A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(51)

“Yes, quite,” Mrs. Nightwing snaps. “I believe we should move on to a more pleasant topic of conversation. I’ve just had the most delightful letter from one of our former girls, now Lady Buxton. She has returned from a trip to the East, where she was privileged to see the famed whirling dervishes. Her letter is a perfect demonstration of a clever note—one that entertains and does not tax the recipient with problems of a personal nature. Should anyone wish to see it, I shall keep it at the ready.”

She sips her tea. We’re losing ground fast. I look at Felicity, who looks at Ann, who looks back at me. Finally, Felicity sighs heavily, working up real tears.

“Miss Worthington, what on earth is the matter?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Nightwing, but I can’t help thinking about those girls and the fire and how simply awful it must have been for you.”

I am so astonished that I have to bury my fingernails in my palm to keep from laughing out loud. But Mrs. Nightwing takes the bait completely.

“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.”