"I am not at all certain about this," she says.
"It is nice to have choices," I say, the box in my hand. I'm trying not to cry.
"In my day, there were not such choices. Such freedom. There was no one to say, 'Here is the world before you. You have only to reach for it. ""
At that moment, Felicity's hand springs open, releasing the arrow. It cleaves the air in two and finds its target directly in the center, a solid bull's-eye. Felicity cannot contain herself. She shrieks with the joy of victory in a most natural and unladylike fashion, and the girls follow suit.
Mrs. Nightwing shakes her head and raises her eyes briefly to heaven."No doubt the fall of civilization is at hand."
A faint smile escapes, and just as quickly, she stifles it. For the first time, I notice the lax skin at Mrs. Nightwing's jaw, the fine down that lies upon her cheek like the imprint of a child's hand, and I wonder what it must be like watching yourself soften under the
years, unable to stop it. What it's like measuring your days in perfecting girls' curtsies and drinking nightly glasses of sherry, trying to keep up with the world as it pulls you spinning into the future, knowing you are always one step behind.
Mrs. Nightwing glances at the box in my hands. She clears her throat."I understand you've decided against Mr. Middleton." I see other rumors have spread as well.
"Yes," I say, fighting back the tears."Everyone thinks me mad. Perhaps I am mad." I try to laugh, but it comes out a small sob. "Perhaps there is something the matter with me that I cannot be happy with him."
I wait for Mrs. Nightwing to confirm that this is the case, that everyone knows it, that I should dry my eyes and stop acting the fool. Instead, her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. "It is best to be sure, through and through," she says, keeping her eyes steadfastly on the girls running and playing on the lawn."Else you could find yourself one day coming home to an empty house, save for a note: I've gone out. You could wait all night for him to return. Nights turn into weeks, to years. It's horrible, the waiting. You can scarcely bear it. And perhaps years later on holiday in Brighton, you see him, walking along the boardwalk as if out of some dream. No longer lost. Your heartbeat quickens. You must call out to him. Someone else calls first. A pretty young woman with a child. He stops and bends to lift the child into his arms. His child. He gives a furtive kiss to his young wife. He hands her a box of candy, which you know to be Chollier's chocolates. He and his family stroll on. Something in you falls away. You will never be as you were. What is left to you is the chance to become something new and unsure. But at least the waiting is over."
I'm scarcely breathing. "Yes. Thank you," I say when I manage to find my voice again.
Mrs. Nightwing gives my shoulder one small pat before taking her hand away to straighten her skirt, smoothing the waistband of its creases. One of the girls shouts. She's found an orphaned baby bird that has somehow survived the winter. It cries in her hands as she runs to Mrs. Nightwing with it.
"Oh, what madness is this?" our headmistress mutters, springing into action.
"Mrs. Nightwing, please . . . may we keep it?" The young girl's face is open and earnest. "Please, please!" the girls chirp like the eager little chicks they are.
"Oh, very well." The girls erupt in cheers. Mrs. Nightwing shouts to be heard. "But I shall not be responsible for it. It is your charge. You keep it. I've no doubt I'll come to regret this decision," she says with a sniff. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I should like to finish my book, alone, without the presence of a single ringleted girl to disrupt me. If you should come for me at dinner and find me in my chair, gone to the angels at last, you shall know that I died alone, which is to say in a state of utter bliss."
Mrs. Nightwing marches down the hill toward the school. At least four girls stop her along the way to ask about this or that. They besiege her. At last, she gives up and, with a gaggle of girls in tow, heads into Spence. She will not read her book until this evening, and somehow I know this is what she wants--to be needed. It is her charge.
It is her place. She has found it. Or it has found her.
After dinner, when we have gathered round the fire in the great hall, Mademoiselle LeFarge returns from her day in London with Inspector Kent. She's beaming. I've never seen her so happy.
"Bonjour, mes filies!" she says, sweeping into the room in her handsome new skirt and blouse."I've news."
The girls make a mad dash for her, barely allowing her time to sit by the fire and remove her gloves. When she does, we immediately note the presence of a small diamond on the third finger of her left hand. Mademoiselle LeFarge has news indeed.