A Great And Terrible Beauty (18 page)

“If this were ancient times, we would hunt you down and put out your eyes for what you’ve seen,” Felicity snarls from the lake.

Kartik says nothing. As quickly as he came upon us, he’s gone, running through the woods.

“Next time,” Felicity says, moving to help Pippa, “we
will
put his eyes out.”

The room is dark, but I know she’s awake. There’s none of her snoring.

“Ann, are you awake?” She doesn’t answer, but I’m not giving up. “I know you are, so you might as well respond.” Silence. “I won’t give up until you do.” Outside, an owl announces that he is near.

“Why do you do that to yourself? Cut yourself the way you do?”

There’s no answer for a good long minute, and I think that perhaps she has fallen asleep after all, but then it comes. Her voice, so soft I have to strain in the dark to hear it, to hear the faint cry she’s holding back.

“I don’t know. Sometimes, I feel nothing, and I’m so afraid. Afraid I’ll stop feeling anything at all. I’ll just slip away inside myself.” There’s a cough and a sniffling sound. “I just need to feel something.”

The owl makes his call in the night again, waiting to see if anyone is at home.

“No more doing that,” I say. “Promise me?”

More sniffles. “All right.”

It feels as if I should do something here. Put my arm around her. Offer a hug. I don’t know what to do that wouldn’t horrify and embarrass us both.

“If you don’t, I’ll be forced to confiscate your needlepoint, and where would you be without the satisfaction of finishing your little Dutch girl and windmill in seven different colors of thread, hmmm?”

She gives a weak gurgle of a laugh, and I’m relieved.

“Gemma?” she says after a moment has passed.

“Hmmm?”

“You won’t tell, will you?”

“No.”

More secrets. How did I end up keeping so many? Satisfied, Ann shifts in her bed and the familiar snoring begins. I stare at a patch of wall, willing sleep to come, listening to the owl cry into a night that never answers.

“I
KNOW
YOU
DON’T
BELIEVE
ANYTHING
HAPPENED
last night, but I think we should try to contact the other world again,” Felicity whispers to me. We’re standing in the middle of the cavernous ballroom waiting for Mrs. Nightwing to begin our dance instruction. Above us, four chandeliers drip crystals whose light cuts dazzling squares into the marble floors below.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” I say, choking back my panic.

“Why not? Are your feelings hurt that you didn’t feel what the rest of us did?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snort, a sound that seems to accompany my lies, which is most unfortunate. I’m on the road to becoming a snorting fool these days.

“What, then?”

“I happen to find it dull. That’s all.”

“Dull?” Felicity’s mouth hangs open. “You call that dull? Dull is what we’re going to experience in a moment.”

Pippa is standing with Cecily and her crowd, desperately trying to get Felicity’s attention. “Fee, come stand over here with us. Mrs. Nightwing’s about to pair us off.”

Each time I start to like Pippa, she does something like this to make me despise her again. “It’s so nice to be loved,” I mutter under my breath.

Felicity looks over at the fashionable crowd and turns her back on them, rather obviously and deliberately. Pippa’s face falls. I can’t help gloating just a little bit.

“Ladies, may I have your attention, please?” Mrs. Nightwing’s voice booms across the room. “Today we are going to practice our waltzing. Remember: posture is paramount. You must pretend your spine is on a string pulled by God himself.”

“Makes it sound as if we’re God’s puppets,” Ann mumbles.

“We are, if you believe Reverend Waite and Mrs. Nightwing,” Felicity says with a wink.

“Is there something you wish to share with us all, Miss Worthington?”

“No, Mrs. Nightwing. Forgive me.”

Mrs. Nightwing takes a moment, letting us squirm under her scrutiny. “Miss Worthington, you shall partner with Miss Bradshaw. Miss Temple with Miss Poole, and Miss Cross, you will please partner with Miss Doyle.”

Of all the luck. Pippa lets out a petulant sigh and stands sullenly in front of me, throwing a glance to Felicity, who shrugs.

“Don’t look to me. It’s not my fault,” I say.

“You lead. I want to be the woman,” Pippa snaps.

“We shall take turns leading and being led. Everyone shall have a chance,” Mrs. Nightwing says wearily. “Now then, ladies. Arms held high. Do not let your elbows droop. Posture, always posture. Many a lady’s chances of securing a good marriage prospect have rested on her perfect carriage.”

“Especially if it’s a private carriage attached to a good deal of money,” Felicity jokes.

“Miss Worthington . . . ,” Mrs. Nightwing warns.

Felicity straightens like Cleopatra’s Needle. Satisfied, the headmistress cranks the arm of the Victrola and drops the needle onto a phonograph disc. The measured bars of a waltz fill the room.

“And one, two, three, one, two, three. Feel the music! Miss Doyle! Watch your feet! Small, ladylike steps. You are a gazelle, not an elephant. Ladies, hold yourselves erect! You’ll never find a husband looking down on the floor!”

“She’s obviously never seen some of those men after a few brandies,” Felicity whispers, waltzing by.

Mrs. Nightwing claps sharply. “There is to be no talking. Men do not find chatty women attractive. Count the music aloud, please. One, two, three, one, two, three. And switch leads, one, two, three.”

The switch confuses Elizabeth and Cecily, who both try to lead. They steer straight into Pippa and me. We collide into Ann and Felicity and the lot of us fall to the floor in a heap.

The music stops abruptly. “If you dance with so little grace, your season will be over before it begins. May I remind you, ladies, that this is not a game? The London season is very serious business. It is your chance to prove yourselves worthy of the duties that will be imposed upon you as wives and mothers. And more importantly, your conduct is a reflection upon the very soul of Spence.” There’s a knock at the door and Mrs. Nightwing excuses herself, while we struggle to our feet. No one helps Ann. I offer her a hand up. She takes it shyly, not meeting my eyes, still embarrassed over last night’s honesty.

“Spence has a soul?” I say, attempting a joke to put us at ease.

“It’s not funny,” Pippa says hotly. “Some of us want to better ourselves. I’ve heard you’re silently graded from the moment you walk in the door of your first ball. I don’t want to be gossiped about as
that girl who can’t dance
.”

“Do relax, Pippa,” Felicity says, straightening her skirt. “You will do just fine. You’re not going to be left a spinster. Surely Mr. Bumble will see to that.”

Pippa is aware that all eyes are on her. “I don’t believe I said I would be marrying Mr. Bumble, did I? After all, I might meet someone very special at a ball.”

“Like a duke or a lord,” Elizabeth says dreamily. “That’s what I’d want.”

“Exactly.” Pippa gives Felicity a superior little smile.

Something hard glints in Felicity’s eyes. “Dear Pip, you’re not starting in on that fantasy again, are you?”

Pippa is holding fast to her debutante smile. “What fantasy?”

“The one currently floating through your head on gossamer wings. The one where your true love is a prince looking for his princess and you just happen to have the dress in your wardrobe, neatly pressed.”

Pippa’s trying hard to maintain her composure. “Well, a woman should always set her sights higher.”

“That’s high talk from a merchant’s daughter.” Felicity folds her arms across her chest. The air is alive. The room, charged.

Pippa’s cheeks flush. “You’re not exactly in the position to be giving advice, are you? With your family history?”

“What are you implying?” Felicity says with an icy coolness.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating a fact. For whatever else my parents may be, at least my mother isn’t . . .” She stops cold.

“Isn’t what?” Felicity growls.

“I think I hear Mrs. Nightwing coming,” Ann says nervously.

“Yes, could we please stop all this bickering?” Cecily says. She tries to pull Felicity away, with no luck.

Felicity moves closer to Pippa. “No, if Pippa has something to say about my character, I, for one, would like to hear it. At least your mother isn’t a what?”

Pippa squares her shoulders. “At least my mother isn’t a whore.”

Felicity’s slap echoes in the room like a gunshot. We jump at the sudden violence of it. Pippa’s mouth is an O, her violet eyes tearing up from the sting.

“You take that back!” Felicity says through her teeth.

“I won’t!” Pippa is crying. “You know it’s true. Your mother is a courtesan and a consort. She left your father for an artist. She ran away to France to be with him.”

“It isn’t true!”

“It is! She ran away and left you behind.”

Ann and I are both too stunned to move. Cecily and Elizabeth can barely keep the smiles off their faces. This is astonishing news, and I know later they’ll be off to gossip about it. Felicity will never walk through Spence’s halls again without hearing whispers behind her back. And it’s all Pippa’s fault.

Felicity gives a cruel laugh. “She’ll send for me when I graduate. I’ll go to Paris and have my portrait painted by a famous artist. And then you’ll be sorry for doubting me.”

“You still think she’s going to send for you? How many times have you seen her since you’ve been here? I shall tell you—none.”

Felicity’s eyes shine with hate. “She will send for me.”

“She couldn’t even be bothered to send anything for your birthday.”

“I hate you.”

There is a chorus of embarrassed gasps from the goody-girls. To my surprise, Pippa goes soft and quiet. “It’s not me you hate, Fee. It’s not me.”

Mrs. Nightwing bustles in again. She reads the trouble in the room like a change in the weather. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” we all say at once, moving away from each other, each one of us studying our own patch of floor.

“Then let’s continue.” She drops the arm on the phonograph. Felicity grabs for Ann’s hand, and Pippa and I settle in. She’s the man this time, slipping her arm around my waist, taking my left hand in her right. We waltz near the windows, putting space between us and Ann and Felicity.

“I’ve made an awful mess of things,” Pippa says, miserably. “We used to get on so well. We did everything together. But that was before . . .” She trails off. We both know how the sentence ends: before you came along.

She’s just gone and ruined Felicity and now she wants my sympathy in the bargain. “I’m sure you’ll be thick as thieves again tomorrow, and this will all be forgotten,” I say, twirling a bit harder than I need to.

“No. It’s all different now. She asks you before she asks me. I’ve been replaced.”

“You have not,” I say, with a contemptuous half-laugh, because I’m a terrible liar when it really counts.

“Be careful she doesn’t get bored with you next. It’s a long way to fall.”

Mrs. Nightwing counts loudly over the music, correcting our steps, our posture, our every thought before we even have it. Pippa is moving me across the floor and I wonder if Kartik ever imagines what it would be like to hold her in his arms. Pippa has no idea of the effect she has on men, and I wish I could experience having that power just once. How I’d love to get away from here and be someone else for a while in a place where no one knows or expects certain things from me.

What happens next is not my fault. At least, I don’t mean to do it. The need to run has somehow taken over. The familiar tingling is back, pulling me down deep before I can get control of it. But it’s different this time. I’m not simply falling, I’m moving! I’m stepping across a shimmering threshold into a misty forest. Suspended there for a moment, between two worlds, I catch sight of Pippa’s face. It’s pale. Confused. Scared. And I realize she’s coming too.

Dear God, what’s happening? Where am I? How did she get here? I’ve got to stop it, can’t let her fall with me.

I close my eyes and fight against the overwhelming tide of my vision with everything I’ve got. But it’s not enough to keep me from seeing small flashes. Dark on the horizon. Splashing. And the sound of Pippa’s strangled, watery scream.

We’re back. I’m panting hard, still holding Pippa’s hand in a death grip. Did she see anything? Does she know my secret now? She’s not talking. Her eyes roll up into her head. The whites of them a fluttering of wings.

“Pippa?” My voice has enough panic in it to alert Mrs. Nightwing. She runs toward us as Pippa’s whole body stiffens. Her arm knocks me hard in the mouth as it flies back toward her chest. I can taste blood on my lip, all coppery hot. With a high keening sound, Pippa falls to the floor, her body writhing and jerking in what seems like agony.

Pippa is dying. What have I done to her?

Mrs. Nightwing grabs Pippa’s shoulders, pins her to the floor. “Ann, bring me a wooden spoon from the kitchen! Cecily, Elizabeth, fetch one of the teachers at once! Go—now!” To me she barks, “Hold her head still.”

Pippa’s head thrashes in my hands.
Pippa, I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me.

“Help me turn her,” Mrs. Nightwing says. “She mustn’t bite her tongue.”

With effort, we turn her on her side. For a dainty creature, she is surprisingly solid. Brigid pushes into the ballroom and lets out with a cry.

Mrs. Nightwing barks out orders like a decorated commander. “Brigid! Send for Dr. Thomas at once! Miss Moore, if you would, please.” Brigid scurries out as Miss Moore rushes in, spoon in hand. She shoves it into Pippa’s gurgling mouth as if she means to choke her with it.

“What are you doing?” I scream. “She can’t breathe!” I wrestle with the spoon, trying to pull it out, but Miss Moore stays my hand.

“The spoon will keep her from biting off her tongue.”

I want to believe her, but the way Pippa is thrashing on the floor, it’s hard to imagine we can do anything to help. And then the violent tremors subside. She closes her eyes and goes still as death.