“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 séance,” 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.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE ONLY TWO PEOPLE WHO MIGHT BE ABLE TO SHARE my secret and explain it to me have been dead and gone for twenty years, everything they know returned to the earth.
“How dreadful,” Felicity says, shooting me a quick glance.
“Yes, quite,” Mrs. Nightwing snaps. “I believe we should move on to a more pleasant topic of conversation. I’ve just had the most delightful letter from one of our former girls, now Lady Buxton. She has returned from a trip to the East, where she was privileged to see the famed whirling dervishes. Her letter is a perfect demonstration of a clever note—one that entertains and does not tax the recipient with problems of a personal nature. Should anyone wish to see it, I shall keep it at the ready.”
She sips her tea. We’re losing ground fast. I look at Felicity, who looks at Ann, who looks back at me. Finally, Felicity sighs heavily, working up real tears.
“Miss Worthington, what on earth is the matter?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Nightwing, but I can’t help thinking about those girls and the fire and how simply awful it must have been for you.”
I am so astonished that I have to bury my fingernails in my palm to keep from laughing out loud. But Mrs. Nightwing takes the bait completely.