Winter Winds
Prolouge
Snow fluttered down from thick white clouds coating the sky, and the thick white powder covered the lawns like a heavy blanket. Shrieks and squeals of delight escaped every mouth as young girls dressed in charcoal grey uniform coats chased each other across the grounds. To the nuns watching from the upper floors of the school, the spectacle consisted of nothing more than groups of young girls frolicking in the snow. But to an experienced eye, the frosty field was a war-zone where battles were waged, and each girl knew better than to take the skirmish lightly. The cold, fluffy white matter was carefully compacted by tiny, dainty hands until it formed freezing, solid weapons. Forts were constructed and officers were hastily appointed in the heat of battle as torrents of icy ammunition rained down on foot soldiers and generals alike. And thus the battle would continue until a victor emerged, or Sister Lucinda called the girls in for tea at the end of Recreation Hour.
“Ms. Whitaker? Ms. Whitaker, your carriage has arrived!”
Jessamine Whitaker jerked away from the window that gave a clear view of the front lawns as Sister Rosita’s husky voice penetrated the closed door. Jessamine had been so engaged in the battle raging below that she’d nearly forgotten the hour. She hurried from her small dorm room in a flurry of ribbons and starched fabrics, and she ignored all the etiquette she’d been taught at St. Ursula’s Academy for Young Girls as she bounded down the hallway. Looking out of one of the large stain-glass windows, Jessamine could see the familiar coachman standing at attention three floors below, the black stallions and carriage standing out in stark contrast against the heaps of snow lining the driveway. Hardly believing her eyes, Jessamine ran back to her room to collect her trunk, hat, and coat.
“So you’re off then,” Ruthie, her roommate of nine months, commented upon her return.
“Yes, my family’s coach just arrived,” Jessamine replied awkwardly, not sure how best to part ways with the girl she still hardly knew.
“Keep in touch,” Ruthie said with an empty smile. Although Jessamine was sure that many of the girls in her grade would be glad to finally be rid of her, Jessamine still appreciated Ruthie’s polite comment.
“Of course,” she replied with the same false affection, lightly hugging the copper-haired girl.
Jessamine repeated the routine of assuring girls she’d never shared more than a quick conversation with that she would indeed come to visit their country estates for Christmas one year, or that she would be sure to write every week.
As she finally made her way across the foyer of the school’s main building one last time, Jessamine found herself once again wishing that she’d graduated the previous year with Mary. She and Mary Barlow had been closer than sisters for as long as either of them could remember, and each and every one of Mary’s friends had been equally close to Jessamine as well. When the class ahead of her had graduated, every student Jessamine had been close to had left as well; she had been forced to endure her last year at St. Ursula’s friendless and alone.
Now that she was returning to London, she thought as she stepped carefully down the worn, icy stone steps of the ancient building, she could put these past terrible months behind her and start anew. She would be able to spend all of her free time with Mary, Lucy, Margaret, and all of their friends without the constant pressure of having to study the proper way of pouring tea or memorize French conjugations. They would be free to do as they pleased, to stay up into the wee hours of the night without having to listen for the sisters’ patrolling footsteps.
Jessamine was pulled from fantasies of her utopian future as Jacques, her family’s coachman, took her bags from her with a friendly smile. She returned the familiar silent greeting, and he loaded her bags into the carriage, before he helped her up into it as well.
As Jacques cracked the whip and the horses began to trot South, Jessamine peeked out of the window for one last glance at the rambling gothic estate that had been her safe-haven in past years, but her prison for the last few months. When the carriage bounced over a bump in the road and Jessamine was jostled in her seat, the thick envelope in her jacket’s inner pocket jabbed her in the side. The dull throb sent her heart racing as she thought of the envelope’s contents, and the thrill of returning home sent her skin tingling. She fumbled around in her pocket until she found the letter, and she drew it out with slightly trembling hands. Reading over the fantastical poems written the thin, scratchy script she knew better than her own, Jessamine was unable to deny that there was, in truth, only one reason she was so anxious to return home.
“Ms. Whitaker? Ms. Whitaker, your carriage has arrived!”
Jessamine Whitaker jerked away from the window that gave a clear view of the front lawns as Sister Rosita’s husky voice penetrated the closed door. Jessamine had been so engaged in the battle raging below that she’d nearly forgotten the hour. She hurried from her small dorm room in a flurry of ribbons and starched fabrics, and she ignored all the etiquette she’d been taught at St. Ursula’s Academy for Young Girls as she bounded down the hallway. Looking out of one of the large stain-glass windows, Jessamine could see the familiar coachman standing at attention three floors below, the black stallions and carriage standing out in stark contrast against the heaps of snow lining the driveway. Hardly believing her eyes, Jessamine ran back to her room to collect her trunk, hat, and coat.
“So you’re off then,” Ruthie, her roommate of nine months, commented upon her return.
“Yes, my family’s coach just arrived,” Jessamine replied awkwardly, not sure how best to part ways with the girl she still hardly knew.
“Keep in touch,” Ruthie said with an empty smile. Although Jessamine was sure that many of the girls in her grade would be glad to finally be rid of her, Jessamine still appreciated Ruthie’s polite comment.
“Of course,” she replied with the same false affection, lightly hugging the copper-haired girl.
Jessamine repeated the routine of assuring girls she’d never shared more than a quick conversation with that she would indeed come to visit their country estates for Christmas one year, or that she would be sure to write every week.
As she finally made her way across the foyer of the school’s main building one last time, Jessamine found herself once again wishing that she’d graduated the previous year with Mary. She and Mary Barlow had been closer than sisters for as long as either of them could remember, and each and every one of Mary’s friends had been equally close to Jessamine as well. When the class ahead of her had graduated, every student Jessamine had been close to had left as well; she had been forced to endure her last year at St. Ursula’s friendless and alone.
Now that she was returning to London, she thought as she stepped carefully down the worn, icy stone steps of the ancient building, she could put these past terrible months behind her and start anew. She would be able to spend all of her free time with Mary, Lucy, Margaret, and all of their friends without the constant pressure of having to study the proper way of pouring tea or memorize French conjugations. They would be free to do as they pleased, to stay up into the wee hours of the night without having to listen for the sisters’ patrolling footsteps.
Jessamine was pulled from fantasies of her utopian future as Jacques, her family’s coachman, took her bags from her with a friendly smile. She returned the familiar silent greeting, and he loaded her bags into the carriage, before he helped her up into it as well.
As Jacques cracked the whip and the horses began to trot South, Jessamine peeked out of the window for one last glance at the rambling gothic estate that had been her safe-haven in past years, but her prison for the last few months. When the carriage bounced over a bump in the road and Jessamine was jostled in her seat, the thick envelope in her jacket’s inner pocket jabbed her in the side. The dull throb sent her heart racing as she thought of the envelope’s contents, and the thrill of returning home sent her skin tingling. She fumbled around in her pocket until she found the letter, and she drew it out with slightly trembling hands. Reading over the fantastical poems written the thin, scratchy script she knew better than her own, Jessamine was unable to deny that there was, in truth, only one reason she was so anxious to return home.