I had an inner certainty that things would change, my life expand. Even our two-story brick house in Wednesday Market was the opposite of the cottage in every way, with handsome doors, sash windows, and classical moldings. The ceilings were high, the paint new and bright. Mother allowed that we girls should have two new gowns for school, and Eliza and I, one each for the assembly-room dances.

School at last! Assembly-room dances! I thought Heaven could not be far behind.

When the day came for Ned to move away for school, I was surprised to see that Henry was also to go, standing with his small bag, hair parted in the middle and slicked down with beef suet.

“I don’t think he can manage, Mama. Latin? Algebra? Rhetoric?”

“They do some account of animals, I think. He likes animals. And they study the globes, that might be a good thing. They’ll look after him, know what to do.”

“It’s above Henry. Even I’m better prepared than he—”

“You would be wise to yammer less and embroider more. Be glad we’re sending you to school at all.”

I determined not to let her ruin my high feeling. When we girls left for day school in our new muslin dresses, my eagerness spiked at the sight of Jane Arden presiding over a circle of girls, all chattering at each other, except when Jane spoke, and everyone stopped to listen. I caught her eye and waved. She beckoned me over, and introduced me. Imitating her as best I could, I introduced my sisters, who only smiled demurely. The other girls peppered me with questions, but I kept my answers clipped, for now. It seemed they were all bred of Beverley society, knew its customs and requirements, their place in it. Their fathers wouldn’t be like mine. There’d be no Walkington in them, no holes in their stockings. It was best to tell them little, and let the mystery of the Wollstonecrafts disguise us. Then I’d win them over one by one.

We were shooed into a room like clucking chickens, and took our desks. I tried to mimic the way the girls gathered their skirts into their seats, hands folded on their laps. Eliza and Everina copied my every move, which was a poor copy already, all three of us pretending not to be the awkward rustics we were. We then had a small lecture “for the benefit of the new girls” on the merits of needlework—learning precision and patience—and the domestic value of simple addition.

“Which languages will we study?” I asked, causing a rustle among the skirts. I thought I heard one girl gasp. Even Eliza blushed at my brazenness.

“A smattering of French,” said the teacher, “is all that is required in the sphere of Beverley women.”