"I only meant that the Gypsies are nothing but fakes and criminals. Whilst Spiritualism is a real science practiced by the most well-meaning of souls."
"It's a passing fancy on its way out. Nothing more," Felicity says, yawning.
"I'm sure it will prove a most enjoyable evening," Mrs. Nightwing says, restoring peace. "While I'm afraid I'm not enamored of such poppycock, Lady Wellstone is indeed a woman of fine character and one of Spence's greatest benefactresses, and I have no doubt that your outing with Mademoiselle LeFarge will prove beneficial in some way."
We sip our tea in silence for a moment. Most of the younger girls have drifted out in whispering, giggling clumps of threes and fours. I can hear the rising buzz of their voices from down the hall in the great room. Bored, Cecily and her entourage excuse themselves, making it impossible for the rest of us to leave Mrs. Nightwing without seeming rude. It's just the four of us now in the empty dining room, with Brigid bustling about here and there.
"Mrs. Nightwing." I stop, summoning up my courage. "It's a curious thing in the hall, there's no class photograph from 1871."
"No, there is not," she answers in her usual clipped style.
"I was wondering why not." I try to sound innocent, but my heart is in my throat.
Mrs. Nightwing doesn't look at me. "That was the year of the great fire in the East Wing. There was no photograph. Out of respect for the dead."
"For the dead?" I repeat.
"The two girls we lost in the fire." She looks at me as if I'm a simpleton.
We're all on pins and needles. A few floors above us, where heavy doors hide scorched, rotting floorboards, two girls died. A new chill passes through me.
"The two girls who died what were their names?"
Mrs. Nightwing is exasperated. She stirs her tea hard. "Must we discuss so unpleasant a topic after such a long and trying day?"
"I'm sorry," I say, unable to let the matter drop. "I simply wondered about their names."
Mrs. Nightwing sighs. "Sarah and Mary," she says at last.
Felicity chokes on her last bite of custard. "I beg your pardon?"
Already, this news is sinking in. My body is heavy with it. With an air of extreme impatience, Mrs. Nightwing repeats the names slowly, a bell tolling a warning. "Sarah Rees-Toome and Mary Dowd."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The only two people who might be able to share my secret and explain it to me have been dead and gone for twenty years, everything they know returned to the earth.
"How dreadful," Felicity says, shooting me a quick glance.
"Yes, quite," Mrs. Nightwing snaps. "I believe we should move on to a more pleasant topic of conversation. I've just had the most delightful letter from one of our former girls, now Lady Buxton. She has returned from a trip to the East, where she was privileged to see the famed whirling dervishes. Her letter is a perfect demonstration of a clever noteone that entertains and does not tax the recipient with problems of a personal nature. Should anyone wish to see it, I shall keep it at the ready."
She sips her tea. We're losing ground fast. I look at Felicity, who looks at Ann, who looks back at me. Finally, Felicity sighs heavily, working up real tears.
"Miss Worthington, what on earth is the matter?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Nightwing, but I can't help thinking about those girls and the fire and how simply awful it must have been for you."
I am so astonished that I have to bury my fingernails in my palm to keep from laughing out loud. But Mrs. Nightwing takes the bait completely.
"Yes, it was quite terrible," she says, sounding miles away. "I was a teacher here then. Mrs. Spence was headmistress, God rest her soul. She died in that fire, trying to rescue the girls. All for naught, all for naught."
She seems tortured by it, and I'm feeling guilty for dragging her into it again. Brigid is standing next to me, clearing plates and listening.
Felicity rests her chin in her hands. "What were they like, Sarah and Mary?"
Mrs. Nightwing considers for a moment. "Like all girls, I suppose. Mary was a reader. A quiet girl. She wanted to travel, to see Spain and Morocco, India. She was a particular favorite of Mrs. Spence."
"And Sarah?" I ask.
Brigid's hand hovers over the plates as if she's forgotten her purpose for a moment. Quietly, she gathers the silver.
"Sarah was a bit of a free spirit. In hindsight, Mrs. Spence might have done more to rein her in. They were fanciful girls, taken with stories of fairies and magic and whatnot."
