Arabella in the Upper School - Chapter 1
Lazy late September sunlight dusted the classroom air. Still, soporific. Miss Wilkinson's voice droned on about the fertile lands of the Nile delta. Or was it the Orinoco?
Arabella could not remember. Her mind has drifted back to the summer holidays spent with her cousins in Gloucestershire. Long hot days in the woods or by the river. Taking the ponies out for a ride along the country lanes. Even into the village to buy ice creams or soda pop.
Charles, a year older and quite superior now from his time at Eton, had insisted on protecting her, although she was not quite sure what the danger was. Unless it was Charles himself. He liked to hold her hand as they walked through the woods or along the river path. Especially if they were alone. Once or twice - actually, when she thought about it, quite a few times - his hand or arm had brushed against her hip, her thigh. Even, on one particularly embarrassing occasion, he had stumbled and placed his right hand directly over her left breast.
They had both blushed. Robert stuttered an explanation and apology. Only later, recovered somewhat from the confusion, did Arabella recall clearly that he had kept his hand in place, ever so slightly squeezing her soft, sensitive flesh, while he apologised.
She remembered the look in Charles's eyes and the flutter in her own stomach.
Miss Wilkinson was erasing some of her figures from the blackboard, creating even more dust. Were they important, Arabella wondered? Should she have written them down? The open page of her exercise book was blank, apart from a few doodles that seemed to reference trees and a riverbank. If she were asked, could she pretend they represented the Nile? Or the Orinoco?
Arabella slowly turned her head, risking a glance at the clock on the back wall of the classroom. Only twenty minutes gone, another twenty-five to the afternoon break. Surely the clock must be slow.
Arabella had not enjoyed her first couple of weeks in the Upper School. Although she feigned nonchalance, she was quite upset by her change of status. In her last year at the Middle School, she had been Head Girl in her House, enjoying the privilege of her role. The seat at the top of the Prefects dining table, the Head Girl's private cubicle in the Senior dorm, exclusive shower and bathing times. All important signs of her place in the social pyramid of the School.
Now, she was back at the bottom of the pile. No better than the girls who had come up with her at the beginning of term.
She was, she admitted to herself though to no one else, finding it difficult to settle in. What should have been a smooth transition was proving to be quite difficult. Arabella knew this was not her fault. All she wanted was to be treated with the respect that she had grown accustomed to, rather than as a "newbie".
Miss Wilkinson was writing new figures on the blackboard. Something about crop yields and drought years, Arabella thought. Better copy some of it down. She began to write in her exercise book but her concentration was broken by a loud knock on the classroom door.
"Come!" ordered Miss Wilkinson and the door opened. The tall, athletic figure of Nancy Stewart, Head Girl of the Upper School and "Fancy Nancy" to the lower orders - of whom Arabella now realised she was one - entered the classroom. She strode over to the teacher and handed her a note.
Miss Wilkinson read the note, slowly nodding her head. She passed the piece of paper back to the Head Girl.
"Very well," she said and looked across the classroom.
"Arabella Fiennes, you will go with Stewart. The Headmistress wishes to see you."
Arabella could not remember. Her mind has drifted back to the summer holidays spent with her cousins in Gloucestershire. Long hot days in the woods or by the river. Taking the ponies out for a ride along the country lanes. Even into the village to buy ice creams or soda pop.
Charles, a year older and quite superior now from his time at Eton, had insisted on protecting her, although she was not quite sure what the danger was. Unless it was Charles himself. He liked to hold her hand as they walked through the woods or along the river path. Especially if they were alone. Once or twice - actually, when she thought about it, quite a few times - his hand or arm had brushed against her hip, her thigh. Even, on one particularly embarrassing occasion, he had stumbled and placed his right hand directly over her left breast.
They had both blushed. Robert stuttered an explanation and apology. Only later, recovered somewhat from the confusion, did Arabella recall clearly that he had kept his hand in place, ever so slightly squeezing her soft, sensitive flesh, while he apologised.
She remembered the look in Charles's eyes and the flutter in her own stomach.
Miss Wilkinson was erasing some of her figures from the blackboard, creating even more dust. Were they important, Arabella wondered? Should she have written them down? The open page of her exercise book was blank, apart from a few doodles that seemed to reference trees and a riverbank. If she were asked, could she pretend they represented the Nile? Or the Orinoco?
Arabella slowly turned her head, risking a glance at the clock on the back wall of the classroom. Only twenty minutes gone, another twenty-five to the afternoon break. Surely the clock must be slow.
Arabella had not enjoyed her first couple of weeks in the Upper School. Although she feigned nonchalance, she was quite upset by her change of status. In her last year at the Middle School, she had been Head Girl in her House, enjoying the privilege of her role. The seat at the top of the Prefects dining table, the Head Girl's private cubicle in the Senior dorm, exclusive shower and bathing times. All important signs of her place in the social pyramid of the School.
Now, she was back at the bottom of the pile. No better than the girls who had come up with her at the beginning of term.
She was, she admitted to herself though to no one else, finding it difficult to settle in. What should have been a smooth transition was proving to be quite difficult. Arabella knew this was not her fault. All she wanted was to be treated with the respect that she had grown accustomed to, rather than as a "newbie".
Miss Wilkinson was writing new figures on the blackboard. Something about crop yields and drought years, Arabella thought. Better copy some of it down. She began to write in her exercise book but her concentration was broken by a loud knock on the classroom door.
"Come!" ordered Miss Wilkinson and the door opened. The tall, athletic figure of Nancy Stewart, Head Girl of the Upper School and "Fancy Nancy" to the lower orders - of whom Arabella now realised she was one - entered the classroom. She strode over to the teacher and handed her a note.
Miss Wilkinson read the note, slowly nodding her head. She passed the piece of paper back to the Head Girl.
"Very well," she said and looked across the classroom.
"Arabella Fiennes, you will go with Stewart. The Headmistress wishes to see you."
61-69, F
