A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(52)

“Don’t mind if I do. Oooh, my feet.”

“Tell us about them. The truth,” Ann says.

A low whistling sound escapes from Brigid’s mouth. “They was wicked girls. Especially that Sarah. Very cheeky she was. I was young then—not bad-lookin’ m’self. Had plen’y of suitors who come for me on Sundays for the walk to church. Always went to church, rain or snow or shine, I did.”

Brigid is unraveling. We could be here all night listening to tales of her piety.

“And the girls?” I prompt.

Brigid fixes me with a stare. “Getting to it, ain’t I? As I was saying, I’d go to church on Sundays. But one Sunday, Missus Spence, who was the Good Lord’s angel on m’ right hand, Missus Spence asks me would I stay and look after young Sarah, who’s feeling poorly. This would be about a week before the fire.” She stops, coughs for effect. “It’s hard to talk, m’ throat bein’ so dry.”

Dutifully Ann brings her a cup of tea.

“Oh, that’s a good girl. Now, I’m only tellin’ you wot I know as a lesson. And it don’t go no further than these four walls. Swear it.”

We fall all over ourselves swearing, and Brigid picks up where she left off, happy to be holding court.

“Mind you, I wasn’t happy about staying. M’ regular suitor, Paulie, was to call for me and I had a new bonnet besides, but I knew m’ duty. You’ll learn that soon enough, Miss Ann, once you’ve secured a position.”

Embarrassed, Ann looks away and I can’t help feeling sorry for her.

“Oooh, this wants sugar . . . ,” Brigid says, holding out her teacup like a queen. She’s taking us for all we’re worth but she has information we need so I’m back with the sugar bowl and we wait till she has stirred two lumps in. “I admit I wasn’t feeling charitably toward Miss Sarah that day. But I go to bring her breakfast on a tray and find her not in bed where she should be but down on the floor, crouched low like an animal, talking to Mary. They was having harsh words. I hear Mary sayin’, ‘Oh, no, Sarah, we can’t do that, we can’t!’ And Sarah says something about ‘That’s easy enough for you to say. You want to go off and leave me.’ And Mary started in cryin’ soft and Sarah wrapped her in her arms and kissed her bold as you please. Well I ’bout fell out right there, I can tell you. ‘We’ll be together, Mary. Always.’ And then she said something else, I couldn’t tell wot exactly, but something about ‘sacrifice.’ Sarah says, ‘This is wot it wants, Mary, wot it demands. It’s the only way.’ And that’s when Mary grabbed her and said, ‘It’s murder, Sarah.’ That’s wot she said: murder. Makes m’ blood run cold all over again just thinkin’ about it.”

Ann is chewing on her fingernails. Felicity takes hold of my hand, and I can feel how her skin has gone cold. Brigid glances over her shoulder in the direction of the door to make sure we’re alone.

“Well, I must’ve made a sound or something. Sarah was up quick as you please with murder in her eyes. Pushed me up against the wall, she did. Looked me in the face—cold eyes she had, eyes without a soul—she said, ‘Snooping, Brigid?’ I says, ‘No, miss. Only brung you your tray like Missus said to do.’ Because I was scared to m’ bones, I don’t mind saying. There was something not right going on.”

We’re all holding our breath, waiting. Brigid leans in toward us.

“She had one of them hex dollies—a ragged poppet like the kind them li’l Gypsy rats carry round—and she brings it to my face. She says, ‘Brigid, do you know wot happens to snoops and traitors? They’re punished.’ And then she yanked a lock of hair clean out of my head and wrapped it round the poppet tight. ‘Keep your mouth shut,’ she warns me. ‘Or next time . . . .’ Well, I never run so fast in all m’ life. Stayed in the kitchen all day long, I did. And a few days later, them girls was dead, and I can’t say as I was sorry ’bout it. Though it were a shame about poor Missus Spence.”

Brigid makes the sign of the cross over herself quickly. “I knew they’d come to no good—the two o’ them with their secrets and running off to visit that Mother Elena when the Gypsies came through.” Brigid doesn’t miss the nudge Ann gives my arm with her elbow. “Aye, I know all about trips to Mother Elena. Old Brigid weren’t born last Sunday. Best stay away from her. She’s not right in the head, always nattering on about somethin’ or other. I hope you girls ain’t getting mixed up in anything o’ that sort.”

She gives us a flinty stare. I practically drop the sugar bowl that’s still in my hands.

“Of course not,” Felicity says, putting the haughtiness back in her voice. She’s gotten what she wants from Brigid so there’s not much point indulging her, as far as she’s concerned.

“I should hope not. Don’t want you to start putting on airs, taking fancy names like they did. Thought they was duchesses or some such, Sarah making me call her . . . wot was it now?” She stops, thinks, shakes it off. “Well, there’s the steel trap o’ the mind sprung open again. Was right on the tip o’ m’ tongue, too. But if I ever find the likes of you three doin’ that Gypsy hocus-pocus, I’ll haul you down to church by your ears and leave you there for a week. You see if I don’t.” She gulps the last of her tea down quickly. “Ah, now, who’s enough of a luv to get her poor Brigid another cuppa?”