Tomorrow, Pippa will leave with her parents, and she will be married to Mr. Bumble by the week's end. Hasty preparations have begun. Order will be restored. Pride upheld.
Who cares about one girl's lifelong happiness in the face of such important matters as maintaining appearances?
She stares into her lap, biting hard at her bottom lip, completely beaten, while Mrs. Nightwing works to soothe her parents and fianc?. Mrs. Nightwing rings a bell on a long ropethe one that leads to the kitchenand moments later, Brigid appears, huffing and puffing from the race up the stairs.
"Brigid, please show Mr. Cross and Mr. Bumble to the library and offer them a glass of our best port."
This pleases the men. They're all smug smiles and puffed chests.
"I do hope you'll accept this with a full apology and my assurance that there'll be no further unpleasantness." Mrs. Nightwing gives Mr. Bumble a sideways glance.
Mr. Cross waves the idea away. "No great harm done, fortunately."
Mr. Bumble crinkles his mustache as if choosing a cigar. "I'm a reasonable man. But you should keep a much tighter rein on these girls. They shouldn't be left to their own decisions. It's not healthy."
I close my eyes and imagine Mr. Bumble careening headfirst down the long staircase and snapping his neck before he can sip that port. The great irony is that we told him the truth. And now we'll be punished for it.
"You're quite right. I shall follow your advice to the letter, Mr. Bumble," Mrs. Nightwing says in a rare capitulation. She's appeasing him, but he's far too pompous to realize that.
The men leave with Brigid. Mrs. Cross stands and adjusts her gloves, pulling them tighter on her hands, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Come along, Pippa. We must have you measured for your wedding dress. I think a duchesse satin will be nice." Pippa's quivering lip gives way to a quiet, desperate wail. "Please, Mother! Please don't make me marry him."
Mrs. Cross's mouth tightens into an ugly, flat line that lets the words escape in a hiss. "You are shaming this family."
"Pippa," Mrs. Nightwing says, stepping between them. "You shall be a beautiful bride. The talk of London. And after your honeymoon, when you are blissfully happy and this has all been forgotten, you will come to visit us."
Mrs. Cross's mouth has relaxed and there are actually tears pooling in her eyes. She cups Pippa's chin tenderly. "I know you despise me now. But I promise, someday you will thank me. There's an independence in marriage. Truly. If you're clever, you can have whatever you want. Now, let's see about a dress, shall we?"
Pippa follows her mother out, but as she does, she turns to us with such a look of despair that I feel as if I'm the one being forced to marry against my will.
It's just the three of us across from Mrs. Nightwing and her equally imposing desk. A drawer is opened. Mary Dowd's diary drops with a thud onto the desk's gleaming mahogany surface. Fear turns my insides. We are all marked for death now.