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Mrs. Brown’s office had a surprising coziness to it. A desk stood near the far wall, but the central space was occupied by two chairs and a low table, all of which seemed to have come from a bygone era of frontier life—a time when people called their living rooms parlors. She had just risen from the larger of the two chairs, and she had her hand out for me to shake.
When I had, trying to use just the right amount of pressure to tell her I was eager—but not too eager—to do what I had to do to become a law-abiding citizen, she gestured to the smaller seat, a much simpler rail-back chair with a thin cushion fastened to two of the rails by little ties. To my dismay, as I sat down, I couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to Frannie, when she had to sit there. It already felt uncomfortable enough to my own, unpunished butt. I bit my lip as that thought led to another, even more distressing one: that maybe the purpose of that chair lay in how it would feel to a young woman who had recently learned the kind of lesson Frannie had.
“So, Grace,” Mrs. Brown said, picking up a tablet from the table and looking down at it. She seemed a little younger than the receptionist, in her mid-thirties perhaps. I saw a wedding ring and an engagement ring glittering very noticeably on her left hand. She had curves that put Frannie’s to shame, and blonde hair pinned up neatly at the back of her head, in a distinctly old-fashioned style that seemed to go perfectly with the furniture, and with the white blouse and long gray skirt she wore.
“Yes?” I asked eventually, trying as hard as I could to sound penitent and compliant. I didn’t feel penitent and compliant, of course, but I knew if I wanted to get out of Grasskiln soon-ish I definitely needed to act that way.
Mrs. Brown looked up, an unreadable smile on her face.
“Grace, you’re here to learn to behave yourself among decent people. I’m afraid that no matter how you try to maintain this appearance of contrition, I know better, and so will your foster parents. Thankfully, the program in which you’ve been enrolled provides for all the correction you’ll require, as well as thorough supervision during your courtship. When you leave your foster parents’ care, you’ll be ready to submit properly to your husband.”
CHAPTER 3
Grace
I thought my chin might literally hit my chest. Mrs. Brown looked at me coolly, the same calm smile on her face.
“I can tell you’re a bit surprised by what you’re hearing,” she said. The left side of her mouth twitched upward, as if she had to work hard to conceal her amusement at my confusion.
“I…” I managed. “I mean…”
My voice trailed off.
“I’m guessing,” the older woman asked, “that it’s the idea of having foster parents that’s puzzling you?”
My lips had parted again, as if to protest against something that seemed simply too outlandish for protest. I closed them, swallowed hard, and nodded.
Mrs. Brown glanced down at her tablet. “You grew up in a rather… relaxed household, according to your school records.”
“Wait,” I said. “What? How do you?—”
“Grace, honey,” she replied, “when you got arrested, your entire record got put into the system. It’s the only way to make sure that people get the kind of rehabilitation they need.”
I blinked at her. The pieces of the puzzle had started to coalesce into a form I didn’t like.
“And,” she continued, nodding as if she could see that I had begun to figure it out, “we sincerely believe that you belong here, in our unique program. I know it’s going to take you a little while to accept that, but thankfully—from your future husband’s point of view, at least, and someday from yours—we have the authority to make certain you get the chance.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need…” I thought she would interrupt me again, but instead she remained silent, watching me, so that I had to finish lamely, “this. I mean… whatever it is, I don’t need it.”
Mrs. Brown’s smile became a little bit forced. A hint of disappointment had crept into her expression.
“Well, Grace,” she said in a bright voice, “one of the best things about the program is that your foster parents will be able to teach you to behave yourself whether you think you need that kind of training or not.”
Training? My stomach flipped over. I stared at Mrs. Brown, my eyes a good deal wider than I would have liked them to be.
“You’re an intelligent young woman, honey,” she said, seeming to regain some of her serenity. “I can see that you’ve pretty much figured out how this works. Mr.…” She looked down at her tablet again for a moment before she raised her eyes again and continued. “Mr. Carpenter, your new foster father, will be here in a few minutes to take you home.”
My head had started shaking, almost of its own accord, as if the movement could somehow clear away the crazy things Mrs. Brown was saying.
“I’m nineteen,” I told her. “I’m too old for… for whatever this is.”
The woman’s smile broadened.
“I can’t wait to talk to you in a few months and hear you tell me how very mistaken you were, when you said that. In any case, it really doesn’t matter, Grace, whether you think you’re too old. You acted like a child when you took something that didn’t belong to you. Now you’re going to learn what happens in an old-fashioned household to a young woman who can’t keep her hands off other people’s property. Whether she’s an unmarried daughter going over her daddy’s knee or a young bride bending over the marriage bed, here in Grasskiln she gets what she deserves.”
I stared at her. I managed to keep my mouth closed, though that might have been because her words had stunned me too completely even to gape. My heart rate had increased by what felt like fifty beats a minute, though, and I could feel my fair complexion letting Mrs. Brown see just how hot my cheeks had gotten.
She simply sat there, smiling, giving no obvious sign that she had noticed the effect her crazy declaration about her town had on me. Somehow I could tell, though, that she knew very well the way the idea of old-fashioned discipline came across to a young woman who had grown up in the modern world.
