Chapter 16

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"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 jail 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.

"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 scarfdraped

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 seance," 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."