"I imagine you all have an inkling as to why I have called you here," Mrs. Pinehurst, owner and headmistress of Mrs. Pinehurst's Finishing School for Gifted And Refined Young Ladies, addressed her senior staff who were assembled in her spacious office.

Sylvia Heartwood barely reigned in her delight. There had been rumors circulating for months that the headmistress was finally thinking of hanging up her hat after forty long years in the post. About deuced time, if you asked Sylvia!

"I have decided to retire after the summer term comes to an end,"

Good riddance, you hateful old goat!

"We'll be sorry to see you go, Mrs. Pinehurst. Our fine school is nothing without you at its helm," replied Mrs. Bootcombe, the Etiquettes governess or- as Sylvie liked to think of her- The Bootlicker. If there was anything that Mrs. Bootcombe was an expert at even more than etiquette, it was kissing the headmistress' bottom! "The young ladies in our charge shall surely suffer! Doubtless, it is your esteemed name that attracts the finest young ladies from all around this magnificent country."

"Indeed, we have seen much success with our alumni," Mrs. Pinehurst really wasn't the humble sort. Sylvie could recite her next words practically by heart. "Our girls have gone on to become countesses, marchioness. Why, last season I do believe we had a duchess."

Sylvia gritted her teeth to hide her irritation at the two elderly matrons who were fawning as if they had written the betrothal contracts themselves. Naturally, they found that a woman's greatest achievement lay in the man she married and this philosophy was reflected in the very halls of the school.

Young women were sent here with the express goal to make them marriageable. Smooth out any rough edges....like having a brain or a single smidgen of originality. They were taught English, only so they could make conversations about popular books and classics. They were taught mathematics, only enough so that they may tend to household accounts. The rest of their days were spent learning dances and curtsies and etiquette, important things to be sure – Sylvie was no fool, she knew that most women needed the protection of a man to survive in a world where women were set at a disadvantage just by virtue of their sex. What she absolutely loathed was the fact that places like this school denied young women the right to expand their minds.

Heaven forbid a man find out that women had space in their minds to accommodate more than fashion and gossip. But nay, if a woman was intelligent she was undesirable. If a young woman wished to talk of chemistry or Latin or history, she was somehow less. As if having an interest in academics diminished her ability to be a spouse or mother.

I adore your mind, Sylvie.

Well, there had once been a boy who had not seen her as less. A boy who had sent her all his books, who had taught her new things with kindness and interest. But that boy had never particularly considered her rather desirable either, so she supposed she was not exactly proving her point.

She still thought about him on occasion; that boy who had gone to war and had come back so very sad. The man she had held in her arms as he had wept when she had been nineteen. It was hard not to, given that she resided in the city that he had been titled after, even though they had not spoken outside of exchanging pleasantries in over a decade.

"Our girls have gained a most exquisite upbringing thanks to your leadership, Mrs. Pinehurst," chimed in Mr. Smyth, the dance master, loyally. "They are the epitome of feminine grace. We've even managed to cure most of them of their," he sniffed as if about to say something particularly unpleasant, "bluestocking tendencies."

Bluestockings, they called women like Sylvie, the word somehow infused with an inherent disdain. If Mrs. Pinehurst ever found out about Sylvie's extracurriculars, or the fact that she had smuggled a scientific pamphlet or two to girls who were interested, she would have been sacked without reference in the blink of an eye.

So, if she loathed the very principles of this institution, why had she sold her soul to work here? She'd had a comfortable life working as a governess, handsy employers aside. It had stimulated her mind, most families had allowed her to borrow from their libraries and no one cared if the spinster governess enjoyed taking the occasional lecture on Roman history or astrology. She had lived in bright and exciting London, instead of the relatively somber city of Carlisle where she had been raised.

The answer was simple, she had done it for Jane. Her adorable niece whom she had raised from when she had been just a babe. People did not like their governess's to come with a charge of their own and she had soon found herself without work with next to no one willing to hire her. If it hadn't been for Raphael's father, the Marquess of Lindsey, she would have found herself little better than a beggar.

"Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Smyth. You have been an important part of our institution for many years," Mrs. Pinehurst replied diplomatically.

Sylvia wanted to roll her eyes. Mr. Smyth couldn't stand being governed by a woman and clashed frequently with the iron-willed headmistress. Sylvia knew why those two were buttering up their employer more thoroughly than day-old toast. It was why she was sitting here with a pleasant smile on her face, nodding in polite agreement with whatever flattery the other two were muttering even as it killed her a little bit to do it.

"Now that I have made my decision to retire, we must talk about the matter of my succession."

And there it was, trust Mrs. Pinehurst to speak like an abdicating queen about choosing her replacement. It was right there, so close that Sylvia could smell it; the goal she had been working toward for the last seven and a half years, the dream to one day take reigns of this place. She had endured much for it, she had sacrificed her personal beliefs to play the long game. Each year spent pretending that she did not enjoy unladylike pursuits, every year of being complicit in the way these people wrung out spirit and originality from young, impressionable girls would come to fruition if she could become headmistress. She had such grand plans for it, starting with doing away with the habit teachers had of rapping delinquent students across their knuckles with sticks. Slowly, slowly, she would introduce a wider array of subjects using the school's respectability as a shield against potential disapproval from parents. One day, if the girls here wished to study higher mathematics or astronomy or geography along with their lessons in comportment, she would find a way to make it so.

That is what she wished to do with her life; to create a place where girls did not have to be ashamed of their intelligence. Where they did not have to hide it. 

There was going to be a time when women were allowed in universities. Nay, there was going to be a time when women would teach in universities and Sylvie was going to be one wave in the tide of time that would bring that change. And perhaps she would not go down in the annals of history, maybe no one would know of her minuscule rebellion. But perhaps she would look down from heaven at women walking the halls of Cambridge and know that she had had a part in bringing them there.

"As you know, the three of you are among my most experienced staff and you have all been with this institution for a long time," Mrs. Pinehurst began as all three of them sat up a little straighter. "And it ought to come as no surprise that I intend to choose one of the three of you to take my place."

Mrs. Bootlicker smiled smugly, doubtlessly assuming that she was the obvious choice, she had been at the school longer than both Sylvia and Mr. Smyth. The dance instructor, on the other hand, naturally thought he was the obvious choice as he was male.

Typical.

But, Sylvia had merits the other two did not have. While Mrs. Bootlicker had the advantage of experience, she had crossed her fiftieth year a while ago, it would not be long until she needed to retire as well. Sylvie, just shy of thirty, still had many years left ahead of her. Additionally, Sylvie had a far better rapport with the student body, a fact that the headmistress knew well.

As for Mr. Smyth, the fact of the matter was, for all her flaws, Mrs. Pinehurst did not wish to leave her charges in the care of a man. She was convinced that the boarding school was a comfortable place for young women because it was mostly staffed and led by a woman. He was only here out of courtesy and leaving him out of consideration was not worth the commotion he would have caused.

"Given our winter break is coming next month, I will carefully observe your performance over the next several weeks. Before the start of our spring term in March, I shall announce my choice and then the selected candidate will shadow me for the term as senior mistress. I wish you all the best of luck."

But Sylvie would not need luck. Sylvie was a lover of science and logic, if she were to succeed, she would need dedication and the will to work hard, both of which she had in spades.