“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 second-floor 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, bushy-whiskered 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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT HE BROUGHT ME RED carnations? Do you know what that means in the language of flowers? Admiration! ‘I admire you.’ That will certainly win a girl’s heart.” Pippa is tearing the carnations apart one by one and sprinkling the colorful carnage over the cave floor.
“I think carnations are rather nice,” Ann says.
“I’m only seventeen! My season has barely begun. I intend to enjoy it, not be married off to the first poxy old barrister with money.” Pippa rips away the rest of the carnation in her hand, revealing a naked, nubby stalk.
I haven’t said a word. I’m still smarting from that nasty letter this afternoon and the fact that Felicity is wearing one of Pippa’s new gloves while Pippa wears the other, like badges of their friendship.
“Why is she in such a hurry to see you married?” Ann asks.
“She doesn’t want anyone to know . . .” Pippa stops, stricken.
“Doesn’t want anyone to know what?” I ask.
“What they’re getting before it’s too late.” She tosses the flower stem to the ground.
I have no idea what she means. Pippa is beautiful. And her family may be merchant class but they are well-to-do and respectable. Other than being vain, obnoxious, and subject to romantic delusions, she’s all right.
“What do you do when you’re with a suitor?” Ann asks. She makes little xs in the dirt with a beheaded carnation.
Pippa sighs. “Oh, it’s generally the same. You have to fawn over them. After they bore you to tears with some story about a legal case they argued, you have to lower your eyes and say something like ‘My, I had no idea the law could be so fascinating, Mr. Bumble. But when you put it that way, why, it’s just like reading a novel!’”
We fall over laughing. “No! You didn’t say that!” Felicity howls.
Pippa is losing her mopey air. “Oh, yes, I did! And how do you like this one.” She bats her lashes and adopts a sweet, shy demeanor. “Well, perhaps I could manage just one chocolate. . . .”
This has me laughing in spite of myself. We all know Pippa is a secret glutton.
“One chocolate?” Felicity screams. “My God, if he could see you put away an entire tray of toffees he’d be appalled! When you get married, you’ll have to hide them in your boudoir and stuff them down when he’s not looking.”
Pippa screeches and pretends to beat Felicity with the carnation stem. “You’re wicked! I most certainly am not marrying Mr. Bumble. Gracious, his name is Bumble! That’s a curse right there!”
Felicity runs just out of the carnation’s reach. “Oh, yes, you are going to marry him! He’s called on you four times now. I’ll bet your mother’s planning the wedding even as we speak!”
Pippa’s laugh dies. “You don’t really think so, do you?”
“No,” Felicity says quickly. “No, it was a bad joke, that’s all.”
“I want to marry my true love. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it.”
Pippa looks so small suddenly, sitting there among her strewn petals, that I’ve almost forgotten how angry I am. I’ve never been able to hold a grudge anyway.
Felicity tilts Pippa’s chin upward with a finger. “And you will. Now, let’s call this meeting to order. Pip, why don’t you administer the sacrament?”
She brings out the whiskey again. I groan inwardly. But when it comes my way, I take my poison and find it’s not so bad if you take small sips. This time, I drink only till I feel warm and light, not beyond.
“We must have a reading from the diary of our sister, Mary Dowd. Gemma, will you do the honors this evening?” With a bow Felicity hands the diary to me. I clear my throat and begin:
“March 21, 1871
“Today we stood among the Runes of the Oracle. Under Eugenia’s guidance, we touched our fingers to them for an instant, receiving the magic. The sensation was overpowering. It was as if we could feel each other’s very thoughts, as if we were one and the same.”
Felicity raises an eyebrow. “Sounds naughty. Mary and Sarah are probably Sapphists.”
“What on earth is a Sapphist?” Pippa is already bored. She’s twirling the ends of her black ringlets round her ungloved finger, trying to achieve a more perfect curl.
“Must I tell you everything?” Felicity scoffs.
I have no idea what a Sapphist is either, but I’m not about to ask now.
“From the Greek Sappho, a lady poet who enjoyed the love of other women.”
Pippa stops twirling. “Whatever is the matter with that?”
Felicity lowers her head and gives Pippa a baleful look. “Sapphists prefer the love of women to men.”
I understand fully now, as does Ann, I gather, by the way she nervously straightens her skirts with her hands, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Pippa squints at Felicity as if she might read the meaning in her forehead, but slowly, a blush creeps up her neck into her cheeks and she’s gasping. “Oh, my heavens, you can’t honestly mean that . . . that they . . . like husband and wife . . . ?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Pippa is stunned into silence. The red does not fade from her face and neck. I’m embarrassed too, but I don’t want them to know it. “May I please continue?”
“The Gypsies came back today to make camp. When we saw the smoke from their fire, Sarah and I hurried to see Mother Elena.”
“Mother Elena!” Ann gasps.
“That lunatic with the ragged head scarf?” Pippa wrinkles her nose in distaste.