“I do. Very.”
“So what sort of advantage is that?”
Marion considered this. “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at,” she said eventually.
Isabel Golspie leaned back in her chair and smiled. “What I’m getting at,” she said, “is rather radical. I’m trying to suggest that, admirable though it is for you to want to help the very lowest class of society, the top of society need you too. And if you can help them, they can help the others.”
Marion was completely lost now. But if Miss Golspie was suggesting she go to work at Glenlorne, she could forget it.
The principal calmly sipped her tea. “You’ve seen what it’s like at an elite school. Those little boys will have power one day. And one of their main childhood influences will have been Dr. Stone. How do we grow a just society out of that?”
Marion stared down into her teacup, at the brown pool of tea, whose name she could not now recall. But she could remember the tawse, the dunce’s cap, the fear on the little boys’ faces. “I want to work in slums,” she said, stubbornly.
“Which is precisely why you should teach the wealthy,” suggested Miss Golspie. “Who else is going to tell them how poor people live? About feminism, equal opportunities, social justice and all the other things you care about? Not Dr. Stone, you can be sure of that.”
CHAPTER TWO
The next day was Saturday, the day when Marion went to visit the slums. As always when she visited Grassmarket, she dressed up. The children living there saw enough dirty rags. She wanted to raise their sights and cheer them up by wearing her smartest, brightest clothes.
Her new pink frock swirled satisfyingly about her knees. You would never know the pattern had come free with a magazine. Her mother was clever with her needle, and the drop waist fell perfectly. The hem was just the right length to show off her slim legs.
She hurried along, as if sheer speed would outpace the words of Miss Golspie, which had sounded in her dreams all night. She could see the principal’s argument, which was a typically ingenious one. But her commitment to the poor of Edinburgh was total.
About to cross the road, she stepped back just in time. A car swept past, all shining panels and royal crest. A recent heavy downpour had left puddles in the gutter, which the tires now plowed through. A wave of muddy water rose upward, spattering her skirt and stockings.
Marion swore under her breath. She looked after the car, now gleaming in the distance, heading toward the palace at Holyrood. On both sides of the road, people were staring at it. Were the royal family making one of their periodic visits? She remembered George V on Dr. Stone’s wall. Had the pop-eyed king-emperor ruined her dress? She felt a stir of passionate anti-royal feeling.
“This any use?” The voice came from behind her. A young man was holding out a crumpled handkerchief.
“Thanks.” She took it hastily, without looking. The frock was her priority. But as she dabbed her gaze kept wandering from the dirty fabric to the footwear beside her on the pavement. The brown leather was scuffed, and one lace was undone. But the shoes were good ones; expensive.
“I should introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Valentine.”
“Valentine?” She stopped dabbing and looked up. A pair of bright dark eyes looked back. “As in the card?”
“Everyone says that,” he replied equably. “As in one of the two gentlemen of Verona, actually.”
She straightened. “I’ve never seen that play.”
“Everyone says that as well. What’s your name?”
“Marion.”
“As in Maid?”
“Everyone says that.” They didn’t, actually, but he wasn’t to know.
He grinned. He was very attractive. There was a crackle about him, an energy. He was shorter than her—most men were—but looked strong. His hair was thick and dark, and a shining hank of it dangled in one eye, giving him a boyish look, although she guessed he was about her age, twenty-two. The scruffy shoes were matched with a battered tweed jacket, creased flannels and a red scarf that glowed like a flame. He was carrying a large green canvas bag, with a flap over the top. Whatever was in it looked bulky and heavy. Books?
“Are you a student?” she asked him. The university was full of bumptious young men who strode about the streets as if they owned the place.
He nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
“English, I’m guessing.”
“Actually, I’m studying history.”
She rolled her eyes. “I mean you. You’re English.” His accent definitely was, but not the cold, clipped sort. His voice was low, warm and had a crack in it that was very attractive.
He looked disappointed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well, you don’t sound Scottish.”
“The accent’s quite hard,” he said, deadpan. “Even for Scots. People in Glasgow seem to struggle with it terribly.”
This made her laugh. He looked pleased.
“I’m from London,” he said. “Ever been there?”
She shook her head. She had never been out of Scotland. Suddenly, she felt confined and provincial. She handed back the handkerchief. “I have to go.”
“Can I walk with you?” he asked.
She looked at him. “Why?”
“Because you’re beautiful?”
That made her laugh again. What a flatterer. She was not beautiful. She had good big eyes and nice chestnut hair, even if it was now nearly all shorn. Damn that accursed crop. It only drew attention to the fact her nose was on the large side and she was both too tall and too thin. “A long drink of water,” her mother called her.
Oh well. She did not intend to make her living through her looks. Women had more choices these days.
“I like your hair,” Valentine said, sending a huge, helpless wave of relief through her. She smiled her thanks and started to walk off.
He fell into step beside her. This was unexpected, but not unwelcome.
“Where are you going?”
“Grassmarket.”
The dark eyes widened. “You . . . live there?”
She was tempted to tease him, but found herself telling the truth. “No, I teach there in my spare time.” Now, surely, he would leave her alone. Her interest in the slums shocked most people.
He stayed where he was, however, and hitched the heavy bag onto his other shoulder. “I’m wildly impressed.”
Something in the overstatement made her defensive. “You don’t need to be,” she returned stiffly. “I’m studying to be a teacher. Underprivileged children are my area of special interest.”