My breath catches in my throat. A tingle starts in my fingertips. No. I won't be pulled under. Begone .
"We all have our challenges to bear, Miss Cross. I suppose it's all in how we shoulder them," Miss Moore says gently.
"Do you believe in curses, Miss Moore?" Felicity asks. It seems a dare.
I am empty. A void. I feel nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary Dowd or whoever you are, please, please go away.
Miss Moore searches the wall behind us as if the answer might be hiding there among her pastel watercolor still lifes. Red, ripe apples. Succulent grapes. Light-dappled oranges. All of them slowly rotting in a bowl. "I believe" She trails off. She seems lost. A breeze blows through the open windows, overturning a cup of brushes. The tingling in my fingers stops. I am safe for now. The breath I've been holding whooshes out in a rush.
Miss Moore rights the brushes."! believe that this week we shall take a walk through the woods and explore the old caves, where there are some truly astonishing primitive drawings. They can tell you far more about art than I can."
The class erupts in cheers. A chance to get out of the classroom is joyous news indeed, a sign that we have more privileges than the younger classes. But I've got a sense of unease, remembering my own trip to the caves and the diary of Mary Dowd still in the back of my wardobe.
"Well, it's far too beautiful a day to be stuck here in this classroom discussing doomed damsels in boats. You may start your free period early, and if anyone asks, you are merely observing the outside world for artistic inspiration. As for this," she says, scrutinizing her sketch, "it needs something."
With a flourish, Miss Moore draws a neat mustache on the Lady of Shallot. "God is in the details," she says.
Except for Cecily, who strikes me more and more as a secret goody-goody, we're giggling over her boldness, happy to be naughty with her. Miss Moore's face comes to life with a smile, and my unease slips away. When I rush full-speed into my room to retrieve Mary Dowd's diary, I run headlong into the back of Brigid, who is supervising the training of a new upstairs maid.
"I'm terribly sorry," I sputter with as much dignity as I can, considering that I'm flat on the floor with my skirts up to my knees. Running into the broad Brigid is a bit like flinging myself into the side of a ship. There's a ringing in my head and I fear I may go deaf from the crushing force of her.
"Sorry? Aye, and you should be," Brigid says, yanking me to my feet and straightening my hem to a modest level. The new maid turns away, but I can see her slender shoulders bobbing from her stifled laughter.
I start to thank Brigid for helping me to my feet, but she's only just begun her tirade.
"Carrying on in that way, galloping like a stallion about to meet the gelder's knife! Now, I ask you, is that any way for a proper lady to conduct 'erself? Hmm? Now wot would Missus Nightwing say if she was to see you makin' such a spectacle o' yerself?"
"I am sorry." I look down at my feet, hoping this passes for contrition.
Brigid makes a clucking sound. "I'm glad you're sorry, then. Wots got you in such a rush, then, hmmm? Mind you tell old Brigid the truth. After twenty-some-odd years 'ere I've got keen eyes, I do."
"I forgot my book," I say, stepping quickly to my wardrobe. I grab my cape and slip the diary inside.
"All that runnin' about, nearly killin' folk for a book," Brigid grumbles, as if it were she and not me lying dazed on the floor a moment ago.
"Sorry to have troubled you. I'll just be off," I say, attempting to sail past her.
" 'Old on a minute. Let's be sure you're presentable first." Brigid takes my chin and tilts my face toward the light to inspect it. Her cheeks go pale.
"Is something the matter?" I ask, wondering if I'm more seriously injured than I thought. Brigid's backside may be formidable, but I don't think I could've sustained a bleeding head wound from my battle with it.
Brigid drops my chin, backs away a bit, wiping her hands on her apron as if they're dirty. "Nuffin. Just your eyes is very green. That's all. Go on, now. You'd best catch up wit' the others." And with that, she turns her attention to Molly, who is apparently using the feather duster in the wrong way, and I am free to go about my business.
CHAPTER TEN
The girls are taking some fresh air when I come out to the great lawn. The sun has held all day, and now it's a bright blue afternoon. Low clouds drift lazily across the sky. Up on the hill, the chapel stands straight and tall. Out on the green, the younger girls have wrapped a blindfold around the eyes of a little brown-haired girl. They spin her in circles, then scatter like marbles. She puts her arms out unsteadily, wobbles across the lawn, calling out "Blind man." They yell back "buff," and she feels her way toward their high-pitched voices. Ann's sitting on a bench, reading her halfpenny paper. She spies me but I pretend I don't see her. It's not very kind of me, but I want to be alone.
