“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 Fran?ais!”
“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.