A Great And Terrible Beauty (19 page)

“Is she . . . ?” But I can’t finish what I’m whispering. I don’t want to know the answer.

Mrs. Nightwing struggles to her feet. “Miss Moore, would you check on the progress with Dr. Thomas, please?”

Miss Moore nods and marches toward the open door, admonishing the girls peering inside at us to get away. Mrs. Nightwing places her shawl over Pippa. There on the floor, she looks exactly like a sleeping princess from a fairy tale.

I don’t even realize I’m murmuring to her softly. “I’m sorry, Pippa, I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Nightwing regards me curiously. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Miss Doyle, but this is not your doing. Pippa suffers from epilepsy. She has suffered a fit.”

“Epilepsy?” Cecily repeats, making the word sound like
leprosy
or
syphilis
.

“Yes, Miss Temple. And now I must ask that you never repeat a word of this. It must be forgotten. If I should hear gossip about this, I shall give the girls responsible thirty conduct marks each and take away all privileges. Do I make myself clear?”

We nod silently.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Ann asks.

Mrs. Nightwing dabs at her brow with a handkerchief. “You could say a prayer.”

Dusk falls softly. Early shadows leak through the tall windows, robbing the rooms slowly of their color. I have no appetite for dinner, nor do I join the others in Felicity’s scarf-draped sanctuary. Instead, I find myself wandering till I’m just outside Pippa’s room. I knock quietly. Miss Moore answers. Behind her, Pippa is lying on the bed, beautiful and still.

“How is she?”

“Sleeping,” Miss Moore answers. “Come. No use standing in the hall.” The door is opened wide. She lets me take the chair by the bed and pulls another over for herself. It’s a small, kind gesture, and for some reason, it adds to my sadness. If she knew what I’d done to Pippa, what a liar I am, she wouldn’t want to be so nice to me.

Pippa is breathing deeply, seemingly untroubled. I’m afraid to sleep myself. Afraid I’ll see Pippa’s terrified face as she toppled into my bloody stupid vision. The fear and guilt have me exhausted. Too tired to keep the tears back, I bury my face in my hands and weep, for Pippa, my mother, my father, everything.

Miss Moore’s arm slips around my shoulders. “Shhh, don’t worry. Pippa will be fine in a day or two.”

I nod and cry harder.

“Somehow I think these tears aren’t all for Pippa.”

“I’m a horrid girl, Miss Moore. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“There now, what’s this nonsense?” she murmurs.

“It’s true. I’m not at all a good person. If it weren’t for me, my mother would still be alive.”

“Your mother died of cholera. That wasn’t your doing.”

The truth has been bottled up inside me for so long that it comes pouring out, spilling everywhere. “No, she didn’t. She was murdered. I ran away from her and she came after me and was murdered. I killed her with my unkindness. It’s all my fault, all of it.” My sobs are great gasping hiccups. Miss Moore still holds me in her sure arms, which remind me so much of my mother’s right now, I can barely stand it. Eventually, I’m completely cried out, my face a swollen balloon. Miss Moore hands me her handkerchief, bids me blow my nose. I’m five again. No matter how much I think I’ve matured, I always end up back at five when I cry.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to give back the white lace handkerchief.

“You hold on to it,” she says diplomatically, eyeing the limp, disgusting thing in my hand. “Miss Doyle—Gemma—I want you to listen to me. You did not kill your mother. We are all unkind from time to time. We all do things we desperately wish we could undo. Those regrets just become part of who we are, along with everything else. To spend time trying to change that, well, it’s like chasing clouds.”

New tears trickle down my cheeks. Miss Moore brings the hand with the handkerchief in it to my face.

“Will she really be all right?” I say, looking at Pippa.

“Yes. Though I think it takes a toll on her to have to keep such a secret.”

“Why does it have to be a secret?”

Miss Moore takes a moment to tuck Pippa’s blanket under her chin. “If it were known, she would be unmarriageable. It is considered a flaw in the blood, like madness. No man would want a woman with such an affliction.”

I remember Pippa’s strange comment in the caves about being married before it was too late. Now I understand.

“It’s so unfair.”

“Yes, yes, it is, but that is the way of the world.”

We sit for a moment watching Pippa breathe, watching the blankets rise and fall with a comforting rhythm.

“Miss Moore . . .” I stop.

“Here in private you may call me Hester.”

“Hester,” I say. The name feels forbidden on my tongue. “Those stories you told us about the Order. Do you suppose any of it could be true?”

“I suppose anything’s possible.”

“And if such a power existed, and you didn’t know whether it was good or bad, would you explore it anyway?”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“It’s just musing, that’s all,” I say, looking at my feet.

“Things aren’t good or bad in and of themselves. It’s what we do with them that makes them so. At least, that’s how I see it.” She gives me a cryptic smile. “Now, what’s all this about, really?”

“Nothing,” I say, but my voice cracks on the word. “Just curious.”

She smiles. “It may be best to keep what we spoke of in the caves amongst ourselves. Not everyone has such an open mind, and if word got around, I might not be able to take you girls anywhere but up to the art room for an afternoon of painting cheery bowls of fruit.” She lifts a limp piece of hair from my still-damp face and secures it behind my ear. It’s so tender, so much like my mother that I could cry all over again.

“I understand,” I say at last.

Pippa’s hand stirs for a moment. Her fingers grab at the air. She takes a deep, halting breath, then settles into sleep again.

“Do you suppose she’ll remember what’s happened to her when she wakes?” I’m not thinking about her seizure but what happened right before, when I pulled her under.

“I don’t know,” Miss Moore says.

My stomach growls.

“Did you have anything to eat this evening?”

I shake my head.

“Why don’t you go downstairs with the other girls and have some tea? It will do you good.”

“Yes, Miss Moore.”

“Hester.”

“Hester.”

As I close the door, I finally do say a prayer—that Pippa will remember nothing.

In the hall, the four class pictures greet me in all their somber-faced glory. “Hello, ladies,” I say to their empty, resigned eyes. “Try not to be so merry. It’s quite disruptive.”

A coating of dust has settled over those faces. With the pad of my finger, I clear it away in circles, revealing grainy faces. They stare into a future that’s not giving up its secrets. Did they ever sneak into the dark woods under a new moon? Did they drink whiskey and hope for things they couldn’t explain in words? Did they make friends and enemies, mourn their mothers, see and feel things they couldn’t control?

Two of them did, this much I know. Sarah and Mary. Why haven’t I ever thought to look for them on these walls before? They must be here. Quickly, I scan the dates scrawled at the bottom of each photograph: 1870, 1872, 1873, 1874 . . .

There is no class portrait for the year 1871.

I find the others in the dining room. After our rough afternoon, Mrs. Nightwing has taken pity on us and had Brigid tell the cook to prepare a second custard. Famished, I wolf down the sweet, creamy dessert as if I expect to die in my sleep.

“Good heavens,” Mrs. Nightwing admonishes. “This is not a day at the races, Miss Doyle, and you are not a Thoroughbred. Please eat more slowly.”

“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing,” I say sheepishly between gulps.

“Now, what shall we discuss?” Mrs. Nightwing says this like an indulgent grandmother wanting to know the names of our favorite dollies.

“Are we really going to attend Lady Wellstone’s Spiritualist demonstration next week?” Martha asks.

“Yes, indeed. The invitation says that she will have an actual medium there—a Madame Romanoff.”

“My mother attended a Spiritualism séance,” Cecily says. “It is very fashionable. Even Queen Victoria herself is a devotee.”

“My cousin Lucy, that is, Lady Thornton,” Martha corrects herself, so that we may all be reminded of how well connected she is, “told me of a demonstration she attended where a glass vase levitated above the table as if someone were holding it!” She gives this last bit a hushed quality for proper dramatic effect.

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Why not simply go to the Gypsies for fortune-telling?”

“The Gypsies are filthy thieves who are after your money—or worse!” Martha says meaningfully.

Elizabeth leans toward her, on the chance there might be more sordid details to come. Mrs. Nightwing puts her teacup down a bit hard and gives Martha a warning glance. “Miss Hawthorne, please remember yourself.”

“I only meant that the Gypsies are nothing but fakes and criminals. Whilst Spiritualism is a real science practiced by the most well-meaning of souls.”

“It’s a passing fancy on its way out. Nothing more,” Felicity says, yawning.

“I’m sure it will prove a most enjoyable evening,” Mrs. Nightwing says, restoring peace. “While I’m afraid I’m not enamored of such poppycock, Lady Wellstone is indeed a woman of fine character and one of Spence’s greatest benefactresses, and I have no doubt that your outing with Mademoiselle LeFarge will prove . . . beneficial in some way.”

We sip our tea in silence for a moment. Most of the younger girls have drifted out in whispering, giggling clumps of threes and fours. I can hear the rising buzz of their voices from down the hall in the great room. Bored, Cecily and her entourage excuse themselves, making it impossible for the rest of us to leave Mrs. Nightwing without seeming rude. It’s just the four of us now in the empty dining room, with Brigid bustling about here and there.

“Mrs. Nightwing.” I stop, summoning up my courage. “It’s a curious thing . . . in the hall, there’s no class photograph from 1871.”

“No, there is not,” she answers in her usual clipped style.

“I was wondering why not.” I try to sound innocent, but my heart is in my throat.

Mrs. Nightwing doesn’t look at me. “That was the year of the great fire in the East Wing. There was no photograph. Out of respect for the dead.”

“For the dead?” I repeat.

“The two girls we lost in the fire.” She looks at me as if I’m a simpleton.

We’re all on pins and needles. A few floors above us, where heavy doors hide scorched, rotting floorboards, two girls died. A new chill passes through me.

“The two girls who died . . . what were their names?”

Mrs. Nightwing is exasperated. She stirs her tea hard. “Must we discuss so unpleasant a topic after such a long and trying day?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, unable to let the matter drop. “I simply wondered about their names.”

Mrs. Nightwing sighs. “Sarah and Mary,” she says at last.

Felicity chokes on her last bite of custard. “I beg your pardon?”

Already, this news is sinking in. My body is heavy with it. With an air of extreme impatience, Mrs. Nightwing repeats the names slowly, a bell tolling a warning.

“Sarah Rees-Toome and Mary Dowd.”

THE
ONLY
TWO
PEOPLE
WHO
MIGHT
BE
ABLE
TO
SHARE
my secret and explain it to me have been dead and gone for twenty years, everything they know returned to the earth.

“How dreadful,” Felicity says, shooting me a quick glance.

“Yes, quite,” Mrs. Nightwing snaps. “I believe we should move on to a more pleasant topic of conversation. I’ve just had the most delightful letter from one of our former girls, now Lady Buxton. She has returned from a trip to the East, where she was privileged to see the famed whirling dervishes. Her letter is a perfect demonstration of a clever note—one that entertains and does not tax the recipient with problems of a personal nature. Should anyone wish to see it, I shall keep it at the ready.”

She sips her tea. We’re losing ground fast. I look at Felicity, who looks at Ann, who looks back at me. Finally, Felicity sighs heavily, working up real tears.

“Miss Worthington, what on earth is the matter?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Nightwing, but I can’t help thinking about those girls and the fire and how simply awful it must have been for you.”

I am so astonished that I have to bury my fingernails in my palm to keep from laughing out loud. But Mrs. Nightwing takes the bait completely.

“Yes, it was quite terrible,” she says, sounding miles away. “I was a teacher here then. Mrs. Spence was headmistress, God rest her soul. She died in that fire, trying to rescue the girls. All for naught, all for naught.”

She seems tortured by it, and I’m feeling guilty for dragging her into it again. Brigid is standing next to me, clearing plates and listening.

Felicity rests her chin in her hands. “What were they like, Sarah and Mary?”

Mrs. Nightwing considers for a moment. “Like all girls, I suppose. Mary was a reader. A quiet girl. She wanted to travel, to see Spain and Morocco, India. She was a particular favorite of Mrs. Spence.”

“And Sarah?” I ask.

Brigid’s hand hovers over the plates as if she’s forgotten her purpose for a moment. Quietly, she gathers the silver.

“Sarah was a bit of a free spirit. In hindsight, Mrs. Spence might have done more to rein her in. They were fanciful girls, taken with stories of fairies and magic and whatnot.”

I stare into my custard dish.

“How did the fire happen?” Cecily asks.

“It was a foolish accident. The girls took a candle to the East Wing. It was after they should have been in bed. We shall never know why they went. Probably one of their fanciful adventures.” Mrs. Nightwing sips from her cup for a moment, lost. “The candle caught on a drapery, I suppose, and spread quickly. Mrs. Spence must have rushed in to help them, the door slammed shut behind her . . .” She trails off, staring into her tea as if it might help her. “I couldn’t get it open, you see. It was as if something heavy was holding it fast. I suppose we should count ourselves very lucky. The entire school might have gone up in flames.”