Page 6 of Good Girls Lie
And so it went, generation to generation, a matriarchal line who took it upon themselves to educate the daughters of the land. To teach them how to be self-sufficient women, teachers and influencers in their own right. Seven generations committed to carrying on the school, its mandate as an all-female powerhouse, and the Westhaven name, of course. It is their brand as much as the school’s.
Each class has fifty girls, hand selected by Ford herself. Fifty brilliant, impressionable girls, all there to be molded into Ford’s own image, all of whom go on to college. A full 90 percent go traditional Ivy. The remaining grads either attend specialized programs—Rhode Island, Julliard, Oxford, MIT—or the approved Southern schools that are understood to be their own Ivy system.
It is a laudable record. Goode accepts only the best, guarantees a serious return on investment. And in turn, expects blood, sweat, and tears. And future endowments. Elitism costs.
Ford successfully shot down an attempt last year to admit a male student. She led the fiery charge and won, though the board wasn’t as adamant. More students meant more revenue.
But Ford made them understand the power of an all-female education, how admitting boys would affect the tenor of the day-to-day, would alter the very mission of the school. If girls can focus on their studies exclusively, she argued, without the distraction of having boys in the classroom, their grades are better, their confidence soars, and they are more effective in and out of school. Their eventual insertion into the real working world with this focus means higher paying jobs, more influential roles. Goode creates strong female leaders. Full stop.
They listened.
And unlike her mother, Ford has been blessed with a tenure free of heartbreak, free of scandal. Oh, there have been a few little things here and there, mostly girls caught with cell phones or cigarettes, marijuana in their vape pens. Beer. Shoplifting. Little transgressions, things that in the grand scheme of things don’t matter. Non–life altering. Nothing like what Jude dealt with, thank God.
Goode is a success under Ford’s stewardship.
She runs through her upcoming speech in her mind. She’s given variations on the theme every year to kick off the term, been the recipient of several as a student herself under her grandmother’s reign. Her words are echoes of her past, spoken in the voice of her ancestors.
The girls will beam, reveling in being the chosen ones. They will do anything to please her, as Ford and her classmates would have done anything to please their masters.
She notices the black town car pulling into the drive. Another congressional or ambassadorial child—those parents always too busy to see their darlings to the doors of Goode sent them in style. She is drawn, for some reason, to the shadowy figure inside.
From the car emerges a tall, thin blonde. It takes Ford a moment to place her, then she realizes she is seeing Ash Carr—no, it’s Carlisle, she reminds herself, they’re keeping her identity private, for now—in the flesh for the first time.
Poor dove. The trauma of the girl’s past few months almost derailed the application process, and the subsequent lack of funds was a serious issue, but something about her spoke to Ford, especially in their interview. The girl has a certain spark, is appealing on many levels. Ford allowed her acceptance to stand and, with the blessing of the board, granted one of the school’s rare private scholarships to bring her from England to Virginia.
Goode scholarships are based on need but can’t be applied for. It’s the school’s way of carrying on the tradition from which it was born. A small nod to the past.
Ash is sworn to secrecy; so long as she keeps her mouth shut, no one will have to know. She will be treated as just another Goode girl, accepted because of privilege, brains, and whatever inestimable quality Ford has seen in the application and interviews.
Ford waits another moment, surveying the acreage, the students, the gentle slope of lawn and trees, the possibilities ahead for another year at Goode, then turns to go. She has a meeting with Carlisle in a few minutes. She has rehearsed what she will say, as she does with every interaction. So long as Ford has time to prepare, she is perfect.
Always.
6
THE MEETING
I knock on the thick, tall wooden door and am rewarded with a trilling “Come in!”
I step through into a lovely large space. Bookcases line three walls, floor-to-ceiling built-ins with crown molding, stocked so full it makes me itch to stand in front of them, run my fingers along their spines, ignore the dean entirely.
Along the fourth wall, flanked by tall casement windows, is a creamy red marble fireplace, wood stacked in the grate as if ready for the match despite the warm day. Two gray tweed sofas face one another in the center of the room, perched atop a thick wool Oriental rug in shades of green and cream. The big wooden desk looks like a French antique; the right side of the top is taken up by an old-fashioned typewriter, a crisp white page rolled onto its platen, the carriage slide half-mast as if the writer stepped away midreturn. I can see the faint image of words through the sheet.
Above the desk is a framed map of 1900s Virginia. A flag of the United States, stars out, housed in a triangular black frame, sits alone on a shelf in a place of honor.
The entire room is elegant, feminine, old-school, and inviting.
Dean Westhaven, too, is elegant, feminine, old-school, and inviting. Her dark hair is swept into a classic chignon; she is draped in a nubby Chanel suit, discreet black pumps with a two-inch heel on her slender, high-arched feet. She is not beautiful, her gray eyes with their large pupils too widely set and her nose a shade too thin to balance the sharp cheekbones, but she is striking, a presence. And watchful. So watchful. Like a gray-eyed hawk, measuring and peering.
Those disconcerting eyes hold unfathomable secrets and take my measure, and this unerring attention is intimidating. I am not used to being looked at so closely; I much prefer to hide in the shadows. Choosing to come to Goode means I won’t be able to do so, this I know. I am going to be seen. As one of only two hundred in such a small space, with my height, my hair, my face, there is no way to hide. Not completely.
Despite this scrutiny, there is something about the dean that makes me want to know more about her, and this puts up my guard.
Careful. Don’t go getting attached.
The dean gestures toward the two chairs in front of her desk. “Sit, sit. You must be exhausted after your journey.”
I take a high-backed wing chair, one leg bent beneath me on the soft seat until I remember my manners and put both feet on the floor, and watch the woman who is to direct my life for the next three years bustle around her homey office.
