at Worthington Place, mother calls for father and has a very long discussion with him in the study. I retreat to my room, knowing that she is telling him all about my ‘bad behaviour.’ Being alone gives me the chance to read the leaflet that the Suffragette dropped.

 

Votes for Women!

Join with the Suffragette Movement in order to see a change in Britain!

Women will be equal!

Men will not rule over us and treat us like sub-servants

For more information find us at 12 Winterberry Avenue, City of London

 

 

I place the leaflet in the case that I have already started packing for my stay at St Victoria’s. Anything that identifies me as a free spirit an individual is to come with me. Today has proven what I feared, there is no alternative for me, I shall have to go along with my family’s plans because it is clear that there will be no other option for me. But just because I am going along with their plans does not mean that I will become what they want me to become, it doesn’t mean that I will do what they want me to do.

   I have made my mind up and vow I shall not become another clone like mother or Grandma. I will not become another ‘real’ woman who spends her days drinking tea and gossiping about scandals whilst living off her husband’s fortune. I will attend St Victoria’s but I will not take much from it, I will attend the lessons and learn to speak properly and sew properly and present myself properly but that will be all. It will be nothing more than a place to stay, and when I finish my year there next summer, I shall leave and do whatever it is I please.

   I am Rosetta Heroski. And I am a real woman.

 

 

 

 September the first actually comes as a relief for I am sick and tired of acting proper in front of mother and Grandma. In Russia mother was different, still very proper, but it was tolerable but here in England she has reached a whole new level of unbearable. So after this summer in Worthington House I do not feel at all emotional to be saying goodbye to my mother until Christmastime.

  When the carriage arrives to take me away I feel choked when it comes to say goodbye to Father. He did not want to come to England and have our lives changed and neither do I…now.

  “Don’t get upset Rosetta,” he says as my eyes brim with tears much to my annoyance. “You’ll be allowed to see us during the holidays.” He kisses my head and gives me a big hug that only makes me sadder. I cling on to him unable to pull myself away from his strong, protective, safe embrace, but mother taps my shoulder with her fan and ushers me into the carriage;

  “Rosetta! Do hurry I don’t want you late on your first day!” she says. I hastily climb aboard the carriage and once everyone has established that I am secured inside, the driver snap the reigns and we slowly rumble away down the drive. I cannot bring myself to look out of the window behind me to wave farewell; it would only make me cry.

  We ride for most of the afternoon, it is a beautiful day, perhaps the brightest day since I arrived here in England. Maybe it is a sign of greater things to come, a new chapter in my life about to unfold. Or maybe it is simply a sunny day which holds no relevance to the future of my life. Much to my dismay the clouds turn grey just as we arrive at a tall, castle like building.

  The driver announces our arrival and lets me out of the carriage. Outside the air is muggy and the rain has begun to fall.

  “Here we are Miss, Saint Victoria’s for you!” my carriage rider smiles wickedly as we both stare up at the unnerving building in front of us. I am flabbergasted at the sight. Looming over me is a tall, black stoned building with large turrets and hideous gargoyles that seem to laugh at me from their spots at the thin windows on the towers. The building is huge and daunting to me and I suddenly become aware that I am staring with my mouth open wide. The driver chuckles at me.

  “Scared Miss?” he asks whilst leaning against his horses.

  “Certainly not!” I say hotly not wanting a mere carriage boy to have me all worked out “I am simply admiring the architecture.” I say feeling a raindrop land on my cheek.

  “Of course.” He says winking at me. “Anyways I should like me pay now if you please Miss.” He says arrogantly.

  “Who says I am satisfied with your service?” I argue even though it was in my best intentions to pay him.

  “Got you here didn’t I?” he says losing his cockney swagger. He lifts his brown shabby cap and eyes me cautiously. I see his face for the first time. He has straw-coloured hair and sky blue eyes and the rest of his rounded features are covered in dust and ash from London. His clothes look no better than the state of his face and for a moment I am overcome with pity. I reach for my purse and his eyes widen.

  “There you go.” I say handing him a shilling. He inspects the coin as if he were evaluating its worth.

  “Couldn’t spare us a bit more for a pint could yer Miss?” he asks his cockney accent sounding playful. All previous feelings of pity escape me. The cheek!

  “Certainly not!” I say clutching my purse in case he dare make a move. “A shilling for the ride nothing more, nothing less.” He shrugs and jumps back to his riders’ seat,

  “Awrigh’ see yer!” he snaps at the reigns and the horses stamp their feet.

  “What about my luggage?” I ask pointing to my pile of bags that he has left next to the carriage.

  “A shilling for the ride nothing more, nothing less.” He says grinning at me and with that he and the carriage rattled away down the road. I stare after him in dismay for now the rain is falling hard. Realising I have no other choice but to carry my luggage to the doors myself I sigh and begin to drag the bags. As I struggle with the third bag I spy a group of girls giggling at me from one of the windows above. I clench my jaw and continue. When I finally finish dragging my cases to the front doors I am a drenched mess. My hair is frizzy and tangles and my face as pale as a ghost. No doubt I look like a fine lady. I ring the ornate doorbell and wait for an answer, the large oak door opens to reveal a tall, stern looking middle-aged woman whose hair is tied into a bun so tight that it looks as though her eyes may pop out at any second. She wears a long black dress and heeled shoes.

  “My name is Rosetta…” I begin my introduction but she cuts me off

  “Miss Heroski we were wondering how long it would take you,” she says and I wonder whether she is referring to my arrival or whether she saw me struggle with my bags. I pray it is not the latter. “Leave your bags in the hall, Mary shall see to those, I am Mrs Henrietta Bumble Headmistress of this Academy, I am pleased that you have chosen us.” She adds and the corners of her mouth twitch slightly, I take it as a smile. She lets me inside. In front of me is a grand staircase bigger than any staircase I have ever seen, the floor is carpeted and various portraits hang from the stonewalls.

 Mrs Bumble takes me to her office a drab room decorated with layers of dark wood. I sign various pieces of information before she tells me about my studies at the school.

  “Here at St Victoria’s we pride ourselves on the ability of turning young girls into proper young women, we are also pleased with the number of our girls that find suitors whilst at the academy. When you are here you will study French, English, Music, Art and Dance, you will also learn how to do various other tasks such as archery and sewing. Lessons begin at eight o’clock sharp and end at five o’clock. Now then,” she says looking at me in such a way that I feel nervous. “Your room, you will be sharing a room with Miss Anne Burrows in the west tower. Number two. If you require any assistance I’m sure the other girls will be more than happy to aid you.” She stands and heads to the door, “The west tower is up that staircase,” she says pointing to a staircase that branch off the grand one.

  “Thank you Mrs Bumble.” I say feeling terribly sorry that she had to acquire such an unfortunate name and I head up the staircase feeling her eyes on me the whole way up. The staircase is narrow and steep and it coils like a snake tighter and tighter the higher I climb. When I reach the top of the staircase I am standing in a dark corridor that has two large oak doors facing each other. One of them has a small brass ‘two’ fixed to it and I carefully push the door open. Inside are two four-poster beds decorated with dark green throws and pillows. There’s a large window in the far corner of the room that overlooks the school grounds and a forest in the distance. The floors are carpeted with the same dull green as the bedding and all of the furniture, two of everything, the dressers, wardrobe and desks, are made from dark mahogany. There is a wicker chair and a few books stacked on a shelf on the stone wall. I am surprised to see that my cases have already been placed neatly at the end of my bed. The room looks barely lived in, there is no sign of this Anne Burrows I am supposed to be sharing with. I sit at the edge of my bed unsure what to do or how to feel. I am all alone. In a strange school with people I do not know.

  Suddenly I am shaking, fear strikes me. What if I do not fit in? What I cannot be a proper lady? What if I don’t want to? Ballet is in the past, I must wipe that from my mind, that dream has already been dashed. But my nerves and fears keep me from settling. I am scared of this new school, this new position I have been forced into. My eyes sting and I feel those wretched tears trying to break out. The door suddenly creaks open. I stand quickly unsure who to expect, in walks a girl of my age in a plain grey working dress and black shoes. She has white blonde hair that is tied back into a tight bun, her eyes are hidden behind thick black framed spectacles. She is no beauty and walks in a rather graceless manner. She looks unsurprised to see me.

  “Hello,” I say my voice higher pitched than I had anticipated “My name is Rosetta Heroski, you must be Anne Burrows?” I extend my hand remembering my manners. The girl shakes my hand limply, her hands are clammy.

  “Hello,” she replies quietly “I am Anne Burrows yes.” She stares at the floor as she introduces herself. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You as well,” I say watching as Anne takes her place on her bed and picks up a discarded book. I am unsure what exactly to do with myself so I unpack my cases in silence. After ten minutes or so we still haven’t spoken, I have no idea what to say to a girl who seems so shy and well, boring! Soon the silence is driving me insane! This surely isn’t how proper ladies are supposed to behave toward one another. Half an hour passes and I have unpacked every case and rearranged the display on my dresser twice, the only sound is the pages of Anne’s book being turned.

  “What a wonderful view we have,” I say my voice sounding like a foghorn in the silence as I look out onto the gardens below. There is a rose garden and willow trees hanging over the edge of a river that divides the school from the forest opposite.

  “Quite,” Anne replies without looking up from her book. My cheeks redden, I will not spend my whole time here at St Victoria’s being completely ignored by my own roommate. She will speak to me even if no one else does.

  “What book are you reading?” I ask sitting down on my bed to face her “It must be terribly good for you haven’t been able to take your eyes away from it since you walked in.” I add hoping to sound harmless rather than venomous.

  “Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights,” she says looking at me this time, her voice sounds apologetic but I cannot tell whether that is how she normally sounds…pathetic. “You should read it.” She adds shyly. I am taken aback by her suggestion, she actually spoke to me!

  “Perhaps I should,” I say to her with as much of a genuine smile I can muster “I suppose Emily is your favourite Bronte sister?” I ask hoping to find some common ground for I am a great fan of the sisters.

  “Yes of course, I am afraid I do not think highly of the others,” she says a slight smile breaking out onto her face. I consider her reply.

  “What about Jane Eyre?” I challenge her in order to create some kind of friendship with her.

  “Boring.” She says returning to her book.

  I have been defeated by her. I am obviously not nearly as interesting as Heathcliff and Catherine.