"Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but I believe Miss Doyle isn't feeling well." She gives Felicity a victorious look as Mademoiselle calls me to her desk for closer scrutiny.
"You do seem a bit peaked, Miss Doyle." She sniffs the air and speaks to me in a low, stern voice. "Miss Doyle, have you been drinking spirits?" Behind me, the scratch of pen on paper slows to a crawl. I don't know what's more palpablethe whiskey leaking from my pores or the smell of panic in the room.
"No, Mademoiselle. Too much marmalade at breakfast," I say with a half-smile. "It's my weakness."
She sniffs again, as if trying to convince herself that her nose has failed her. "Well, you may be seated."
Shakily, I take my chair, looking up only briefly to see Felicity grinning from ear to ear. Cecily looks as if she could happily choke me in my sleep. Discreetly, Felicity passes me a note. I thought you were done for .
I scribble back, I did, too. I feel like the devil himself How is your head ? Pippa sees the surreptitious handing off of folded paper. She cranes her neck to see what's being written and whether it could possibly be about her. Felicity shields the content of the note with the wall of her hand. Reluctantly, Pippa goes back to her lessons but not without first glaring at me with those violet eyes.
Swiftly, Felicity passes the note again just before Mademoiselle LeFarge looks up. "What's going on back there?"
"Nothing," Felicity and I say together, proving beyond a doubt that something is indeed going on.
"I shall not be repeating today's lesson, so I sincerely hope that you are not taking frivolously the matter of writing it all down."
" Oui, Mademoiselle ," Felicity says, all French charm and smiles.
When Mademoiselle's head goes down again, I open the note Felicity has passed me. We'll meet again tonight after midnight. Loyalty to the Order !
Inwardly, I groan at the thought of another sleepless night. My bed, with its warm woolen blanket, is more inviting than tea with a duke. But I already know I'll be weaving my way through the woods tonight, eager to hear more of the diary's secrets.
Pippa is passing her own note to Felicity when I glance over. It's hard to admit it to myself, but I desperately want to know what's in that note. Something hard and mean flits across the surface of Felicity's face but it's replaced just as quickly with a closemouthed smile. Surprisingly, she doesn't respond to Pippa but passes the note to me, much to Pippa's horror. This time, Mademoiselle LeFarge is up and moving down the aisle between our desks, so there's nothing to do but slip the note between the pages of my book and wait until later to read it. When the hour is over, Mademoiselle LeFarge calls me to her desk once again. Felicity gives me a warning look on the way out. I shoot her my own look, which says, What do you expect me to do ? Knowing that I still have her note burning a hole in my French book, Pippa wears an expression somewhere between fear and nausea. She starts to say something to me, but Ann closes the door, leaving me alone with Mademoiselle LeFarge and my own fast-beating heart, "Miss Doyle," she says, peering up at me warily, "are you quite sure the odor on your breath is from marmalade and not some other substance?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle," I say, trying to expel as little breath as possible.
She suspects I'm lying but she can't prove it. Disappointment weighs her down to a sigh. I seem to have that effect on people. "Too much marmalade is bad for the figure, you know."
"Yes, Mademoiselle. I'll remember that." That Mademoiselle LeFarge, she of the wide girth, thinks she is in any position to comment on figures is astounding, but I'm only hoping to escape with my head intact.
"Yes, well, see that you do. Men don't care for plump women," she says. Her candor has us both looking away. "Well, some men don't." Instinctively, she brushes a finger across the tintype of the young man in uniform.
"Is he a relation?" I ask, trying to be courteous. It's no longer the whiskey that's turning my stomach but my own guilt. Honestly, I like Mademoiselle LeFarge, and I hate deceiving her.
"My fianc?. Reginald." She says his name with great pride, but also a hint of longing that makes me blush.
"He looks very" I realize I have no idea what to say about this man. I've never met him. He's only a bad photograph. But I've already started. "Trustworthy," I pronounce with difficulty.
This seems to please Mademoiselle LeFarge. "He does have a kind face, doesn't he?"
"Most definitely," I say.
