A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(49)

“How is she?”

“Sleeping,” Miss Moore answers. “Come. No use standing in the hall.” The door is opened wide. She lets me take the chair by the bed and pulls another over for herself. It’s a small, kind gesture, and for some reason, it adds to my sadness. If she knew what I’d done to Pippa, what a liar I am, she wouldn’t want to be so nice to me.

Pippa is breathing deeply, seemingly untroubled. I’m afraid to sleep myself. Afraid I’ll see Pippa’s terrified face as she toppled into my bloody stupid vision. The fear and guilt have me exhausted. Too tired to keep the tears back, I bury my face in my hands and weep, for Pippa, my mother, my father, everything.

Miss Moore’s arm slips around my shoulders. “Shhh, don’t worry. Pippa will be fine in a day or two.”

I nod and cry harder.

“Somehow I think these tears aren’t all for Pippa.”

“I’m a horrid girl, Miss Moore. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“There now, what’s this nonsense?” she murmurs.

“It’s true. I’m not at all a good person. If it weren’t for me, my mother would still be alive.”

“Your mother died of cholera. That wasn’t your doing.”

The truth has been bottled up inside me for so long that it comes pouring out, spilling everywhere. “No, she didn’t. She was murdered. I ran away from her and she came after me and was murdered. I killed her with my unkindness. It’s all my fault, all of it.” My sobs are great gasping hiccups. Miss Moore still holds me in her sure arms, which remind me so much of my mother’s right now, I can barely stand it. Eventually, I’m completely cried out, my face a swollen balloon. Miss Moore hands me her handkerchief, bids me blow my nose. I’m five again. No matter how much I think I’ve matured, I always end up back at five when I cry.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to give back the white lace handkerchief.

“You hold on to it,” she says diplomatically, eyeing the limp, disgusting thing in my hand. “Miss Doyle—Gemma—I want you to listen to me. You did not kill your mother. We are all unkind from time to time. We all do things we desperately wish we could undo. Those regrets just become part of who we are, along with everything else. To spend time trying to change that, well, it’s like chasing clouds.”

New tears trickle down my cheeks. Miss Moore brings the hand with the handkerchief in it to my face.

“Will she really be all right?” I say, looking at Pippa.

“Yes. Though I think it takes a toll on her to have to keep such a secret.”

“Why does it have to be a secret?”

Miss Moore takes a moment to tuck Pippa’s blanket under her chin. “If it were known, she would be unmarriageable. It is considered a flaw in the blood, like madness. No man would want a woman with such an affliction.”

I remember Pippa’s strange comment in the caves about being married before it was too late. Now I understand.

“It’s so unfair.”

“Yes, yes, it is, but that is the way of the world.”

We sit for a moment watching Pippa breathe, watching the blankets rise and fall with a comforting rhythm.

“Miss Moore . . .” I stop.

“Here in private you may call me Hester.”

“Hester,” I say. The name feels forbidden on my tongue. “Those stories you told us about the Order. Do you suppose any of it could be true?”

“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.