Outrun the Moon(35)

I want to rail against him, tell him what a dumb egg he is. But why? Because he needs more than harmonious signs to dream of a future together? Americans marry for love, and we have always considered ourselves American, even if our city does not. Would I marry Tom if I didn’t love him? I don’t know. I can’t imagine not loving Tom.

“You deserve to find your place in the sky,” I say in a tight voice. I cannot leave on a bad note, because that would dishonor us both. I must accept that our friendship will never bloom to something more. “Just promise you will remember which way is up and which way is down.”

He gives me the whisper of a smile, and it presses a hard finger to my wound.



The garden at St. Clare’s is full of shadows. Despite my heavy heart, I quickly work my way back to the main house, my ears attuned to every rustle through the lavender, every shake of tree branches. The fountain with the goldfish gurgles. Servants move around in the kitchen, but they can’t see me out here in the dark.

I’m about to step into the light of the entryway when a slender figure emerges from the chapel. A low-rimmed bonnet obscures her face, and she walks with a distinct shuffle, favoring her right hip. The sight triggers a recent memory.

The woman looks up, and the light from a streetlamp illuminates her features. At the sight of me, Madame Du Lac’s free hand flies to the choker at her throat; the other one clutches her Bible.

“Evening, Madame,” I say, loud enough for her to hear me.

Her eyes narrow, but instead of returning my greeting, she quickly moves away. It’s late, but I suppose God doesn’t keep visiting hours.

When I slip back into our room, Elodie is sitting at her desk in her nightgown. Her scalloped boots stand at attention in one corner, as if awaiting her orders. She barely lifts her eyes from the letter she is composing. The peacock feather of her pen ripples with her scratching.

As the last bell rings, I wrestle off my uniform. Elodie deposits her letter in a drawer, then gracefully folds herself into her covers. “You’ll be pleased to know, I have just written to Papa, informing him of our new arrangement with Chinatown and my recommendation of hiring Tom for the consultancy.” She smiles brightly.

I should hold my tongue, but I am in no mood to be toyed with. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but Tom is no longer available. I guess you’ll have to rewrite your letter.”

I yank my nightgown over my head just as Headmistress Crouch appears in the doorway. Taking in my flushed appearance, she frowns. In an instant, she is by my side, lifting my chin with her ruler. “Have you been exercising?”

“No, ma’am.” My voice squeaks at the end. “I’ve been praying.”

Her eyes become two cracks in the bleak wall of her face. Has she discovered my lark?

She lowers her ruler. “Good. Exertion before bedtime is bad for your constitution. We are ladies, not acrobats.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Elodie snorts, and Headmistress Crouch turns to her. “What are you sniggering about?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I was simply noticing the roughness of Miss Wong’s hands. Perhaps Chinese heiresses are acrobats. Or perhaps—”

I cough. “My hands are roughened because in China ladies learn pottery instead of embroidery. The more calloused the fingers, the higher one’s skill.”

“Is that so?” Elodie’s smile drips venom. “I would love to see a demonstration some time. No doubt, it would prove as entertaining as your tea ceremony.”

“It would be my pleasure to show you how well I can throw a slab,” I growl.

“Enough.” Headmistress Crouch’s hand chops through the air. “This yammering is aggravating my blood pressure.”

Elodie sneers at me. A tense moment passes, and then another, during which Headmistress Crouch’s gaze shifts between us. Not even the devil’s own breath could melt the chill in the room.

“Good night.” Abruptly, the headmistress switches off the light and breezes out. Maybe she realizes trying to unsnag this line isn’t worth her paycheck.

After we hear her footsteps marching away, we get into it.

“What do you suppose Headmistress Grouch would say if she knew you were a phony?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, Elodie,” I spit back, feeling reckless. It’s hard to care about anything right now. “Why don’t we tell her and see? Of course, all your commendable work at the hearing will have been for nil. Plus, I doubt Papa would be very proud of you when his reputation goes down the sewer. The scandal it would cause.”

“You think you’re so clever. But you don’t belong here.” Her words rip across the six feet of space between us. “Class is not something you can connive your way into.”

“Not like your father did, you mean.”

She kicks up her sheets. “Maman’s people were of the highest caliber.”

“There is a saying. ‘All mankind is divided into three classes: those that are immovable, those that are movable, and those that move.’ You are the former; I, the latter.”

“Your Celestial proverbs don’t make a whit of sense.”

“That was said by an American. Maybe you’ve heard of him: Benjamin Franklin.”

That cooks her cabbage. She flips onto her side so her back is to me.