Crying silently is simple enough. After a while, it becomes instinctive: one’s voice removes itself from the sobs; the desperate gasps for air quieten to whispers; soon even the tears themselves fall more and more softly, striving to betray not the smallest splash.
Now no-one, not even the girl, barely a foot away form me, could be disturbed by my grief.
What am I doing here? I ask myself that same question every night on this windowsill and every night I reply with the same answer: I thought that going to school would be a great opportunity; that learned teachers would shape my mind and imbibe me with enough knowledge to satisfy my thirst for it. And my father’s most cherished wish was for me to be educated.
When my uncle presented me with the option of attending a boarding school or going to live with him, his wife and his daughters, I saw it as a choice between carrying out my late father’s wishes or not. There was no contest.
The half-moon’s pockmarked face leers down at the world; neither an elegant sickle nor full and bright and casts an oppressive pallor over the grounds.
The only reason I had not wanted to go to school before was that – even in my idle musings of wise, old professors with white beards and backs bent from the weight of so much knowledge – I could have imagined no better teacher than my father.
He taught me to read when I was only four. He carefully guided my hand as I painstakingly inscribed the letters of my name into my very first book. He laughed and he told me,
“One day, Cassandra, in some great library to rival Alexandria, that name will appear alongside Hippocrates and Plato and Luther!”
And I believed him.
One of the girls turns in her sleep and murmurs something but the sound is indistinct and all but lost by the time it reaches me form across the dormitory.
That book was the first of many that I cherished. My father’s devotion to my education compelled him to buy me as many books as he could – books that would broaden my mind and show me the secret riches of philosophy, literature and language – books which were hardly considered suitable reading for ladies, even then. But I cared not what was usual; those books were keys to fabulous realms; the world lay before me in ink and I could traverse the length and bounteous breadth of it whilst remaining in our own parlour! So precious were they to me that their pages might have been of gold.
How strange it then seemed when my uncle’s cruel alchemy turned them grey instead.
“There will be no place for such unseemly and ungodly writings in Mistress Jarret’s school. May you be grateful that I have saved your weak soul from the dangers of education.”
The knots in the wood beneath my fingers are smooth; the once defined ridges and whorls have been reduced to faint shadows by relentless wear.
He showed me the ashes in the grate. I could scarcely comprehend what he had done. Lonely, forsaken words echoed in my mind… grateful… grate full… grateful… great fool… The hollow irony was inconsequential in the numb expanse of my mind where I wandered, seeking comfort; some familiar sign to show that I was not entirely lost.
I shiver involuntarily. The night is cold and my thin night dress affords little protection against the frigid air. I wind my hair about my exposed neck to cover it and close my eyes.
Though my father’s fall at Naseby had rendered me inconsolable, it was only after the burning of my books that I began to fear for myself. My thoughts became haunted by the roundheads who still seek vengeance upon Royalist families. The zealots who hunt witches – and are keen to denounce any free-thinking woman – suddenly seemed close. My fairy ring had been smashed and hordes of demons flooded in.
My father taught me to think carefully and critically about a situation then make a decision based on the facts and probabilities. My failure to do so had already cost me my books. As I stooped to pick up a page-fragment that had escaped the flames, I vowed that never again would I allow my focus to waver: I would go to this school to escape my uncle’s pious prejudice and then complete my education.
My tears, no matter how softly they fall, betray my disappointments at finding this “school” devoid of all books but the bible and the Puritan doctrine wearing me down but I must hope. Life without learning is not worth living: I shall persevere.
