Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Praise for A Season for Second Chances
- Also by Jenny Bayliss
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Discussion Guide
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“Better to miss the tour than look like one of the Muppets in a wedding gown tomorrow,” Jenna had giggled. A member of the staff had laid a roaring fire in the hearth, and by the time they left, Nory was rather jealous of Jenna’s afternoon ahead.
Twenty-seven
The idea had been to walk across the castle grounds to get to Braddon-Hartmead, but it was bitterly cold. In the end, the party split itself between Ameerah’s Mini Countryman and Jeremy’s old Range Rover.
Even as an adult, Nory found the school building to be imposing. She wondered if it was still as drafty as it had been when she had boarded. A prefect met them on the steps and led them into the entrance hall, which had been decorated for Christmas, and disappeared off to tell the head teacher that they had arrived.
For a moment, the old pupils stood silently, awed by remembrance. Katie and Dev, who had not attended Braddon-Hartmead, were suitably impressed by its grandeur. The splendor of the public areas had always belied the more modest reality of student life: cold dormitories and even colder shared bathrooms, parquet floors sticky with a century of yacht varnish, classrooms with ancient desks and peeling plaster, and a food hall that more resembled a crumbling monastery than Hogwarts.
The headmistress was not much older than the gaggle of ex-pupils and their partners who stood before her. Ms. Strathmoore wore a long old-fashioned teaching gown, unfastened to reveal a 1940s-style trouser suit that may or may not have been, but probably was, Dior. The wireless earbud tucked discreetly into her left ear and the Apple Watch just visible below the gown sleeve, confirmed that there was nothing fusty about the current headmistress. When Nory had attended Braddon-Hartmead, the headmaster was well past retirement age. He had believed television was the devil’s work, “the cause of an epidemic of slackened brains!” And he felt that the removal of corporal punishment in schools was a violation of his human rights; he kept his cane laid across his desk to remind him of happier times.
“It is always such a delight to be visited by our alumni.” Ms. Strathmoore smiled, showing all her straight white teeth. “I was hoping that Ms. Baxter would be in attendance . . .” She craned her neck to look past Dev and Jeremy, who stood at the back, as though Jenna might be hiding behind them.
“Oh, she’s tied up with wedding things, I’m afraid,” said Charles. “Bride-to-be and all that.”
Ms. Strathmoore’s smile drooped, just for a second. “Of course,” she agreed.
The tour took them through the old halls, omitting the shabbier corridors below stairs, and through the new science labs.
“These were completed in 2014. We are very lucky to receive continued donations from benefactors long after their children have left Braddon-Hartmead to make their way in the world.”