“The workmen do not need girls underfoot, as they are already behind schedule,” Mrs. Nightwing says. “Heads up, if you please! And—”
A loud bang sounds from above. The sudden noise makes us jump. Even Mrs. Nightwing lets out a “Merciful heavens!” Elizabeth, who is nothing more than a nervous condition disguised as a debutante, yelps and grabs hold of Cecily.
“Oh, Mrs. Nightwing!” Elizabeth cries.
We look to our headmistress hopefully.
Mrs. Nightwing exhales through disapproving lips. “Very well. We shall adjourn for the present. Let us take the air to restore the roses to our cheeks.”
“Might we bring our paper and sketch the progress on the East Wing?” I suggest. “It would make a fine record.”
Mrs. Nightwing favors me with a rare smile. “A most excellent suggestion, Miss Doyle. Very well, then. Gather your paper and pencils. I shall send Brigid with you. Don your coats. And walk, if you please.”
We abandon our backboards along with our decorum, racing for the stairs and the promise of freedom, however temporary it may be.
“Walk!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts. When we cannot seem to heed her advice, she bellows after us that we are savages not fit for marriage. She adds that we shall be the shame of the school and something else besides, but we are down the first flight of stairs, and her words cannot touch us.
CHAPTER TWO
THE LONG EXPANSE OF THE EAST WING STRETCHES OUT like the skeleton of a great wooden bird. The framing is in place, but the men spend most of their effort on restoring the dilapidated turret that joins the East Wing to the rest of the school. Since the fire that ravaged it twenty-five years ago, it has been nothing more than a beautiful ruin. But it shall be resurrected with stone and brick and mortar, and it promises to be a magnificent tower—tall and wide and imposing—once it is complete.
Since January, swarms of men have come from the neighboring villages to work in the cold and damp, every day but Sunday, to make our school whole again. We girls are not allowed near the East Wing during its reconstruction. The official reason given for this is that it is far too dangerous: we might be hit by an errant beam or impaled by a rusty nail. The various ways in which we could meet a terrible end have been detailed so thoroughly by Mrs. Nightwing that every hammer stroke makes the nervous among us as jumpy as a bagful of cats.
But the truth is that she doesn’t want us near the men. Her orders have been clear on this point: We are not to speak to the workers at all, and they are not to speak to us. A careful distance is maintained. The workers have pitched their tents a half mile from the school. They are under the watchful eye of Mr. Miller, their foreman, while we are never without a chaperone. Every care has been taken to keep us apart.
This is precisely what compels us to seek them out.
Our coats buttoned up against the still-formidable March chill, we walk quickly through the woods behind Spence with our housekeeper, Brigid, huffing and puffing to keep pace. It is not kind of us to walk faster than necessary, but it is the only way to have a few moments of privacy. When we race up the hill and secure a spot with a commanding view of the construction, Brigid lags far behind, affording us precious time.
Felicity thrusts out a hand. “The opera glasses, if you please, Martha.”
Martha pulls the binoculars from her coat pocket, and they are passed from girl to girl, to Felicity’s waiting hands. She puts them to her eyes.
“Very impressive, indeed,” Felicity purrs. Somehow, I do not think she means the East Wing. From where we sit, I can see six handsomely formed men in shirtsleeves hoisting a giant beam into place. I’m sure that had I the opera glasses, I could see the outline of their every muscle.
“Oh, do let me see, Fee,” Cecily moans. She reaches for the glasses, but Felicity pulls away.
“Wait your turn!”
Cecily pouts. “Brigid will be here any moment. I shan’t have a turn!”
Felicity drops the glasses quickly and reaches for her sketch pad. “Don’t look now, but I believe we’ve caught the eye of one of the men.”
Elizabeth jumps up, craning her neck this way and that. “Which one? Which one?” Felicity steps on Elizabeth’s foot, and she falls back.
“Ow! What did you do that for?”
“I said, don’t look now,” Felicity hisses through clenched teeth. “The key is to make it seem as if you do not notice their attention.”
“Ohhh,” Elizabeth says in understanding.
“That one on the end, in the shirt with the unfortunate red patching,” Felicity says, feigning interest in her sketch. Her coolness is a talent I wish I could manage. Instead, every day, I search the horizon for some sign of another young man, one I’ve not heard a word from since I left him in London three months ago.