Chapter 14

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I am positively dead during mademoiselle LeFarge's French class the next morning. The

aftereffects of whiskey are the devil himself. There isn't a moment when my head doesn't

pound, and breakfast—dry toast with marmalade—sits precariously on the sea of my

stomach.

I will never, ever drink whiskey again. From now on, it's strictly sherry.

Pippa looks as washed out as I do. Ann seems fine—though I suspect she pretended to

drink more than she did, a lesson I might heed next time. Except for the half-moon

shadows under her eyes, Felicity doesn't seem any worse for the long evening,

Elizabeth takes in the rumpled sight of me and scowls. "Whatever is the matter with her?"

she says, trying to cozy up to Felicity and Pippa again. I wonder if they'll take the bait, if

last night's friendship will be forgotten and Ann and I will find ourselves on the outside

looking in once more.

"I'm afraid we cannot divulge any of the secrets of our Order," Felicity says, giving me a

furtive glance.

Elizabeth sulks and whispers to Martha, who nods. Cecily is not giving up easily, though.

"Fee, don't be cross," she says, oozing sweetness. "I've gotten new writing papers from

the stationer's. Shall we write letters home tonight in your sitting area?"

"I'm afraid I'm otherwise engaged," Felicity answers, crisp as can be.

"So that's how it is, then?" Cecily purses her thin lips. She would make the perfect vicar's

wife, with that deadly combination of self-righteousness mixed with an unforgiving

streak. I'd enjoy her comeuppance a bit more if I weren't feeling so completely wretched.

A belch escapes me, much to everyone's horror, but I feel much better.

Martha waves a hand in front of her nose. "You smell like a distillery."

Cecily's head is up at this. She and Felicity lock eyes—Felicity looking grim as a small,

unfriendly smile pulls at the corners of Cecily's lips. Mademoiselle LeFarge barges into

the room, spouting French phrases that make my poor head spin. She assigns us fifteen

sentences to translate into our books. Cecily folds her hands on her desk.

"Mademoiselle LeFarge—"

"En Français!"

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but I believe Miss Doyle isn't feeling well." She gives

Felicity a victorious look as Mademoiselle calls me to her desk for closer scrutiny.

"You do seem a bit peaked, Miss Doyle." She sniffs the air and speaks to me in a low,

stern voice. "Miss Doyle, have you been drinking spirits?"

Behind me, the scratch of pen on paper slows to a crawl. I don't know what's more

palpable—the whiskey leaking from my pores or the smell of panic in the room.

"No, Mademoiselle. Too much marmalade at breakfast," I say with a half-smile. "It's my

weakness."

She sniffs again, as if trying to convince herself that her nose has failed her. "Well, you

may be seated."

Shakily, I take my chair, looking up only briefly to see Felicity grinning from ear to ear.

Cecily looks as if she could happily choke me in my sleep. Discreetly, Felicity passes me

a note. I thought you were done for.

I scribble back, I did, too. I feel like the devil himself How is your head? Pippa sees the

surreptitious handing off of folded paper. She cranes her neck to see what's being written

and whether it could possibly be about her. Felicity shields the content of the note with

the wall of her hand. Reluctantly, Pippa goes back to her lessons but not without first

glaring at me with those violet eyes.

Swiftly, Felicity passes the note again just before Mademoiselle LeFarge looks up.

"What's going on back there?"

"Nothing," Felicity and I say together, proving beyond a doubt that something is indeed

going on.

"I shall not be repeating today's lesson, so I sincerely hope that you are not taking

frivolously the matter of writing it all down."

"Oui, Mademoiselle," Felicity says, all French charm and smiles.

When Mademoiselle's head goes down again, I open the note Felicity has passed me.

We'll meet again tonight after midnight. Loyalty to the Order!

Inwardly, I groan at the thought of another sleepless night. My bed, with its warm woolen

blanket, is more inviting than tea with a duke. But I already know I'll be weaving my way

through the woods tonight, eager to hear more of the diary's secrets.

Pippa is passing her own note to Felicity when I glance over. It's hard to admit it to

myself, but I desperately want to know what's in that note. Something hard and mean flits

across the surface of Felicity's face but it's replaced just as quickly with a closemouthed

smile. Surprisingly, she doesn't respond to Pippa but passes the note to me, much to

Pippa's horror. This time, Mademoiselle LeFarge is up and moving down the aisle

between our desks, so there's nothing to do but slip the note between the pages of my

book and wait until later to read it. When the hour is over, Mademoiselle LeFarge calls

me to her desk once again. Felicity gives me a warning look on the way out. I shoot her

my own look, which says, What do you expect me to do? Knowing that I still have her

note burning a hole in my French book, Pippa wears an expression somewhere between

fear and nausea. She starts to say something to me, but Ann closes the door, leaving me

alone with Mademoiselle LeFarge and my own fast-beating heart,

"Miss Doyle," she says, peering up at me warily, "are you quite sure the odor on your

breath is from marmalade and not some other substance?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle," I say, trying to expel as little breath as possible.

She suspects I'm lying but she can't prove it. Disappointment weighs her down to a sigh. I

seem to have that effect on people. "Too much marmalade is bad for the figure, you

know."

"Yes, Mademoiselle. I'll remember that." That Mademoiselle LeFarge, she of the wide

girth, thinks she is in any position to comment on figures is astounding, but I'm only

hoping to escape with my head intact.

"Yes, well, see that you do. Men don't care for plump women," she says. Her candor has

us both looking away. "Well, some men don't." Instinctively, she brushes a finger across

the tintype of the young man in uniform.

"Is he a relation?" I ask, trying to be courteous. It's no longer the whiskey that's turning

my stomach but my own guilt. Honestly, I like Mademoiselle LeFarge, and I hate

deceiving her.

"My fiancé. Reginald." She says his name with great pride, but also a hint of longing that

makes me blush.

"He looks… very…" I realize I have no idea what to say about this man. I've never met

him. He's only a bad photograph. But I've already started. "Trustworthy," I pronounce

with difficulty.

This seems to please Mademoiselle LeFarge. "He does have a kind face, doesn't he?"

"Most definitely," I say.

"Best not hold you here. You don't want to be late for Mr. Grunewald. Remember—be

sparing with the marmalade."

"Yes, I'll do that. Thank you," I say, and stumble out the door. I am lower than a

crustacean. I don't even deserve to have a teacher like Mademoiselle LeFarge. And even

so, I know I'm going to be out in the caves tonight, disappointing her in ways I hope she

never discovers.

Pippa's note peeks out of the edges of my French book. Slowly, I open it. Her perfect

round script is cruel and mocking.

Let's meet at the boathouse this afternoon. My mother sent new gloves, and I shall let you

wear them. For pity's sake, don't invite her. If she tried to put her big ox hands inside, the

gloves would be thoroughly ruined.

For the first time all day, I'm afraid I really will vomit, though it has nothing to do with

the whiskey and everything to do with how deeply I hate them at this moment—Pippa,

for writing the note, and Felicity for giving it to me.

As it turns out, Pippa won't be going to the boathouse after all. The great hall is abuzz

with the news—Mr. Bumble is here. Every girl at Spence, from six to sixteen, is crowded

around Brigid, who is delivering the latest gossip to us in breathless fashion. She goes on

and on about what a fine, respectable man he is, how beautiful Pippa looks, and what a

grand match they are. I don't believe I've ever seen Brigid so animated. Who could have

guessed that the old sourpuss was a secret romantic?

"Yes, but what does he look like?" Martha wants to know.

"Is he handsome? Tall? Does he have all his teeth?" Cecily presses.

"Aye" Brigid says, knowingly. She's relishing this—being the oracle for a bit. "Handsome

and respectable," she says again, in case we missed this salient quality the first time. "Oh,

wot a luv'ly match our Miss Pippa has made. Let this be a lesson to you—if you take to

heart all that Mrs. Nightwing and the others—including yours truly—impart, you could

be where Miss Pippa's headed. To the altar in a rich man's carriage."

It seems the wrong time to mention that if Mrs. Nightwing and the others, including

Brigid, were so knowledgeable they might be altar-bound themselves. I can see by the

dewy-eyed rapture on the girls' faces that they are taking Brigid's words to be gospel

truth.

"Where are they now?" Felicity presses.

"Well." Brigid leans in close. "I 'eard Mrs. Nightwing say they'd be touring the gardens,

but—"

Felicity turns to the girls. "We could see the gardens from the window on the secondfloor

landing!"

Amid Brigid's protests, there is a mad stampede up the stairs to the window. We older

girls elbow our way past the younger girls, their petulant "no fair!"s no match for our

sheer power and force. Within seconds, we've secured our position at the window and the

others mash in behind us, straining for a view.

Out in the gardens, Mrs. Nightwing chaperones Pippa and Mr. Bumble along the path that

weaves through the rows of roses and hyacinths. Through the open window, we have an

unobstructed view of them standing awkwardly apart. Pippa is burying her face in a

nosegay of red flowers that he must have brought her. She looks bored out of her mind.

Mrs. Nightwing is prattling on about the different flora on the path.

"Could you make room for the rest of us, please?" a chubby girl demands, hands on hips.

"Shove off," Felicity growls, deliberately using bad language to intimidate her.

"I'm going to tell Mrs. Nightwing!" the girl squawks.

"Do it and see what happens. Now shush—we're trying to hear!"

Bodies squirm and press, but at least there's no more whingeing. It's so odd to see Pippa

and Mr. Bumble together. Despite Brigid's glowing report, he is, in fact, a fat, bushywhiskered

man, who is quite a bit older than Pippa. He looks off over Mrs. Nightwing's

head as if he's above it all. As far as I can tell, there is nothing special about him.

Some of the younger girls have managed to crawl beneath us. They're struggling up

between our bodies and the window like weeds toward the window's light. We push

against them, and they push back. We're all on top of each other, trying to get a better

look and to listen.

"Lucky Pip," Cecily says. "She could marry a suitable chap and not even have to go

through a season, having every man and his mother size her up for marriage."

"I don't think Pip would agree with you," Felicity says. "I don't think that's what she

wants at all."

"Well, it's not as if we can do what we want, is it?" Elizabeth says simply.

No one has anything to say to that. The breeze shifts toward us, carrying Mrs.

Nightwing's voice with it. She says something about roses being the flower of true love.

And then they're around a tall hedge, hidden from sight.