A Great And Terrible Beauty (5 page)

“I think you shall be very happy here, Miss Doyle.”

Translation: That is an order.

“Spence has turned out many wonderful young women who’ve gone on to make very good marriages.”

We don’t expect much more from you. Please don’t embarrass us.

“Why, you might even be sitting here in my position someday.”

If you turn out to be completely unmarriageable, and you don’t end up in an Austrian convent making lace nightgowns.

Mrs. Nightwing’s smile wavers a bit. I know that she’s waiting for me to say something charming, something that will convince her that she hasn’t made a mistake in taking in a grief-stricken girl who seems completely unworthy of Spence’s training.
Come on, Gemma. Throw her a bone—tell her how happy and proud you are to be part of the Spence family.
I only nod. Her smile disappears.

“While you’re here, I can be a solid ally, if you follow the rules. Or the sword that cuts you into shape if you do not. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing.”

“Excellent. Let me show you around, and then you may dress for prayers.”

“Your room is here.” We’re on the third floor, making our way down a long hall with many doors. Photographic portraits of Spence’s various classes hang on the walls—grainy faces even harder to see in the dim light of the few gas lamps. Finally we come to a room at the end on the left. Mrs. Nightwing opens the door wide to reveal a cramped, musty-smelling room that could optimistically be described as cheerless and realistically be called drab. There’s a water-stained desk, a chair, and a lamp. Iron beds hug the left and right walls. One bed looks lived in, with a neatly tucked quilt. The other, my bed, fits tight in a nook under a steep eave that could probably break my skull if I sit up too quickly. It’s a dormer room, one that juts out over the side of the building like an afterthought—perfect for an afterthought of a girl, added to the roster at the last possible moment.

Mrs. Nightwing rubs a finger over the top of the desk and frowns upon discovering dust there. “Of course, we do give preference to those girls who are returning to us this year,” she says by way of apology for my new home. “But I think you’ll find your room cheery and quite serviceable. There is a marvelous view from the window.”

She’s right. Standing in front of it, I can see the moonlit back lawn, the gardens, the chapel on the hill, and a great wall of trees.

“It is a lovely view,” I say, trying to be both cheery and serviceable.

This appeases Mrs. Nightwing, who smiles. “You’ll share a room with Ann Bradshaw. Ann is most helpful. She is one of our scholarship students.”

That’s a nice way of saying “one of our charity cases,” some poor girl packed off to school by a distant relative or given a scholarship by one of Spence’s benefactors. Ann’s quilt is tucked in straight and smooth as glass, and I wonder what her situation is, or whether we’ll get on well enough for her to want to tell me.

The wardrobe is ajar. A uniform hangs there—a flared white skirt; a white blouse with lace insets along the bib and puffed sleeves tapering to fitted cuffs; white boots with hooks and laces; and a dark blue velvet cape with a hood.

“You may dress for prayers. I’ll give you a moment.” She closes the door, and I slip into the uniform, fastening the many small buttons. The skirt is too short but otherwise it is a comfortable fit.

Mrs. Nightwing notices the gap at the bottom, frowns. “You’re quite tall.” Just what a girl wants to be reminded of. “We’ll get Brigid to add a ruffle to the hem.” She turns and I follow her out.

“Where do those doors lead?” I ask, pointing to the darkened wing on the opposite side of the landing where two heavy doors stand sentry, secured by a large lock. It’s the kind of lock needed to keep people out. Or hold something in.

Mrs. Nightwing’s brows furrow, her lips go tight. “That is the East Wing. It was destroyed in a fire years ago. We don’t use it anymore, so we’ve closed it off. Saves on heating. Come along.”

She swings past me. I start after her, then glance back, my eyes falling to the bottom of those locked doors, where there’s a one-inch crack of light. It may be the lateness of the day and the long journey, or the fact that I’m growing accustomed to seeing things, but I could swear that I see a shadow move along the floor behind the doors.

No. Begone.

I refuse to let the past find me here. I have to get hold of myself. So I close my eyes for just a second and make myself a promise.

There is nothing there. I am tired. I will open my eyes and see only a door.

When I look, there is nothing.

DOWN
IN
THE
PARLOR
AGAIN
,
THERE
ARE
ROUGHLY
FIFTY
girls assembled, all in their velvet capes. Night rolls in, bathing the room in a purplish light. Murmuring voices, broken by the occasional giggle or laugh, echo off the low ceilings and fall around me like glass. A tolling church bell announces that it’s time to leave the school and walk the half mile or so up the hill to the chapel.

I steal a quick look to see if I can find some girls my age. Huddled together at the front of the line are a handful of girls who look to be sixteen or seventeen. They stand, heads together in conference, laughing over some private joke. One of them is incredibly beautiful, with dark brown hair and an ivory face that could be from a cameo pin. She’s possibly the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen. There are three others who all seem somewhat alike—well groomed, with aristocratic noses, each wearing an expensive comb or brooch to distinguish her and flaunt her position.

One girl catches my eye. She seems different from the others. Her white-blond hair is arranged neatly in a bun, as young ladies must wear their hair, but even so, it seems a bit wild, as if the pins won’t really hold it. Arched eyebrows frame small, gray eyes in a face so pale it’s almost the color of an opal. She’s amused at something and she tosses her head back and laughs heartily, without trying to stifle it. Even though the dark-haired girl is perfect and lovely, it’s the blonde who gets the attention of everyone in the room. She’s clearly the leader.

Mrs. Nightwing claps her hands and the murmuring dies out in ripples. “Girls, I’d like you to meet the newest student of Spence Academy. This is Gemma Doyle. Miss Doyle is joining us from Shropshire and will be in first class. She has spent most of her life in India, and I’m sure she would be happy to tell you stories of their many quaint customs and habits. I trust you’ll show her a proper Spence welcome and acquaint her with the way things are done here at Spence.”

I am dying a thousand cruel and unusual deaths as fifty pairs of eyes take me in, size me up like something that should be hanging over a fireplace in a gentleman’s den. Any hopes I’d had of blending in and not being noticed have just been killed by Mrs. Nightwing’s little speech. The blond girl cocks her head to one side, evaluating me. She stifles a yawn and goes back to gossiping with her friends. Perhaps I’ll blend in after all.

Mrs. Nightwing pulls her cape tight at her neck and points the way with an outstretched arm. “Let’s go to prayers, girls.”

The other girls file out the door as Mrs. Nightwing barrels over to me with a girl in tow. “Miss Doyle, this is Ann Bradshaw, your new roommate. Miss Bradshaw is fifteen and also in first class. She will accompany you this evening to make sure you get along.”

“How do you do?” she says, her dull, watery eyes revealing nothing. I think of her snug quilt and don’t expect her to be a fun-loving sort.

“Pleased to meet you,” I reply. We stand awkwardly for a second, neither one of us saying a word. Ann Bradshaw is a doughy, plain girl, which is doubly damning. A girl without money who was also pretty might stand a chance at bettering her station in life. Her nose runs. She dabs at it with a shabby lace handkerchief.

“Isn’t it terrible to have a cold?” I say, trying to be cordial.

The blank stare doesn’t change. “I don’t have a cold.”

Right. Glad I asked. We’re off to a rousing start, Miss Bradshaw and I. No doubt we’ll be like sisters by morning. If I could turn around and leave this instant, I would.

“The chapel is this way,” she says, breaking the ice with that bit of scintillating conversation. “We’re not supposed to be late to prayers.”

We walk at the back of the group, heading up the hill through the trees toward the stone-and-beam chapel. A low mist has come up. It settles over the grounds, giving the whole place an eerie quality. Up ahead, the girls’ blue capes flutter in the night air before the thickening fog swallows everything but the echoes of their voices.

“Why did your family send you here?” Ann asks in a most off-putting manner.

“To civilize me, I suppose.” I give a little laugh.
Look, see how jolly I am? Ha-ha.
Ann doesn’t laugh.

“My father died when I was three. My mother had to work, but then she took sick and died. Her family didn’t want to take me in but they didn’t want to send me to the workhouse, either. So they sent me here to train as a governess.”

It’s astonishing, this honesty. She doesn’t even flinch. I’m not quite sure how to respond. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, when I find my voice again.

Those dull eyes take me in. “Are you really?”

“Well . . . yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because people usually just say that to be rid of someone. They don’t really mean it.”

She’s right, and I blush. It is something to say, and how many times did I have to endure people saying the same thing about my own situation? In the fog, I trip over a thick tree root sticking up from the trail and let loose with my father’s favorite curse.

“Blast!”

Ann’s head shoots up at this. No doubt she’s the prudish sort who’ll run off to Mrs. Nightwing every time I glance cross-eyed at her.

“Forgive me, I don’t know how I could have been so rude,” I say, trying to undo the damage. I certainly don’t want to be lectured my first day.

“Don’t worry,” Ann says, looking around for eavesdroppers. As we’re at the back of the pack, there are none. “Things around here aren’t quite as proper as Mrs. Nightwing makes them out to be.”

This is certainly intriguing news. “Really? What do you mean?”

“I really shouldn’t say,” she answers.

The peal of the bell drifts over the fog along with hushed voices. Other than that, it’s very still. The fog is really something. “This would be a fine place for a midnight walk,” I say, trying to seem jovial. I’ve heard that people like jovial girls. “Perhaps the werewolves will come out to play later.”

“Except for vespers, we’re not allowed to go out after dark,” Ann answers, matter-of-factly.

So much for joviality. “Why not?”

“It’s against the rules. I don’t like it at night much.” She pauses, wipes at her runny nose. “Sometimes, there are Gypsies in the woods.”

I think of the old woman at my carriage earlier. “Yes, I believe I met one. Called herself Mother something . . .”

“Mother Elena?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“She’s stark raving mad. You want to steer clear of her. She might have a knife and stab you in your sleep,” Ann says, breathlessly.

“She seemed harmless enough. . . .”

“You never really know, do you?”

I don’t know if it’s the fog or the bells or Ann’s creepiness but I’m walking a bit faster now. A girl who sees visions paired with one who’s a walking tour guide of things that go bump in the night. Perhaps this is Spence’s little way of matchmaking.

“You’re in first class with me.”

“Yes,” I say. “Who are the others?”

She ticks off the names one by one. “And Felicity and Pippa.” Ann stops, suddenly on edge.

“Felicity and Pippa. Those are lovely names,” I say cheerfully. It’s such an insipid comment that I should be shot for it, but I’m dying to know more about these two girls who are going to be in our class.

Ann lowers her voice. “They’re not lovely. Not at all.”

The bell finally stops ringing, leaving a strange, hollow hush in its absence. “No? Part girl, part wolf? Do they lick their butter knives?”

Ann not only doesn’t find me amusing, but her eyes take on a cold, hard look. “Be careful around them. Don’t trust—”

From behind us, a husky voice cuts her off. “Talking too much again, Ann?”

We whip around to see two faces emerging from the mist. The blonde and the beauty. They must have lagged behind and sneaked up on us. The smoky voice belongs to the blonde. “Don’t you know that’s a most unbecoming trait?”

Ann’s jaw hangs open, but she doesn’t answer.

The brunette laughs and whispers something in the blonde’s ear, which makes her launch into that full, ripe smile again. She points to me. “You’re the new girl, aren’t you?”

I don’t like the way she says this. New girl. As if I might be some sort of insect that hasn’t been given a classification yet.
Hideous corpus
, female. “Gemma Doyle,” I say, trying not to flinch or look away first. It’s a trick my father used when he haggled over a price. Now I’m haggling over something undefined but more important—my place in the pecking order at Spence.

There is a second’s pause before she turns away from me and holds Ann with a chilly gaze. “Gossip is a very bad habit. We don’t indulge bad habits here at Spence, Mademoiselle Scholarship,” she says, giving the last two words a nasty emphasis. A reminder that Ann isn’t of the same class and shouldn’t expect the same treatment. “You have been warned.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Doily,” she says, linking arms with the brunette, who bumps my shoulder hard as they pass us.

“Terribly sorry,” she says, and bursts out laughing. If I were a man, I’d flatten her. But I’m not a man. I’m here to be a lady. No matter how much I loathe it already.

“Come on,” Ann says in a shaky voice once they’re gone. “It’s time for prayers.” I don’t know if she means in general or strictly for herself.

We scurry across the threshold of the quiet, cavernous chapel and take our seats, our footsteps echoing off the marble floors. Arched wood-beamed ceilings soar a good fifteen feet above us. Candelabras line the sides of the church, casting long shadows over the wooden pews. Stained-glass windows line the walls, colorful advertisements for God, pastoral scenes of angels doing angelic sorts of things—visiting villagers, telling them good news, petting sheep, cradling babies. There is the odd panel with a severed gorgon’s head, an angel in armor standing next to it, brandishing a sword dripping blood. Can’t say that I’ve heard that particular Bible story—or want to, really. It’s a bit gruesome so I turn my attention to the altar where a vicar stands, tall and thin as a scarecrow.