“Yes,” I say. And though I feel a bit guilty about abandoning my mourning weeds so soon, in truth I’m grateful for the chance to look like everybody else. It will help me to remain unnoticed, I hope.
“Splendid. Now, you will be in the first class with six young ladies also of your age. Breakfast is served promptly at nine o’clock. You will have instruction in French with Mademoiselle LeFarge, drawing with Miss Moore, music with Mr. Grunewald. I shall direct your lessons in deportment. Prayers are said at six o’clock each evening in the chapel. In fact”—she glances at the mantel clock—“we shall be leaving for the chapel very shortly. Dinner follows at seven. There is free time in the great hall afterward, with all girls in bed by ten.” She attempts one of those confessional smiles, the sort usually seen in reverent portraits of Florence Nightingale. In my experience, such smiles mean that the real message—the one hidden by manners and good posture—will need to be translated.
“I think you shall be very happy here, Miss Doyle.”
Translation: That is an order.
“Spence has turned out many wonderful young women who’ve gone on to make very good marriages.”
We don’t expect much more from you. Please don’t embarrass us.
“Why, you might even be sitting here in my position someday.”
If you turn out to be completely unmarriageable, and you don’t end up in an Austrian convent making lace nightgowns.
Mrs. Nightwing’s smile wavers a bit. I know that she’s waiting for me to say something charming, something that will convince her that she hasn’t made a mistake in taking in a grief-stricken girl who seems completely unworthy of Spence’s training. Come on, Gemma. Throw her a bone—tell her how happy and proud you are to be part of the Spence family. I only nod. Her smile disappears.
“While you’re here, I can be a solid ally, if you follow the rules. Or the sword that cuts you into shape if you do not. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, Mrs. Nightwing.”
“Excellent. Let me show you around, and then you may dress for prayers.”
“Your room is here.” We’re on the third floor, making our way down a long hall with many doors. Photographic portraits of Spence’s various classes hang on the walls—grainy faces even harder to see in the dim light of the few gas lamps. Finally we come to a room at the end on the left. Mrs. Nightwing opens the door wide to reveal a cramped, musty-smelling room that could optimistically be described as cheerless and realistically be called drab. There’s a water-stained desk, a chair, and a lamp. Iron beds hug the left and right walls. One bed looks lived in, with a neatly tucked quilt. The other, my bed, fits tight in a nook under a steep eave that could probably break my skull if I sit up too quickly. It’s a dormer room, one that juts out over the side of the building like an afterthought—perfect for an afterthought of a girl, added to the roster at the last possible moment.
Mrs. Nightwing rubs a finger over the top of the desk and frowns upon discovering dust there. “Of course, we do give preference to those girls who are returning to us this year,” she says by way of apology for my new home. “But I think you’ll find your room cheery and quite serviceable. There is a marvelous view from the window.”
She’s right. Standing in front of it, I can see the moonlit back lawn, the gardens, the chapel on the hill, and a great wall of trees.
“It is a lovely view,” I say, trying to be both cheery and serviceable.
This appeases Mrs. Nightwing, who smiles. “You’ll share a room with Ann Bradshaw. Ann is most helpful. She is one of our scholarship students.”
That’s a nice way of saying “one of our charity cases,” some poor girl packed off to school by a distant relative or given a scholarship by one of Spence’s benefactors. Ann’s quilt is tucked in straight and smooth as glass, and I wonder what her situation is, or whether we’ll get on well enough for her to want to tell me.
The wardrobe is ajar. A uniform hangs there—a flared white skirt; a white blouse with lace insets along the bib and puffed sleeves tapering to fitted cuffs; white boots with hooks and laces; and a dark blue velvet cape with a hood.
“You may dress for prayers. I’ll give you a moment.” She closes the door, and I slip into the uniform, fastening the many small buttons. The skirt is too short but otherwise it is a comfortable fit.
Mrs. Nightwing notices the gap at the bottom, frowns. “You’re quite tall.” Just what a girl wants to be reminded of. “We’ll get Brigid to add a ruffle to the hem.” She turns and I follow her out.
“Where do those doors lead?” I ask, pointing to the darkened wing on the opposite side of the landing where two heavy doors stand sentry, secured by a large lock. It’s the kind of lock needed to keep people out. Or hold something in.
Mrs. Nightwing’s brows furrow, her lips go tight. “That is the East Wing. It was destroyed in a fire years ago. We don’t use it anymore, so we’ve closed it off. Saves on heating. Come along.”
She swings past me. I start after her, then glance back, my eyes falling to the bottom of those locked doors, where there’s a one-inch crack of light. It may be the lateness of the day and the long journey, or the fact that I’m growing accustomed to seeing things, but I could swear that I see a shadow move along the floor behind the doors.
No. Begone.
I refuse to let the past find me here. I have to get hold of myself. So I close my eyes for just a second and make myself a promise.
There is nothing there. I am tired. I will open my eyes and see only a door.
When I look, there is nothing.
CHAPTER FIVE
DOWN IN THE PARLOR AGAIN, THERE ARE ROUGHLY FIFTY girls assembled, all in their velvet capes. Night rolls in, bathing the room in a purplish light. Murmuring voices, broken by the occasional giggle or laugh, echo off the low ceilings and fall around me like glass. A tolling church bell announces that it’s time to leave the school and walk the half mile or so up the hill to the chapel.
I steal a quick look to see if I can find some girls my age. Huddled together at the front of the line are a handful of girls who look to be sixteen or seventeen. They stand, heads together in conference, laughing over some private joke. One of them is incredibly beautiful, with dark brown hair and an ivory face that could be from a cameo pin. She’s possibly the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen. There are three others who all seem somewhat alike—well groomed, with aristocratic noses, each wearing an expensive comb or brooch to distinguish her and flaunt her position.
One girl catches my eye. She seems different from the others. Her white-blond hair is arranged neatly in a bun, as young ladies must wear their hair, but even so, it seems a bit wild, as if the pins won’t really hold it. Arched eyebrows frame small, gray eyes in a face so pale it’s almost the color of an opal. She’s amused at something and she tosses her head back and laughs heartily, without trying to stifle it. Even though the dark-haired girl is perfect and lovely, it’s the blonde who gets the attention of everyone in the room. She’s clearly the leader.
Mrs. Nightwing claps her hands and the murmuring dies out in ripples. “Girls, I’d like you to meet the newest student of Spence Academy. This is Gemma Doyle. Miss Doyle is joining us from Shropshire and will be in first class. She has spent most of her life in India, and I’m sure she would be happy to tell you stories of their many quaint customs and habits. I trust you’ll show her a proper Spence welcome and acquaint her with the way things are done here at Spence.”
I am dying a thousand cruel and unusual deaths as fifty pairs of eyes take me in, size me up like something that should be hanging over a fireplace in a gentleman’s den. Any hopes I’d had of blending in and not being noticed have just been killed by Mrs. Nightwing’s little speech. The blond girl cocks her head to one side, evaluating me. She stifles a yawn and goes back to gossiping with her friends. Perhaps I’ll blend in after all.