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herself, leaving Holly to choose how she would spend her first morning home. It was no surprise to any of them that she went directly to her garden.
    She had meant to simply walk around and check out the state of things, pulling off the odd dead blossom or dried leaf as she noticed them, but once alone in the chill October air, she could not stop the train of thought and worry. As she played the humiliating inquisition in front of the Directors over in her mind, as she recalled the vile insinuations, as she worried about how they would manage to make ends meet now that she was no longer earning a wage, she found that she was growing more and more agitated.
    She had not cried. Throughout all the humiliating ordeal of being summoned from her classroom in the middle of the day, being subjected to impertinent questioning, being accused of “masculine” behaviours simply because she believed the girls had intellects that ought to be nurtured, she had not cried. Worse was the lecturing; each pompous gentleman on the Board of Directors in turn, chastising her at length for trying to expand her pupils minds and give them something to think on besides fashions, dances and men. Worst of all was Mr Hockdown, the Chairman, who came last.
    “Miss Tournier,” his stentorian voice rang out, “is it true that you have been stealing out to the sordid quarters of the city in the night, alone, in a seditious attempt to educate the filthy rabble, to stir them up to pretensions of equality and worth?”
    Lifting her chin defiantly, she had answered grimly, her mouth tight and her eyes flashing, “They are not filthy rabble, sir . . . ”
    In need of activity, Holly took a knife and snips from the greenhouse and what started out as a tour of inspection soon turned into a full blown cleansing ritual. Anything brown or overgrown, in need of trimming or cutting back before the frost, received her attention. She cut, pruned, trimmed, raked and piled as she thought about what had been, what was, and what might come. The physical labour provided an outlet for the restless wanderings of her mind. Yes, she was prepared to do anything that might be necessary in order to assure their continued support — but at the same time, the thought of becoming a cook or a serving girl depressed her spirits. She had always dreamed of being so much more. The legacy of her parents, and her idealisation of their struggles and sorrows, was a very powerful influence on her aspirations. She wanted to do something, to be someone — to make a difference.
    “And more seriously,” Mr Hockdown had continued, “I cannot but question your assertions that charitable motivations and misguided views on education are your sole incentive for these secret forays into the city to meet with men clandestinely. Miss Tournier, these activities cast a shadow over your moral character and respectability . . . ”
    Holly had thought she had found a way to make her situation bearable and to live up to her parent’s republican ideals, but it had been taken from her and turned into something ugly and sordid. While she had detested being a teacher of deportment, drawing, music and French, at least it was a respectable profession and could be seen as having some sort of impact on the lives around her, but to think she might be reduced to wiping tables and filling mugs simply to put food on the table . . . As much as she hated to admit it, her pride rebelled at the thought of facing Elizabeth and telling her she was to become a serving maid at the local public house.
    Holly then grew disgusted with herself for succumbing to such snobbery, pulling a few innocent plants out by the roots in the process. Since she was old enough to obtain a position she had always worked, her mother worked, and she had been raised to believe that the labourer possessed as much, nay, more, nobility than the so-called upper crust of society — she would not be ashamed!
    By this time her thoughts had grown as