The vicar, whose name is Reverend Waite, leads us in prayers that all begin with “O Lord” and end with our somehow not being worthy—sinners who have always been sinners and will forever more be sinners until we die. It isn’t the most optimistic outlook I’ve ever heard. But we’re encouraged to keep trying anyway.
I have to watch Ann and the others to see when to kneel, when to rise, and when to mouth along to the hymn. My family is vaguely Anglican, like everyone else, but the truth is that we rarely went to church in India. On Sundays, Mother took me for picnics under hot, cloudless skies. We’d sit on a blanket and listen to the wind whip across dry land, whistling to us.
“This is our church,” she’d say, combing fingers through my hair.
My heart’s a tight fist in my chest while my lips form words I don’t feel. Mother told me that most of the English only prayed with heart and soul when they needed something from God. What I want most from God is to have my mother back. That isn’t possible. If it were, I’d pray to anyone’s god, night and day, to make it so.
The vicar sits and Mrs. Nightwing stands. Ann moans slightly under her breath.
“Oh, no. She’s going to make a speech,” she whispers.
“Does she do this every vespers?” I ask.
“No,” Ann says, giving me a sidelong glance. “She’s doing it for your benefit.”
Suddenly, I can feel every pair of eyes glaring at me. Well, this should get me off to a rousing start with everyone.
“Ladies of Spence Academy,” Mrs. Nightwing begins. “As you know, for twenty-four years, Spence has enjoyed a reputation as one of England’s finest finishing schools. While we can and will teach you the necessary skills to become England’s future wives and mothers, hostesses and bearers of the Empire’s feminine traditions, it will be up to each of you to nurture and feed your souls, and to apply yourselves with grace, charm, and beauty. This is the Spence motto: Grace, charm, and beauty. Let us all rise and say it together.”
There is a great rustling as fifty girls stand at attention and recite the pledge, chins tilted upward toward the future. “Thank you. You may be seated. For those girls who have returned to us this year, you shall set the example for the others. For those who are new to us”—Mrs. Nightwing scans the chapel till she finds me next to Ann—“we expect nothing less than your very best.”
Thinking this is our dismissal, I rise from the pew. Ann pulls on my skirt.
“She’s just begun,” she whispers.
And, indeed, Mrs. Nightwing astonishes me by prattling on about virtue, the well-mannered girl, suitable breakfast fruits, the unfortunate influence of Americans on British society, and her own fondly remembered school days. Time has no meaning. I feel as if I have been left in the desert to die and am waiting eagerly for the vultures to begin their work and end my misery.
Candle shadows stretch long over the walls, making our faces look haunted and hollow. The chapel is hardly a comforting site. It’s ghostly. Certainly not someplace I’d want to be alone after dark. I’m shivering at the thought of it. At last, Mrs. Nightwing finishes her long-winded address, which makes me utter my own silent prayer of gratitude. Reverend Waite reads a benediction and we’re dismissed for dinner.
One of the older girls stands at the door. When we reach her, she sticks out her foot and sends Ann sprawling to the floor. Her eyes dart past us where they find Felicity and Pippa a few heads behind.
I give Ann my hand and help her to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she says, giving the same straight-ahead stare that seems to be her only expression.
The girl steps around her. “You really should be more careful.” The others stream past us, casting glances at us, giggling.
“Grace, charm, and beauty,” Felicity says as she breezes past. I wonder what she would look like if someone were to cut off all her hair in her sleep. My first evening at prayers has not made me into a particularly charitable girl.
Outside, the mist has thickened into a gray soup that settles around our legs. Down the hill lies the hazy outline of the enormous school, broken by thin slivers of lights from the various windows. Only one wing remains completely dark. I figure it to be the East Wing, the one destroyed by the fire. It sits, curled and quiet as the gargoyles on the roof, as if waiting. For what, I don’t know.
Movement. To my right. A black cloak running through the trees, disappearing into the mist. My legs have gone rubbery.
“Did you see that?” I ask, voice shaking.
“See what?”
“Out there. Somebody running about in a black cape.”
“No. It’s the fog. Makes you see things.”
I know what I saw. Someone was waiting there, watching us.
“It’s cold,” Ann says. “Let’s walk faster, shall we?”
She steps briskly ahead of me, letting the fog consume her till she’s only a blue spot, a shadow of a girl, fading into nothing.
CHAPTER SIX
I’M BEING WATCHED. THE FEELING STAYS WITH ME during a tedious dinner of lamb and potatoes followed by pudding. Who would be watching me and why? That is, who else besides the girls of Spence, who eye me and whisper to each other, stopping only when Mrs. Nightwing reprimands one girl for letting her fork droop.
When dinner is finished, we are allowed a free period in the great hall. This is the time we’re given to be at ease—to read, laugh, socialize, or just sit about. The great hall is just that—enormous. A massive fireplace commands the center of one wall. Six beautifully engraved marble columns form a circle in the middle of the room. Mythical creatures have been carved into each one—winged fairies, nymphs, and satyrs. Strange décor, to say the least.
At one end of the room, the younger girls sit playing with dolls. Some have gathered to read, some to embroider, and some to gossip. In the best possible corner, Pippa and Felicity are holding court with a few other girls. Felicity has cordoned off a sitting area and turned it into her own fiefdom complete with exotic scarves that make it seem like a sheik’s tent. Whatever she’s telling the others seems to have them hanging on her every word. I have no idea how thrilling it might be, since I’ve not been invited. Not that I want to be invited. Not much, anyway.
Ann is nowhere to be found. I can’t very well stand in the center of the room like an imbecile, so I find a quiet seat near the roaring fire and open my mother’s diary. Though I haven’t looked through it in a month or so, I’m in the mood to torture myself tonight. In the firelight, Mother’s elegant handwriting dances on the page. It’s surprising how just the sight of her words on paper makes tears sting at my eyes. So much about her has begun to fade away. I want to keep holding on. And so I read, flipping through page after page of notes about teas and visits to temples and housekeeping lists, until I come to this, her very last entry:
June 2nd—Gemma is cross with me again. She wants desperately to go to London. That will of iron is formidable, and I am quite exhausted by it all. What will her birthday bring? It is agonizing to wait, and torture to have her loathe me so.
Sentences go blurry, words run together as the tears pool. I wish I could go back and change everything.
“What are you doing?” Ann asks, hovering over me.
I wipe at my wet cheeks with the back of my hand, keep my head down. “Nothing.”
Ann takes a seat and pulls out some knitting from a basket. “I like to read, too. Have you ever read The Perils of Lucy, A Girl’s Own Story?”