A Young Lady’s Education
A Day in the Life of Amanda Scott, Age Fifteen
Edinburgh School for Young Ladies, 1814
The bell rang sharply at half past six, as it did every morning, echoing off the high stone walls of the Edinburgh School for Young Ladies. Amanda Scott, though fond of her rest and always yearning for a few minutes more beneath the heavy woolen blankets, obediently stirred. She was not one to cause fuss or friction—not out of fear, but from a quiet sense of decency she wore like a ribbon.
She dressed briskly in the grey muslin uniform, her light hair pulled into a serviceable braid. The mornings were brisk in Edinburgh, and she did not linger before making her way down the long corridor to the dining hall, where toast, soft-boiled eggs, thinly sliced apples, and a bowl of late summer berries waited alongside the ever-present pot of tea. After breakfast, while the other girls whispered or fussed with ribbons, Amanda bowed her head in a silent prayer, mouthing the same faithful lines she had recited since she was a girl. Her mother had taught them to her long ago, before the arrangements had been made and Amanda sent quietly away for the sake of propriety.
The morning hours passed in the rhythm of lessons: penmanship, literature, a touch of mathematics, and, as always, music. Amanda’s small fingers danced nimbly over the piano keys during practice, but it was the harp that soothed her. There was something private about the way the strings curled around her thoughts—no showmanship required, just harmony and calm.
She had little patience for painting, and while she respected the skill in embroidery, she much preferred the precision and purpose of plain needlework—hemming, mending, even piecing together bits of fabric into neat, practical forms. She found comfort in usefulness.
Her one extravagance - visions of gowns, lace trimmed bonnets, a parasol in the French style, and perhaps, even a reticle to match. She loved to create all manner of lady’s fashions in her day dreams, and would often secretly sketch those design creations on her correspondence paper. Thankfully, Mrs. Cross was unaware of this fancy of Amanda’s, as it would have quickly, and publicly, been halted.
After luncheon, the girls were allowed time outdoors. Today, the sky was pale but fair, and so a game of “crooks” was arranged on the lawn. Amanda took her turn with the mallet, her strokes gentle but precise. Mrs. Cross, the school's ever-watchful chaperone—whose name suited her temperament more than she seemed to realize—paced along the boundary, arms crossed tightly. She disapproved of laughter unless it was restrained, elegant, and purpose-driven. Amanda stifled a smile at that thought but did not dare voice it.
Later, the girls were permitted an hour for quiet pursuits. Amanda chose her favored window seat in the library, where light fell softly through the leaded panes. Though the etiquette treatise lay open on her desk as required, her real attention belonged to a well-worn copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. She had read it once before, but the tale of Christian’s steady perseverance spoke to her again, in new ways. There was something in the journey—lonely but deliberate—that mirrored her own. Not dramatic, not dreamy. Simply a girl finding her way forward, wherever it might lead.
Before bed, Amanda wrote a short letter to her mother. She did not mention the sharpness of Mrs. Cross’s tone, nor the sting of being called “the lonely girl” by a cruel student days ago when parents came to visit. She wrote instead of the music, the clear skies, and her progress in reading and needlework. Her mother had done what she thought was best—Amanda believed that—and Amanda would do her part to be a young lady of character and strength.
She ended the letter with affection, folded it neatly, and placed it on the writing table. Then, in the stillness of her dormitory room, she brushed her hair and changed into her nightgown. She whispered one last prayer of thanks, not for her circumstances but for the grace to meet them.
Amanda Scott was not the sort of girl whose name would be etched in grand books or recited in ballrooms. But in her quiet way, she was becoming a woman of uncommon steadiness. And as she drifted to sleep beneath the chill of an Edinburgh evening, she did so with the sense that the world—though imperfect—might yet hold a place for someone like her.
P.S. for the Curious Reader:
This glimpse into Amanda’s world comes from my upcoming novel - where a young lady uncovers her secret past. Stay tuned!
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