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 prayerthat Pippa will remember nothing.
In the hall, the four class pictures greet me in all their somber-faced glory. "Hello, ladies," I say to their empty, resigned eyes. "Try not to be so merry. It's quite disruptive."
A coating of dust has settled over those faces. With the pad of my finger, I clear it away in circles, revealing grainy faces. They stare into a future that's not giving up its secrets. Did they ever sneak into the dark woods under a new moon? Did they drink whiskey and hope for things they couldn't explain in words? Did they make friends and enemies, mourn their mothers, see and feel things they couldn't control?
Two of them did, this much I know. Sarah and Mary. Why haven't I ever thought to look for them on these walls before? They must be here. Quickly, I scan the dates scrawled at the bottom of each photograph: 1870, 1872, 1873, 1874
There is no class portrait for the year 1871.
I find the others in the dining room. After our rough afternoon, Mrs. Nightwing has taken pity on us and had Brigid tell the cook to prepare a second custard. Famished, I wolf down the sweet, creamy dessert as if I expect to die in my sleep.
"Good heavens," Mrs. Nightwing admonishes. "This is not a day at the races, Miss Doyle, and you are not a Thoroughbred. Please eat more slowly."
"Yes, Mrs. Nightwing," I say sheepishly between gulps.
"Now, what shall we discuss?" Mrs. Nightwing says this like an indulgent grandmother wanting to know the names of our favorite dollies.
"Are we really going to attend Lady Wellstone's Spiritualist demonstration next week?" Martha asks.
"Yes, indeed. The invitation says that she will have an actual medium therea Madame Romanoff."
"My mother attended a Spiritualism seance," Cecily says. "It is very fashionable. Even Queen Victoria herself is a devotee."
"My cousin Lucy, that is, Lady Thornton," Martha corrects herself, so that we may all be reminded of how well connected she is, "told me of a demonstration she attended where a glass vase levitated above the table as if someone were holding it!" She gives this last bit a hushed quality for proper dramatic effect.
Felicity rolls her eyes. "Why not simply go to the Gypsies for fortune-telling?"
"The Gypsies are filthy thieves who are after your moneyor worse!" Martha says meaningfully. Elizabeth leans toward her, on the chance there might be more sordid details to come. Mrs. Nightwing puts her teacup down a bit hard and gives Martha a warning glance. "Miss Hawthorne, please remember yourself."