A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(12)

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.

Mrs. Nightwing pulls her cape tight at her neck and points the way with an outstretched arm. “Let’s go to prayers, girls.”

The other girls file out the door as Mrs. Nightwing barrels over to me with a girl in tow. “Miss Doyle, this is Ann Bradshaw, your new roommate. Miss Bradshaw is fifteen and also in first class. She will accompany you this evening to make sure you get along.”

“How do you do?” she says, her dull, watery eyes revealing nothing. I think of her snug quilt and don’t expect her to be a fun-loving sort.

“Pleased to meet you,” I reply. We stand awkwardly for a second, neither one of us saying a word. Ann Bradshaw is a doughy, plain girl, which is doubly damning. A girl without money who was also pretty might stand a chance at bettering her station in life. Her nose runs. She dabs at it with a shabby lace handkerchief.

“Isn’t it terrible to have a cold?” I say, trying to be cordial.

The blank stare doesn’t change. “I don’t have a cold.”

Right. Glad I asked. We’re off to a rousing start, Miss Bradshaw and I. No doubt we’ll be like sisters by morning. If I could turn around and leave this instant, I would.

“The chapel is this way,” she says, breaking the ice with that bit of scintillating conversation. “We’re not supposed to be late to prayers.”



We walk at the back of the group, heading up the hill through the trees toward the stone-and-beam chapel. A low mist has come up. It settles over the grounds, giving the whole place an eerie quality. Up ahead, the girls’ blue capes flutter in the night air before the thickening fog swallows everything but the echoes of their voices.

“Why did your family send you here?” Ann asks in a most off-putting manner.

“To civilize me, I suppose.” I give a little laugh. Look, see how jolly I am? Ha-ha. Ann doesn’t laugh.

“My father died when I was three. My mother had to work, but then she took sick and died. Her family didn’t want to take me in but they didn’t want to send me to the workhouse, either. So they sent me here to train as a governess.”

It’s astonishing, this honesty. She doesn’t even flinch. I’m not quite sure how to respond. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, when I find my voice again.

Those dull eyes take me in. “Are you really?”

“Well . . . yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because people usually just say that to be rid of someone. They don’t really mean it.”

She’s right, and I blush. It is something to say, and how many times did I have to endure people saying the same thing about my own situation? In the fog, I trip over a thick tree root sticking up from the trail and let loose with my father’s favorite curse.

“Blast!”

Ann’s head shoots up at this. No doubt she’s the prudish sort who’ll run off to Mrs. Nightwing every time I glance cross-eyed at her.

“Forgive me, I don’t know how I could have been so rude,” I say, trying to undo the damage. I certainly don’t want to be lectured my first day.

“Don’t worry,” Ann says, looking around for eavesdroppers. As we’re at the back of the pack, there are none. “Things around here aren’t quite as proper as Mrs. Nightwing makes them out to be.”

This is certainly intriguing news. “Really? What do you mean?”

“I really shouldn’t say,” she answers.

The peal of the bell drifts over the fog along with hushed voices. Other than that, it’s very still. The fog is really something. “This would be a fine place for a midnight walk,” I say, trying to seem jovial. I’ve heard that people like jovial girls. “Perhaps the werewolves will come out to play later.”

“Except for vespers, we’re not allowed to go out after dark,” Ann answers, matter-of-factly.

So much for joviality. “Why not?”

“It’s against the rules. I don’t like it at night much.” She pauses, wipes at her runny nose. “Sometimes, there are Gypsies in the woods.”