Post by dianahawthorne on Mar 12, 2009 18:33:29 GMT -5
Chapter Twelve
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As always, dedicated to kissofdeath, KristaMarie, micha, and tabbyhearts.
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Jean woke up first the next morning, looking down at her sleeping lover. She smiled softly – she never felt more tenderly towards him than when he was sleeping. Jean caressed his hair lightly, kissing his forehead, as he continued to sleep. Oh, but he was adorable! He began to stir, opening his eyes.
“Good morning, darling,” he whispered, taking her hand and placing a gentle kiss on her palm.
“Good morning, Gordon,” she replied, kissing his lips. He smiled at her, pulling her into his arms, and rolled her onto her back. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down for a kiss. He continued to kiss her gently, tentatively, finally entering her. They moved together slowly, softly, and afterwards lay in each other’s arms.
“I do love you, Jean,” Gordon said, kissing her hair lightly.
“I know you do,” she replied. “And I love you.”
He smiled down at her, tilting her chin up so that he could place a gentle kiss on her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and they began all over again...
***
The rest of the year passed uneventfully, though Gordon still felt guilty for hurting Jean. He began playing golf with Heather Lockhart during the weekends that he and Jean did not spend together in an attempt to distance himself from her – he was terrified that he would hurt her again. He stopped spending time with her on Saturdays, instead confining their liaisons to Sunday afternoons and evenings. He spent his time on Saturdays with Heather Lockhart, beginning to court her in earnest.
On his birthday, which once again fell over their Easter break, Jean had arranged for them to travel to London for the week. Once again they stayed at the Savoy Hotel, in quite a nice suite. She had made quite a large effort to love him, make him happy during his birthday week – an effort that was not appreciated. He couldn’t enjoy the love that she showered upon him, as he felt so guilty for spending so much time with Heather Lockhart.
She noticed.
“Gordon, what’s wrong?” she asked him on the third night of their vacation, the day after his birthday. “You’ve been so withdrawn lately.”
“Nothing’s wrong, dear,” he said, looking away from her.
“Gordon, you don’t even call me darling anymore,” she whispered softly. “You don’t love me anymore, dearest, do you?”
He closed his eyes. “I do love you, Jean,” he whispered. “I love you with all my heart.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he lied. She turned in his arms to look up at him, her hair shining dimly in the soft light.
“I love you, Gordon,” she said, “no matter when it might seem to the contrary. I do love you – I do.”
He gave her a sad smile, bending down slightly to kiss her lips.
“Good night, Jean,” he said, still not calling her ‘darling’.
She sighed sadly. “Good night, my darling.” His heart gave a painful twinge as she snuggled up close to him, resting her head against his chest.
He couldn’t continue with this charade any longer, he decided. He would have to break it off with Jean, but not yet. Not yet... He didn’t have enough courage to tell her; he would have to pull back from her slowly.
***
After their Easter break, things changed irrevocably. The Friday after they returned, Miss Mackay entered.
“Your class is dismissed,” she said, and the girls looked around in shock. “You are all to go to outside for the rest of the period.” His students gathered up their things as Gordon looked at Miss Mackay in shock. “I would like you to fetch Miss Brodie and meet me in my office as soon as possible,” Miss Mackay said, brushing past Gordon. Gordon stood there in shock for a few moments before running down the hallway to Jean’s classroom.
She was in the middle of an impassioned lecture to her girls.
“Little girls, you must all learn to cultivate an expression of composure. It is one of the greatest assets of a woman – an expression of composure, come foul, come fair. Regard the Mona Lisa,” she said, unrolling the print. She showed it to her students. “She is older than the rocks on which she sits. Whom did I say to regard – Clara?” she turned to the red-haired girl who reminded her so much of her beloved Jenny.
“The Mona Lisa, Miss Brodie,” Clara replied.
“That is correct,” said Jean, smiling, “Clara has artistic tendencies.” She laughed along with her girls.
“Little girls, I am in the business of putting old heads on young shoulders, and all my pupils are the crème de la crème,” she waved her arm in a sweeping gesture as if to embrace her pupils. As she began to pin the Mona Lisa to the wall, her lover burst in, frantic.
“Jean!” he cried, coming over to her, “Oh, Jean!”
“Mr. Lowther!” she exclaimed, startled.
“Jean... uh... Miss Brodie. Miss Mackay. I’ve just left – I don’t know what to do...” he stammered.
“Did you wish to speak to me about something?” she asked him, forcefully guiding him out of her classroom. She shut the door behind them. “What can you be up to, Gordon? Such a display in front of the children!”
“It’s Miss Mackay – she’s dismissed my class! She’s found something terrible! Something incriminating! She demands to see us both together immediately! Immediately,” he repeated, softer.
“I am not accustomed to being summoned immediately – not by anyone,” she snapped. She turned back to her door and began to open it.
“But, Jean, she sent me to get you! She said now!”
“Please!” she exclaimed, frustrated. He never could deal with panic well. “Pull yourself together, Gordon. I promise I won’t let Miss Mackay stand you in the corner,” she said sarcastically. Stricken with remorse, she rested her hands lightly on his chest. “Just you wait there a minute.” She entered her classroom, indicating for him to wait through the window.
She returned to her portrait of the Mona Lisa, tacking it up on the back wall, before turning to her girls.
“Well, your headmistress, Miss Mackay, wishes to see me for a few minutes. She has a wee problem she wishes to discuss with me. Now, what subject were we doing?” she asked, ruffling her hair.
“History, Miss Brodie,” her girls chimed.
“Oh, yes. Open your history books. While I’m away from the room, you will all read the chapter on the succession of the Stuarts. You will sit quietly in your seats and remain composed, like the Mona Lisa,” she said, indicating the portrait on the wall. She exited the classroom, joining Gordon, and they walked to Miss Mackay’s office.
Before entering Miss Mackay’s outer office, Jean turned to Gordon.
“Don’t worry, darling,” she said, her voice low. “Everything will be fine.”
He smiled nervously at her and they entered Miss Mackay’s office. Jean rapped sharply on the door, and Miss Mackay opened it.
“Miss Brodie, Mr. Lowther,” the headmistress said, the triumph in her voice barely restrained. Jean smiled, rising to the occasion, and stepped past Miss Mackay, standing in front of her desk. Gordon stood behind her, and Miss Mackay walked behind her desk, seating herself. She produced a piece of paper.
“Miss Brodie, do you know what this is?” Miss Mackay asked, brandishing the sheet of paper.
Jean looked at it. “It would appear to be a piece of blue paper with writing on it in pencil.”
Miss Mackay glared at her. “It is, in fact, a letter. It was found by Miss Mackenzie in a library book. She glanced at it, but after the first sentence, she dared not actually read it. She brought it instantly to me.
“Yes. Is it addressed to you?” Jean asked.
“No, Miss Brodie. It is addressed to Mr. Lowther…” Jean glanced backwards to Gordon, who was looking at her, frightened, “but it is signed by you.” Jean knew that it could not be any of the letters she had written to Gordon, unless he was stupid enough to bring her letters to Marcia Blaine. And she didn’t believe that he was stupid. “I shall begin,” Miss Mackay said.
“Oh, please do,” Jean said, sitting down and leaning forward.
Miss Mackay looked at the two teachers over the letter. “Of course, I realise it is a forgery – just the work of a child.” She cleared her throat and began.
“My dear, delightful Gordon,
Your letter has moved me deeply, as you may imagine. But, alas, I must ever decline to be Mrs. Lowther. My reasons are twofold. I am dedicated to my girls, as is Madame Pavlova, and there is another in my life.” Jean felt her heart flutter worriedly, a concern that was justified in the letter’s next line. “He is Teddy Lloyd.” Jean was grateful that she was able to remain composed, though it was quite a struggle. She felt Gordon’s eyes upon her, and took great care not to give anything away. “Intimacy has never taken place with him. He is married to another.” Well, that wasn’t true, Jean thought. They had had that one night, that one marvellous night... she must remain composed. “We are not lovers but we know the truth. However, I was proud of giving myself to you when you came and took me in the bracken, while the storm raged about us.” Miss Mackay looked disapprovingly at Jean over the top of the letter. Jean tried valiantly to suppress the bubble of laughter that had risen in her throat. “If I am in a certain condition, I shall place the infant in the care of a worthy shepherd and his wife. I may permit misconduct to occur again from time to time as an outlet... because I am in my prime. We can also have many a... breezy day in the fishing boat at sea.” Jean was biting the inside of her cheek to stop the laughter from bursting out. “We must keep a sharp lookout for Miss Mackay, however, as she is rather narrow, which arises from an ignorance of culture and the Italian scene. I love to hear you singing ‘Hey Johnny Cope’, but were I to receive a proposal of marriage tomorrow from the Lord Lyon, King-of-Arms, I would decline it. Allow me, in conclusion, to congratulate you warmly on your sexual intercourse, as well as your singing.
With fondest joy,
Jean Brodie.”
Miss Mackay handed the letter to Jean. “Is this what your girls – your set – has learned under your auspices, Miss Brodie?” Miss Mackay asked angrily.
Jean took the letter, recognising the handwriting as Sandy and Jenny’s. “It's a literary collaboration. Two separate hands are involved. One of the authors slants her tail consonants in an unorthodox manner and the other does not. Also, the paper seems somewhat aged.” She handed the letter back to Miss Mackay, which she took angrily.
“Is that all you have to say?”
Jean shrugged. “What else is there to say? Two little girls at the age of budding sexual... fantasy have concocted a romance for themselves. They’ve chosen me as a romantic symbol. Is that so surprising?”
“Do you deny that you encourage these fantasies, as you call them? Do you deny that by consorting openly with Mr. Lowther of Cramond, you lead these poor children into the most fevered conclusions? Not only Mr. Lowther, but Mr. Lloyd is brought into the circle of fire. Mr. Lloyd! who has a wife and... six children.” Jean could see Miss Mackay doing rapid calculations in her head. “It is diabolic that infants should be knowledgeable...”
“Twelve-year-old girls are not infants, Miss Mackay,” Jean said.
“How do you know they’re twelve years old?”
“From the handwriting, the vocabulary, the rudimentary knowledge of the facts of life. Oh, surely you cannot believe that that is the work of nine-year-olds?”
“I could believe it was the work of your nine-year-olds, Miss Brodie.”
“There’s very little for me to say, Miss Mackay, in the face of your extraordinary prejudice and hostility.” Jean stood and began walking to the door, turning when Miss Mackay spoke again.
“Miss Brodie, I am not asking you to say anything. I am asking – demanding – that you put your signature – your own signature – on a letter of resignation which I have prepared for you.” The headmistress rang the bell so conveniently placed on her desk; a few moments later the rather ugly Miss Gaunt scurried into the office, handing Miss Mackay a letter. She scurried out again after giving Jean a rather superior glance.
“I will not resign,” Jean said, calmly, firmly.
“You will not resign. You will force me to dismiss you.”
“I will not resign, and you will not dismiss me, Miss Mackay. You will not use the excuse of that pathetic – that humorous document to blackmail me!” Jean felt her anger bubbling to the surface and turned to Gordon. “Mr. Lowther, you are a witness to this. Miss Mackay has made totally unsupported accusations against my name and yours. If she has one authentic shred of evidence, just one, let her bring it forth! Otherwise, if one more word of this outrageous calumny reaches my ears, I shall sue! I shall take Miss Mackay to the public courts and I shall sue the trustees of Marcia Blaine if they support her. I will not stand quietly by and allow myself to be crucified by a woman whose fetid frustration has overcome her judgement! If scandal is to your taste, Miss Mackay, I shall give you a feast!”
“Miss Brodie!” Miss Mackay exclaimed, standing up.
Jean approached her desk, a note of desperation entering her voice. “I am a teacher! I am a teacher, first, last, always! Do you imagine that for one instant I will let that be taken from me without a fight? I have dedicated, sacrificed my life to this profession. And I will not stand by like an inky little slacker and watch you rob me of it – and for what? For what reason? For jealousy! Because I have the gift of claiming girls for my own. It is true, I am a strong influence on my girls. I am proud of it! I influence them to be aware of all the possibilities of life... of beauty, honour, courage! I do not, Miss Mackay, influence them to look for slime where it does not exist! I am going,” she finished, beginning to walk to the door. She stopped halfway there to face Miss Mackay again. “When my class convenes my pupils will find me composed and prepared to reveal to them the succession of the Stuarts.” She finished her walk to the door and opened it, pausing once again to add, “And on Sunday, I will go to Cramond to visit Mr. Lowther. We are accustomed, bachelor and spinster, to spend our Sundays together in sailing and walking the beaches and in the pursuit of music. Mr. Lowther is teaching me to play the mandolin. Good day, Miss Mackay!” she slammed the door behind her.
She fled to the staff room, standing at the window, apparently looking outside, though she was not focussed on the scenery. There were tears in her eyes that threatened to cascade down any moment. Oh, why did this have to happen? Everything was falling apart...
“Jean!” she heard Gordon call. He closed the door. “Jean, you were heroic, heroic!” She ignored him. “Oh, to see you like that, it was really inspiring. If only I could have stood up like that to Mr. Gaunt, if I said ‘Look here, Mr. Gaunt, if you have one authentic shred of evidence, just one...’” she cut him off, turning around to face him, confused and angry.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Gaunt called to see me the night before last,” Gordon explained. “He advised me to resign as organist and elder of the church. He spoke very plainly.”
“And what did you answer?”
He was embarrassed, but responded simply,“I resigned.”
“And you allowed this evil-minded man – a man who uses his position as Deacon of the Kirk! – to received the slanderous gossip of petty provincials.” She turned away from him again.
“But Jean, it isn’t just gossip.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “you do not go home on Sunday nights.”
She turned around. “They had no proof! None whatever. You should have refused point-blank to resign. Can’t you see resignation is tantamount to a confession of guilt?” her voice grew desperate in her effort to make him understand.
“But I feel guilty,” he said.
“Well, I do not!” she cried, moving to the middle of the room.
“Och, Jean, will you not marry me and put an end to all this sneaking about? Why won’t you marry me?”
She turned to face him. “Only yesterday, it was told to my face that you are planning to marry the chemistry teacher!” It was true, Sandy had once again mentioned that there was a rumour going around school that Gordon had proposed to Heather Lockhart.
Gordon blushed – it was true, he was planning to marry Heather, but he hadn’t thought that other people had known about it. “Oh, I... I played golf with Miss Lockhart once,” he lied.
“Twice.”
“Twice?”
“Beware. Don’t trifle with her. She has the means to blow us all up,” Jean said sarcastically.
“Now, don’t tease me, Jean. Miss Lockhart means nothing to me,” he lied again. She glared at him. “You know that all I care about it you,” she turned away from him, “all I want is to see you happy and safe.” He walked around her so that he could look into her eyes. “I don’t understand you, Jean,” he said in a whisper, “You will not marry me, and yet you feed me and share my bed.”
“‘Share your bed!’ Why can’t you say you are my lover?” she cried out, her voice passionate, desperate.
“I do not want to be your lover!” he cried, then checked himself, “I want to be your husband. I want to go on my honeymoon to the isle of Eigg near Rum where my mother and father went on their honeymoon and I want to come back to Cramond with my bride – that’s what I want,” he declared, his frustration with their situation finally bubbling over. He moved to the door, turning before he left. “And I want to conduct the church choir too.”
She stood there, tears streaming down her face. Things were falling apart – everything, everything, EVERYTHING was falling apart.
Jean composed herself, well, as much as she could, and rushed up the stairs to her classroom. She allowed herself to sag against the door for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she began to set up her projector to show her slides – she felt that it would be easier for the last half of the day if the lights were off and none of her students could see her cry. She was standing on a chair, plugging the projector into the light, when Teddy entered.
“Rumours are flying. Are you out?”
She forced herself to smile.
“Hmph! On the contrary, Miss Mackay experienced the utmost difficultly in persuading me to stay,” she lied.
“How I wish I might have heard her plea,” he said, laughing, knowing she was lying.
“The utmost difficulty. You’ve been painting Jenny,” she said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality as she thought of something happy, something wonderful.
“Yes, that’s right,” Teddy said.
“I am glad, very glad,” she said. “She gets more beautiful each year, she quite amazes me. You see it too, you’re an artist. You see things other men don’t see – you must see it.”
“Jenny’s quite a pretty girl,” Teddy said, confusion lacing his tone.
She turned to him. “Pretty? No, no. It's much more than that. She has extraordinary physical instincts... primitive and free.”
“Primitive? Little Jenny? What are you up to, Jean?” he asked her, knowing that something was going on in her mind.
“I’m only trying to tell you I’ve always felt that Jenny could be magnificently elevated above the ordinary rung of lovers,” she said calmly.
“What are you talking about?” he asked her.
“It’s just that I’ve always known that one day, you would... paint... Jenny.”
“Paint Jenny?” he asked her. “Jean, I think you’re quite aware of what you’re doing. You’re trying to put that child in my bed in your place.”
Her heart thrilled at the words ‘your place’, but less than a second later she realised what he had said. “Don’t be disgusting!” she snapped, her voice filled with horror. She tried to move away from him but he grasped her arms, stopping her.
“It’s only the words that disgust you! You don’t boggle at the thought, do you?” he asked her. “You’ll accept anything, anything but reality! Trying to use Jenny and poor old Lowther, making him play house.”
She wrenched her arms out of his grasp and moved towards the back of the classroom. “I do not use Mr. Lowther; it is I who allow myself to be used.” She picked up the box containing her slides. She shuffled through them. “I give him every attention. I cook for him.”
“You feed him instead of loving him, isn’t that it?”
She set the slides down forcefully and approached him. “You know nothing about what there is of love between Gordon and me!” she declared.
“Oh, my God! All those boring hours in bed with old Lowther, puffing bravely away!”
She slapped him, then turned away, beginning to cry.
“Good. That’s more like it. That was direct.” The bell rang in the hallway as he approached her. She could feel the warmth of his body against hers, the closest they had been for three years, which, indeed, he said next. “That’s the first actual contact between us in three years.”
“Get out! Get out! Get out of my class!” she cried, turning. “My girls...” she trailed off as her students entered the classroom. She moved to the front of the classroom, setting her box of slides down on her desk so that she could press the back of her hand to her forehead in an effort to remain calm. She turned. “Little girls, this is Mr. Lloyd, the art master. When you are fourteen, if he is still at Marcia Blaine, I will then hand you over to him, and you will be fortunate enough to receive his artistic guidance.
He was smiling smugly. “Goodbye, girls.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Lloyd,” they said.
“See you in three years.” He paused with his hand on the door. “Goodbye, Miss Brodie. I also hope I shall see you.”
Her girls looked at her curiously as he left the room. She stared back at them defiantly, then picked up the box of slides.
“For the rest of the afternoon I have decided we will not do more history.” Her girls murmured to themselves. “Rather, I will show you some more slides of my last holidays in Italy. Monitors, the blinds, please,” she said, “Clara, will you pull down the screen?” The girl did as she was asked. “I also spent two weeks in Egypt where people do not believe in God, but in Allah. Katherine, will you switch on the light, please? The bottom left-hand side?” The girl did. “I have brought you these slides at my own expense. The girls in the back may sit up on their desks,” she said, turning on the projector and loading the slide.
“Rome,” she began, “this is a large formation of Il Duce’s fascisti. They are following him in noble destiny. I, myself, mingled with such a crowd. I wore my silk dress with the red poppies which is right for my colouring.” She moved to the next slide.
“Benito Mussolini. Il Duce. Italy’s leader supreme. A Roman worthy of his heritage, the greatest Roman of them all.”
“The Coliseum, where Christian slaves were thrown to the lions and gladiators fought to the death. ‘Ave Imperator; Morituri te Salutant!’ ‘Hail, Caesar! Those who are about to die salute thee!’”
“Florence. The David of Michelangelo. That is the original David. He is in the Galleria dell’Accademia di Belli Arti. There’s a copy in the Piazza della Signoria, next to the Palazzo Vecchio. He’s there for any passerby to gaze upon and be uplifted. He’s at once the glory of the past and the inspiration of the future. David, the young warrior.”
She switched to the next slide.
“This is a picture of the Ponte Vecchio. ‘The old bridge’, Ponte Vecchio. There’s a famous painting of Dante meeting Beatrice. It is pronounced ‘Beatrichay’ in Italian, which makes it very beautiful. Meeting Beatrichay on the Ponte Vecchio. He fell in love with her at that moment.” Her mind began to wander, thinking of Jenny and Teddy and herself. “He was a man in his middle years, she was fourteen. That can happen. A mature man can find love in a young girl, a very young girl. Find the spring... the essence of all old loves. It is not unlikely that... we shall never know... that Beatrichay reminded Dante sharply in that moment when he first saw her on the Ponte Vecchio... of an old love. A lost love, a sublime love... and he was seized with such a longing... such longing...” She looked around and saw her girls looking at her. She pulled herself together. “That picture was painted by Rossetti. Who was Dante Gabriel Rossetti? Jenny, who was Dante Gabriel Rossetti?” Tears were in her eyes and she blinked to clear her vision.
“Clara,” she said, realising that Jenny was no longer in her class.
“A painter, Miss Brodie,” the girl said.
“What... what was that you said?” Jean asked.
“A painter,” Clara repeated.
“Yes. Yes, a painter.” She covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh, yes. A paint... a painter.” She began to cry. “Class dismissed,” she choked out, and waited until her girls had left to collapse in a sobbing heap on the ground.
Nearly an hour later, she picked herself up and gathered her things together. She walked her bicycle back to her apartment, as she knew she was unable to ride it back to her flat. Finally reaching her home, she drew a bath, willing the tears not to come. It didn’t matter; they slipped down her cheeks anyway.
Why, why was this happening to her? Was it because she didn’t love Gordon enough; was it because she was in love with a married man, and slept with him? She sank down lower in her bathtub, allowing the tears fall.
Finally she emerged from the tub and dried herself off before making a cup of tea, which she brought to her bed. She sat there, staring into nothingness, letting the tea grow cold. She couldn’t go back to Marcia Blaine tomorrow, but she had to. Oh, why did it have to be Monday, only Monday? She still had to get through the rest of the week. And she couldn’t call in sick tomorrow, she couldn’t let Miss Mackay think that she beat her. Because she didn’t – it was Teddy who had beaten her, not Miss Mackay. Miss Mackay would never beat her.
But Teddy could. He always could, because he held her heart.
So she cried, and cried, and cried.
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As always, dedicated to kissofdeath, KristaMarie, micha, and tabbyhearts.
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Jean woke up first the next morning, looking down at her sleeping lover. She smiled softly – she never felt more tenderly towards him than when he was sleeping. Jean caressed his hair lightly, kissing his forehead, as he continued to sleep. Oh, but he was adorable! He began to stir, opening his eyes.
“Good morning, darling,” he whispered, taking her hand and placing a gentle kiss on her palm.
“Good morning, Gordon,” she replied, kissing his lips. He smiled at her, pulling her into his arms, and rolled her onto her back. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down for a kiss. He continued to kiss her gently, tentatively, finally entering her. They moved together slowly, softly, and afterwards lay in each other’s arms.
“I do love you, Jean,” Gordon said, kissing her hair lightly.
“I know you do,” she replied. “And I love you.”
He smiled down at her, tilting her chin up so that he could place a gentle kiss on her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and they began all over again...
***
The rest of the year passed uneventfully, though Gordon still felt guilty for hurting Jean. He began playing golf with Heather Lockhart during the weekends that he and Jean did not spend together in an attempt to distance himself from her – he was terrified that he would hurt her again. He stopped spending time with her on Saturdays, instead confining their liaisons to Sunday afternoons and evenings. He spent his time on Saturdays with Heather Lockhart, beginning to court her in earnest.
On his birthday, which once again fell over their Easter break, Jean had arranged for them to travel to London for the week. Once again they stayed at the Savoy Hotel, in quite a nice suite. She had made quite a large effort to love him, make him happy during his birthday week – an effort that was not appreciated. He couldn’t enjoy the love that she showered upon him, as he felt so guilty for spending so much time with Heather Lockhart.
She noticed.
“Gordon, what’s wrong?” she asked him on the third night of their vacation, the day after his birthday. “You’ve been so withdrawn lately.”
“Nothing’s wrong, dear,” he said, looking away from her.
“Gordon, you don’t even call me darling anymore,” she whispered softly. “You don’t love me anymore, dearest, do you?”
He closed his eyes. “I do love you, Jean,” he whispered. “I love you with all my heart.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he lied. She turned in his arms to look up at him, her hair shining dimly in the soft light.
“I love you, Gordon,” she said, “no matter when it might seem to the contrary. I do love you – I do.”
He gave her a sad smile, bending down slightly to kiss her lips.
“Good night, Jean,” he said, still not calling her ‘darling’.
She sighed sadly. “Good night, my darling.” His heart gave a painful twinge as she snuggled up close to him, resting her head against his chest.
He couldn’t continue with this charade any longer, he decided. He would have to break it off with Jean, but not yet. Not yet... He didn’t have enough courage to tell her; he would have to pull back from her slowly.
***
After their Easter break, things changed irrevocably. The Friday after they returned, Miss Mackay entered.
“Your class is dismissed,” she said, and the girls looked around in shock. “You are all to go to outside for the rest of the period.” His students gathered up their things as Gordon looked at Miss Mackay in shock. “I would like you to fetch Miss Brodie and meet me in my office as soon as possible,” Miss Mackay said, brushing past Gordon. Gordon stood there in shock for a few moments before running down the hallway to Jean’s classroom.
She was in the middle of an impassioned lecture to her girls.
“Little girls, you must all learn to cultivate an expression of composure. It is one of the greatest assets of a woman – an expression of composure, come foul, come fair. Regard the Mona Lisa,” she said, unrolling the print. She showed it to her students. “She is older than the rocks on which she sits. Whom did I say to regard – Clara?” she turned to the red-haired girl who reminded her so much of her beloved Jenny.
“The Mona Lisa, Miss Brodie,” Clara replied.
“That is correct,” said Jean, smiling, “Clara has artistic tendencies.” She laughed along with her girls.
“Little girls, I am in the business of putting old heads on young shoulders, and all my pupils are the crème de la crème,” she waved her arm in a sweeping gesture as if to embrace her pupils. As she began to pin the Mona Lisa to the wall, her lover burst in, frantic.
“Jean!” he cried, coming over to her, “Oh, Jean!”
“Mr. Lowther!” she exclaimed, startled.
“Jean... uh... Miss Brodie. Miss Mackay. I’ve just left – I don’t know what to do...” he stammered.
“Did you wish to speak to me about something?” she asked him, forcefully guiding him out of her classroom. She shut the door behind them. “What can you be up to, Gordon? Such a display in front of the children!”
“It’s Miss Mackay – she’s dismissed my class! She’s found something terrible! Something incriminating! She demands to see us both together immediately! Immediately,” he repeated, softer.
“I am not accustomed to being summoned immediately – not by anyone,” she snapped. She turned back to her door and began to open it.
“But, Jean, she sent me to get you! She said now!”
“Please!” she exclaimed, frustrated. He never could deal with panic well. “Pull yourself together, Gordon. I promise I won’t let Miss Mackay stand you in the corner,” she said sarcastically. Stricken with remorse, she rested her hands lightly on his chest. “Just you wait there a minute.” She entered her classroom, indicating for him to wait through the window.
She returned to her portrait of the Mona Lisa, tacking it up on the back wall, before turning to her girls.
“Well, your headmistress, Miss Mackay, wishes to see me for a few minutes. She has a wee problem she wishes to discuss with me. Now, what subject were we doing?” she asked, ruffling her hair.
“History, Miss Brodie,” her girls chimed.
“Oh, yes. Open your history books. While I’m away from the room, you will all read the chapter on the succession of the Stuarts. You will sit quietly in your seats and remain composed, like the Mona Lisa,” she said, indicating the portrait on the wall. She exited the classroom, joining Gordon, and they walked to Miss Mackay’s office.
Before entering Miss Mackay’s outer office, Jean turned to Gordon.
“Don’t worry, darling,” she said, her voice low. “Everything will be fine.”
He smiled nervously at her and they entered Miss Mackay’s office. Jean rapped sharply on the door, and Miss Mackay opened it.
“Miss Brodie, Mr. Lowther,” the headmistress said, the triumph in her voice barely restrained. Jean smiled, rising to the occasion, and stepped past Miss Mackay, standing in front of her desk. Gordon stood behind her, and Miss Mackay walked behind her desk, seating herself. She produced a piece of paper.
“Miss Brodie, do you know what this is?” Miss Mackay asked, brandishing the sheet of paper.
Jean looked at it. “It would appear to be a piece of blue paper with writing on it in pencil.”
Miss Mackay glared at her. “It is, in fact, a letter. It was found by Miss Mackenzie in a library book. She glanced at it, but after the first sentence, she dared not actually read it. She brought it instantly to me.
“Yes. Is it addressed to you?” Jean asked.
“No, Miss Brodie. It is addressed to Mr. Lowther…” Jean glanced backwards to Gordon, who was looking at her, frightened, “but it is signed by you.” Jean knew that it could not be any of the letters she had written to Gordon, unless he was stupid enough to bring her letters to Marcia Blaine. And she didn’t believe that he was stupid. “I shall begin,” Miss Mackay said.
“Oh, please do,” Jean said, sitting down and leaning forward.
Miss Mackay looked at the two teachers over the letter. “Of course, I realise it is a forgery – just the work of a child.” She cleared her throat and began.
“My dear, delightful Gordon,
Your letter has moved me deeply, as you may imagine. But, alas, I must ever decline to be Mrs. Lowther. My reasons are twofold. I am dedicated to my girls, as is Madame Pavlova, and there is another in my life.” Jean felt her heart flutter worriedly, a concern that was justified in the letter’s next line. “He is Teddy Lloyd.” Jean was grateful that she was able to remain composed, though it was quite a struggle. She felt Gordon’s eyes upon her, and took great care not to give anything away. “Intimacy has never taken place with him. He is married to another.” Well, that wasn’t true, Jean thought. They had had that one night, that one marvellous night... she must remain composed. “We are not lovers but we know the truth. However, I was proud of giving myself to you when you came and took me in the bracken, while the storm raged about us.” Miss Mackay looked disapprovingly at Jean over the top of the letter. Jean tried valiantly to suppress the bubble of laughter that had risen in her throat. “If I am in a certain condition, I shall place the infant in the care of a worthy shepherd and his wife. I may permit misconduct to occur again from time to time as an outlet... because I am in my prime. We can also have many a... breezy day in the fishing boat at sea.” Jean was biting the inside of her cheek to stop the laughter from bursting out. “We must keep a sharp lookout for Miss Mackay, however, as she is rather narrow, which arises from an ignorance of culture and the Italian scene. I love to hear you singing ‘Hey Johnny Cope’, but were I to receive a proposal of marriage tomorrow from the Lord Lyon, King-of-Arms, I would decline it. Allow me, in conclusion, to congratulate you warmly on your sexual intercourse, as well as your singing.
With fondest joy,
Jean Brodie.”
Miss Mackay handed the letter to Jean. “Is this what your girls – your set – has learned under your auspices, Miss Brodie?” Miss Mackay asked angrily.
Jean took the letter, recognising the handwriting as Sandy and Jenny’s. “It's a literary collaboration. Two separate hands are involved. One of the authors slants her tail consonants in an unorthodox manner and the other does not. Also, the paper seems somewhat aged.” She handed the letter back to Miss Mackay, which she took angrily.
“Is that all you have to say?”
Jean shrugged. “What else is there to say? Two little girls at the age of budding sexual... fantasy have concocted a romance for themselves. They’ve chosen me as a romantic symbol. Is that so surprising?”
“Do you deny that you encourage these fantasies, as you call them? Do you deny that by consorting openly with Mr. Lowther of Cramond, you lead these poor children into the most fevered conclusions? Not only Mr. Lowther, but Mr. Lloyd is brought into the circle of fire. Mr. Lloyd! who has a wife and... six children.” Jean could see Miss Mackay doing rapid calculations in her head. “It is diabolic that infants should be knowledgeable...”
“Twelve-year-old girls are not infants, Miss Mackay,” Jean said.
“How do you know they’re twelve years old?”
“From the handwriting, the vocabulary, the rudimentary knowledge of the facts of life. Oh, surely you cannot believe that that is the work of nine-year-olds?”
“I could believe it was the work of your nine-year-olds, Miss Brodie.”
“There’s very little for me to say, Miss Mackay, in the face of your extraordinary prejudice and hostility.” Jean stood and began walking to the door, turning when Miss Mackay spoke again.
“Miss Brodie, I am not asking you to say anything. I am asking – demanding – that you put your signature – your own signature – on a letter of resignation which I have prepared for you.” The headmistress rang the bell so conveniently placed on her desk; a few moments later the rather ugly Miss Gaunt scurried into the office, handing Miss Mackay a letter. She scurried out again after giving Jean a rather superior glance.
“I will not resign,” Jean said, calmly, firmly.
“You will not resign. You will force me to dismiss you.”
“I will not resign, and you will not dismiss me, Miss Mackay. You will not use the excuse of that pathetic – that humorous document to blackmail me!” Jean felt her anger bubbling to the surface and turned to Gordon. “Mr. Lowther, you are a witness to this. Miss Mackay has made totally unsupported accusations against my name and yours. If she has one authentic shred of evidence, just one, let her bring it forth! Otherwise, if one more word of this outrageous calumny reaches my ears, I shall sue! I shall take Miss Mackay to the public courts and I shall sue the trustees of Marcia Blaine if they support her. I will not stand quietly by and allow myself to be crucified by a woman whose fetid frustration has overcome her judgement! If scandal is to your taste, Miss Mackay, I shall give you a feast!”
“Miss Brodie!” Miss Mackay exclaimed, standing up.
Jean approached her desk, a note of desperation entering her voice. “I am a teacher! I am a teacher, first, last, always! Do you imagine that for one instant I will let that be taken from me without a fight? I have dedicated, sacrificed my life to this profession. And I will not stand by like an inky little slacker and watch you rob me of it – and for what? For what reason? For jealousy! Because I have the gift of claiming girls for my own. It is true, I am a strong influence on my girls. I am proud of it! I influence them to be aware of all the possibilities of life... of beauty, honour, courage! I do not, Miss Mackay, influence them to look for slime where it does not exist! I am going,” she finished, beginning to walk to the door. She stopped halfway there to face Miss Mackay again. “When my class convenes my pupils will find me composed and prepared to reveal to them the succession of the Stuarts.” She finished her walk to the door and opened it, pausing once again to add, “And on Sunday, I will go to Cramond to visit Mr. Lowther. We are accustomed, bachelor and spinster, to spend our Sundays together in sailing and walking the beaches and in the pursuit of music. Mr. Lowther is teaching me to play the mandolin. Good day, Miss Mackay!” she slammed the door behind her.
She fled to the staff room, standing at the window, apparently looking outside, though she was not focussed on the scenery. There were tears in her eyes that threatened to cascade down any moment. Oh, why did this have to happen? Everything was falling apart...
“Jean!” she heard Gordon call. He closed the door. “Jean, you were heroic, heroic!” She ignored him. “Oh, to see you like that, it was really inspiring. If only I could have stood up like that to Mr. Gaunt, if I said ‘Look here, Mr. Gaunt, if you have one authentic shred of evidence, just one...’” she cut him off, turning around to face him, confused and angry.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Gaunt called to see me the night before last,” Gordon explained. “He advised me to resign as organist and elder of the church. He spoke very plainly.”
“And what did you answer?”
He was embarrassed, but responded simply,“I resigned.”
“And you allowed this evil-minded man – a man who uses his position as Deacon of the Kirk! – to received the slanderous gossip of petty provincials.” She turned away from him again.
“But Jean, it isn’t just gossip.” He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “you do not go home on Sunday nights.”
She turned around. “They had no proof! None whatever. You should have refused point-blank to resign. Can’t you see resignation is tantamount to a confession of guilt?” her voice grew desperate in her effort to make him understand.
“But I feel guilty,” he said.
“Well, I do not!” she cried, moving to the middle of the room.
“Och, Jean, will you not marry me and put an end to all this sneaking about? Why won’t you marry me?”
She turned to face him. “Only yesterday, it was told to my face that you are planning to marry the chemistry teacher!” It was true, Sandy had once again mentioned that there was a rumour going around school that Gordon had proposed to Heather Lockhart.
Gordon blushed – it was true, he was planning to marry Heather, but he hadn’t thought that other people had known about it. “Oh, I... I played golf with Miss Lockhart once,” he lied.
“Twice.”
“Twice?”
“Beware. Don’t trifle with her. She has the means to blow us all up,” Jean said sarcastically.
“Now, don’t tease me, Jean. Miss Lockhart means nothing to me,” he lied again. She glared at him. “You know that all I care about it you,” she turned away from him, “all I want is to see you happy and safe.” He walked around her so that he could look into her eyes. “I don’t understand you, Jean,” he said in a whisper, “You will not marry me, and yet you feed me and share my bed.”
“‘Share your bed!’ Why can’t you say you are my lover?” she cried out, her voice passionate, desperate.
“I do not want to be your lover!” he cried, then checked himself, “I want to be your husband. I want to go on my honeymoon to the isle of Eigg near Rum where my mother and father went on their honeymoon and I want to come back to Cramond with my bride – that’s what I want,” he declared, his frustration with their situation finally bubbling over. He moved to the door, turning before he left. “And I want to conduct the church choir too.”
She stood there, tears streaming down her face. Things were falling apart – everything, everything, EVERYTHING was falling apart.
Jean composed herself, well, as much as she could, and rushed up the stairs to her classroom. She allowed herself to sag against the door for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she began to set up her projector to show her slides – she felt that it would be easier for the last half of the day if the lights were off and none of her students could see her cry. She was standing on a chair, plugging the projector into the light, when Teddy entered.
“Rumours are flying. Are you out?”
She forced herself to smile.
“Hmph! On the contrary, Miss Mackay experienced the utmost difficultly in persuading me to stay,” she lied.
“How I wish I might have heard her plea,” he said, laughing, knowing she was lying.
“The utmost difficulty. You’ve been painting Jenny,” she said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality as she thought of something happy, something wonderful.
“Yes, that’s right,” Teddy said.
“I am glad, very glad,” she said. “She gets more beautiful each year, she quite amazes me. You see it too, you’re an artist. You see things other men don’t see – you must see it.”
“Jenny’s quite a pretty girl,” Teddy said, confusion lacing his tone.
She turned to him. “Pretty? No, no. It's much more than that. She has extraordinary physical instincts... primitive and free.”
“Primitive? Little Jenny? What are you up to, Jean?” he asked her, knowing that something was going on in her mind.
“I’m only trying to tell you I’ve always felt that Jenny could be magnificently elevated above the ordinary rung of lovers,” she said calmly.
“What are you talking about?” he asked her.
“It’s just that I’ve always known that one day, you would... paint... Jenny.”
“Paint Jenny?” he asked her. “Jean, I think you’re quite aware of what you’re doing. You’re trying to put that child in my bed in your place.”
Her heart thrilled at the words ‘your place’, but less than a second later she realised what he had said. “Don’t be disgusting!” she snapped, her voice filled with horror. She tried to move away from him but he grasped her arms, stopping her.
“It’s only the words that disgust you! You don’t boggle at the thought, do you?” he asked her. “You’ll accept anything, anything but reality! Trying to use Jenny and poor old Lowther, making him play house.”
She wrenched her arms out of his grasp and moved towards the back of the classroom. “I do not use Mr. Lowther; it is I who allow myself to be used.” She picked up the box containing her slides. She shuffled through them. “I give him every attention. I cook for him.”
“You feed him instead of loving him, isn’t that it?”
She set the slides down forcefully and approached him. “You know nothing about what there is of love between Gordon and me!” she declared.
“Oh, my God! All those boring hours in bed with old Lowther, puffing bravely away!”
She slapped him, then turned away, beginning to cry.
“Good. That’s more like it. That was direct.” The bell rang in the hallway as he approached her. She could feel the warmth of his body against hers, the closest they had been for three years, which, indeed, he said next. “That’s the first actual contact between us in three years.”
“Get out! Get out! Get out of my class!” she cried, turning. “My girls...” she trailed off as her students entered the classroom. She moved to the front of the classroom, setting her box of slides down on her desk so that she could press the back of her hand to her forehead in an effort to remain calm. She turned. “Little girls, this is Mr. Lloyd, the art master. When you are fourteen, if he is still at Marcia Blaine, I will then hand you over to him, and you will be fortunate enough to receive his artistic guidance.
He was smiling smugly. “Goodbye, girls.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Lloyd,” they said.
“See you in three years.” He paused with his hand on the door. “Goodbye, Miss Brodie. I also hope I shall see you.”
Her girls looked at her curiously as he left the room. She stared back at them defiantly, then picked up the box of slides.
“For the rest of the afternoon I have decided we will not do more history.” Her girls murmured to themselves. “Rather, I will show you some more slides of my last holidays in Italy. Monitors, the blinds, please,” she said, “Clara, will you pull down the screen?” The girl did as she was asked. “I also spent two weeks in Egypt where people do not believe in God, but in Allah. Katherine, will you switch on the light, please? The bottom left-hand side?” The girl did. “I have brought you these slides at my own expense. The girls in the back may sit up on their desks,” she said, turning on the projector and loading the slide.
“Rome,” she began, “this is a large formation of Il Duce’s fascisti. They are following him in noble destiny. I, myself, mingled with such a crowd. I wore my silk dress with the red poppies which is right for my colouring.” She moved to the next slide.
“Benito Mussolini. Il Duce. Italy’s leader supreme. A Roman worthy of his heritage, the greatest Roman of them all.”
“The Coliseum, where Christian slaves were thrown to the lions and gladiators fought to the death. ‘Ave Imperator; Morituri te Salutant!’ ‘Hail, Caesar! Those who are about to die salute thee!’”
“Florence. The David of Michelangelo. That is the original David. He is in the Galleria dell’Accademia di Belli Arti. There’s a copy in the Piazza della Signoria, next to the Palazzo Vecchio. He’s there for any passerby to gaze upon and be uplifted. He’s at once the glory of the past and the inspiration of the future. David, the young warrior.”
She switched to the next slide.
“This is a picture of the Ponte Vecchio. ‘The old bridge’, Ponte Vecchio. There’s a famous painting of Dante meeting Beatrice. It is pronounced ‘Beatrichay’ in Italian, which makes it very beautiful. Meeting Beatrichay on the Ponte Vecchio. He fell in love with her at that moment.” Her mind began to wander, thinking of Jenny and Teddy and herself. “He was a man in his middle years, she was fourteen. That can happen. A mature man can find love in a young girl, a very young girl. Find the spring... the essence of all old loves. It is not unlikely that... we shall never know... that Beatrichay reminded Dante sharply in that moment when he first saw her on the Ponte Vecchio... of an old love. A lost love, a sublime love... and he was seized with such a longing... such longing...” She looked around and saw her girls looking at her. She pulled herself together. “That picture was painted by Rossetti. Who was Dante Gabriel Rossetti? Jenny, who was Dante Gabriel Rossetti?” Tears were in her eyes and she blinked to clear her vision.
“Clara,” she said, realising that Jenny was no longer in her class.
“A painter, Miss Brodie,” the girl said.
“What... what was that you said?” Jean asked.
“A painter,” Clara repeated.
“Yes. Yes, a painter.” She covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh, yes. A paint... a painter.” She began to cry. “Class dismissed,” she choked out, and waited until her girls had left to collapse in a sobbing heap on the ground.
Nearly an hour later, she picked herself up and gathered her things together. She walked her bicycle back to her apartment, as she knew she was unable to ride it back to her flat. Finally reaching her home, she drew a bath, willing the tears not to come. It didn’t matter; they slipped down her cheeks anyway.
Why, why was this happening to her? Was it because she didn’t love Gordon enough; was it because she was in love with a married man, and slept with him? She sank down lower in her bathtub, allowing the tears fall.
Finally she emerged from the tub and dried herself off before making a cup of tea, which she brought to her bed. She sat there, staring into nothingness, letting the tea grow cold. She couldn’t go back to Marcia Blaine tomorrow, but she had to. Oh, why did it have to be Monday, only Monday? She still had to get through the rest of the week. And she couldn’t call in sick tomorrow, she couldn’t let Miss Mackay think that she beat her. Because she didn’t – it was Teddy who had beaten her, not Miss Mackay. Miss Mackay would never beat her.
But Teddy could. He always could, because he held her heart.
So she cried, and cried, and cried.
)