A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(10)
“You must be Miss Doyle. We expected you a half hour ago. You’ve kept the headmistress waiting. Come on. Follow me.”
The housekeeper bids us wait for a moment in a large, poorly lit parlor filled with dusty books and withering ferns. There is a fire going. It spits and hisses as it devours the dry wood. Laughter floats in through the open double doors and in a moment, I see several younger girls in white pinafores shuffling through the hall. One peeks in, sees me, and goes on as if I’m nothing more than a piece of furniture. But in a moment she’s back with some of the others. They swoon over Tom, who preens for them, bowing, which sets them to blushing and giggling.
God help us all.
I’m afraid I may have to take the fireplace poker to my brother to silence this spectacle. Fortunately, I’m spared from any murderous impulses. The humorless housekeeper is back. It’s time for Tom and me to make our goodbyes, which consist mainly of the two of us staring at the carpet.
“Well, then. I believe I’ll see you next month on Assembly Day with the other families.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Make us proud, Gemma,” he says at last. No sentimental reassurances—I love you; it’s all going to be just fine, you’ll see. He smiles once again for the adoring crowd of girls still hiding in the hallway, and then he’s gone. I am alone.
“This way, miss, if you please,” the housekeeper says. I follow her out to a huge, open foyer where an incredible double staircase sits. The stairs branch off both left and right. A bit of breeze from an open window shakes the crystals of a chandelier above me. It’s dazzling. Gobs of exquisite crystals strung along metal crafted into elaborate snakes.
“Watch yer step, miss,” the housekeeper advises. “Stairs is steep.”
The stairs rope up and around for what seems like miles. Over the banister, I can see the black-and-white marble tiles making diamond patterns on the floor far below. A paint-ing of a silver-haired woman in a dress that would have been the height of fashion some twenty years ago greets us at the top of the stairs.
“That’s Missus Spence,” the housekeeper informs me.
“Oh,” I say. “Lovely.” The portrait is enormous—it’s like having the eye of God watch over you.
We move on, down a long corridor to a set of thick double doors. The housekeeper knocks with her meaty fist, waits. A voice answers from the other side of the doors, “Come in,” and I’m ushered into a room with dark green wallpaper in a peacock feather pattern. A somewhat heavyset woman with piles of brown hair going gray sits at a large desk, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on her nose.
“That will be all, Brigid,” she says, dismissing the warm and embracing housekeeper. The headmistress goes back to finishing her correspondence, while I stand on the Persian rug, pretending I’m absolutely fascinated by a figurine of a little German maid carrying buckets of milk on her shoulders. What I really want to do is turn around and bolt for the door.
So sorry, my mistake. I believe I was supposed to report to another boarding school, run by human beings who might offer a girl some tea or at least a chair. A mantel clock ticks off the seconds, the rhythm lulling me into a tiredness I’ve been fighting.
Finally, the headmistress puts down her pen. She points to a chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit.”
There is no “please.” No “would you be so kind.” All in all, I’m feeling as welcome as a dose of cod-liver oil. The beast attempts a beatific look that could be mistaken for a bout of painful wind.
“I am Mrs. Nightwing, headmistress of Spence Academy. I trust you had a pleasant journey, Miss Doyle?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.”
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
“Brigid saw you in comfortably?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Tick, tick, tick, tock.
“I don’t usually admit new girls at such an advanced age. I find it is harder for them to grow accustomed to the Spence way of life.” There’s one black mark against me already. “But under the circumstances, I feel it our Christian duty to make an exception. I am sorry for your loss.”
I say nothing and fix my gaze on the silly little German milkmaid. She’s smiling and rosy-cheeked, most likely on her way back to a small village where her mother is waiting for her and there are no dark shadows lurking.
When I don’t respond, Mrs. Nightwing continues. “I understand that custom dictates a mourning period for at least a year. But I find that such persistent reminders are not healthy. It keeps us centered on the dead and not the living. I recognize that this is unconventional.” She gives me a long look over the top of her glasses to see if I will object. I don’t. “It is important that you get on here and be on equal footing with the other girls. After all, some of them have been with us for years, far longer than they’ve been with their own families. Spence is rather like a family, one with affection and honor, rules and consequences.” She emphasizes this last word. “Therefore, you will wear the same uniform everyone else wears. I trust this will be acceptable to you?”
“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.