“Yes, it was quite terrible,” she says, sounding miles away. “I was a teacher here then. Mrs. Spence was headmistress, God rest her soul. She died in that fire, trying to rescue the girls. All for naught, all for naught.”
She seems tortured by it, and I’m feeling guilty for dragging her into it again. Brigid is standing next to me, clearing plates and listening.
Felicity rests her chin in her hands. “What were they like, Sarah and Mary?”
Mrs. Nightwing considers for a moment. “Like all girls, I suppose. Mary was a reader. A quiet girl. She wanted to travel, to see Spain and Morocco, India. She was a particular favorite of Mrs. Spence.”
“And Sarah?” I ask.
Brigid’s hand hovers over the plates as if she’s forgotten her purpose for a moment. Quietly, she gathers the silver.
“Sarah was a bit of a free spirit. In hindsight, Mrs. Spence might have done more to rein her in. They were fanciful girls, taken with stories of fairies and magic and whatnot.”
I stare into my custard dish.
“How did the fire happen?” Cecily asks.
“It was a foolish accident. The girls took a candle to the East Wing. It was after they should have been in bed. We shall never know why they went. Probably one of their fanciful adventures.” Mrs. Nightwing sips from her cup for a moment, lost. “The candle caught on a drapery, I suppose, and spread quickly. Mrs. Spence must have rushed in to help them, the door slammed shut behind her . . .” She trails off, staring into her tea as if it might help her. “I couldn’t get it open, you see. It was as if something heavy was holding it fast. I suppose we should count ourselves very lucky. The entire school might have gone up in flames.”
It’s quiet except for the clatter of dishes in Brigid’s hands.
Ann barges in. “Is it true that Sarah and Mary were involved with something supernatural?”
A dish crashes to the floor. Brigid is on hands and knees, sweeping the pieces into her apron. “Sorry, Missus Nightwing. I’ll just get a broom.”
Mrs. Nightwing fixes Ann with a glare. “Wherever did you hear such a scurrilous rumor?”
I stir my tea with a concentration particular to nuns at prayer. Blast Ann and her stupidity.
“We read—” Ann is interrupted by my swift kick to her leg. “I-I c-c-can’t rem-m-member.”
“Nonsense! If someone has been telling you such tales, I should know at once . . .”
Felicity is on top of the game. “I am relieved to hear it isn’t true and that Spence’s reputation is above reproach. What a terrible accident.” She glares at Ann when she says accident.
“I do not believe in the supernatural in the slightest,” Mrs. Nightwing sniffs, straightening her spine and pushing away from the table. “But I do believe in the power of young girls’ minds to conjure all sorts of hobgoblins that have nothing to do with the occult and everything to do with very real mischief. So, I’ll ask you again—has someone been filling your head with nonsense about magic and whatnot? Because I won’t stand for it.”
I’m sure she can hear the hammering of my heart across the table as we all swear our innocence on the topic. Mrs. Nightwing stands.
“If I find out otherwise, I shall punish those responsible severely. Now, it’s been a long day. Let’s all say good night.”
We promise to turn in when we’ve finished, and Mrs. Nightwing retreats to make her nightly pronouncement in the great hall that it is time for bed.
“Were you dropped on your head as a child?” Felicity snaps at Ann the moment Mrs. Nightwing has left us.
“S-s-sorry,” she stammers. “Why didn’t you want her to know about the book?”
“And have her confiscate it? I think not.” Felicity sneers.
Brigid bustles back in, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“You seem on edge tonight, Brigid,” Felicity says.
“Aye,” she says, sweeping crumbs from the table. “Talking about those two is enough to give anyone the chills. I remember ’em, all right, and they wasn’t the saints the missus makes ’em out to be.”
If you want to know something about a household, ask the servants. That’s what my father used to say. I offer Brigid a seat next to me. “You should rest for a moment, Brigid. It’ll do you good.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Oooh, my feet.”
“Tell us about them. The truth,” Ann says.
A low whistling sound escapes from Brigid’s mouth. “They was wicked girls. Especially that Sarah. Very cheeky she was. I was young then—not bad-lookin’ m’self. Had plen’y of suitors who come for me on Sundays for the walk to church. Always went to church, rain or snow or shine, I did.”
Brigid is unraveling. We could be here all night listening to tales of her piety.
“And the girls?” I prompt.
Brigid fixes me with a stare. “Getting to it, ain’t I? As I was saying, I’d go to church on Sundays. But one Sunday, Missus Spence, who was the Good Lord’s angel on m’ right hand, Missus Spence asks me would I stay and look after young Sarah, who’s feeling poorly. This would be about a week before the fire.” She stops, coughs for effect. “It’s hard to talk, m’ throat bein’ so dry.”
Dutifully Ann brings her a cup of tea.
“Oh, that’s a good girl. Now, I’m only tellin’ you wot I know as a lesson. And it don’t go no further than these four walls. Swear it.”
We fall all over ourselves swearing, and Brigid picks up where she left off, happy to be holding court.
“Mind you, I wasn’t happy about staying. M’ regular suitor, Paulie, was to call for me and I had a new bonnet besides, but I knew m’ duty. You’ll learn that soon enough, Miss Ann, once you’ve secured a position.”
Embarrassed, Ann looks away and I can’t help feeling sorry for her.
“Oooh, this wants sugar . . . ,” Brigid says, holding out her teacup like a queen. She’s taking us for all we’re worth but she has information we need so I’m back with the sugar bowl and we wait till she has stirred two lumps in. “I admit I wasn’t feeling charitably toward Miss Sarah that day. But I go to bring her breakfast on a tray and find her not in bed where she should be but down on the floor, crouched low like an animal, talking to Mary. They was having harsh words. I hear Mary sayin’, ‘Oh, no, Sarah, we can’t do that, we can’t!’ And Sarah says something about ‘That’s easy enough for you to say. You want to go off and leave me.’ And Mary started in cryin’ soft and Sarah wrapped her in her arms and kissed her bold as you please. Well I ’bout fell out right there, I can tell you. ‘We’ll be together, Mary. Always.’ And then she said something else, I couldn’t tell wot exactly, but something about ‘sacrifice.’ Sarah says, ‘This is wot it wants, Mary, wot it demands. It’s the only way.’ And that’s when Mary grabbed her and said, ‘It’s murder, Sarah.’ That’s wot she said: murder. Makes m’ blood run cold all over again just thinkin’ about it.”
Ann is chewing on her fingernails. Felicity takes hold of my hand, and I can feel how her skin has gone cold. Brigid glances over her shoulder in the direction of the door to make sure we’re alone.
“Well, I must’ve made a sound or something. Sarah was up quick as you please with murder in her eyes. Pushed me up against the wall, she did. Looked me in the face—cold eyes she had, eyes without a soul—she said, ‘Snooping, Brigid?’ I says, ‘No, miss. Only brung you your tray like Missus said to do.’ Because I was scared to m’ bones, I don’t mind saying. There was something not right going on.”
We’re all holding our breath, waiting. Brigid leans in toward us.