Elizabeth holds her cloak fast to her. “Why have we come to such a dreadful place, Miss McCleethy?”
“To remind us that life is short, Miss Poole,” Miss McCleethy says, catching my eye ever so briefly. “It is also a lovely spot for a picnic. Who would care for cake and lemonade?”
With a flourish she opens the basket and the smell of Brigid’s heavenly apple cake drifts from its depths. Thick slices of it are offered all around. Lemonade is poured. We sketch and eat in lazy fashion. Miss McCleethy sips her lemonade. She gazes out at the expanse of rolling green hills, the clusters of trees like tufts of unruly hair on a balding man’s head. “There is something quite special about this land.”
“It’s lovely,” Ann agrees.
“Bit muddy,” Cecily grumbles through a mouthful of cake. “Not as pretty as Brighton.” I imagine her polishing that whining trophy.
Ann pipes up. “Brigid said that Jesus himself may have walked these hills with his cousin, Joseph of Arimathea, and that the Gnostics were also drawn to this place.”
“What are Gnostics?” Elizabeth titters.
“A mystical sect of early Christians, more pagan than Christian, really,” Miss McCleethy answers. “I’ve heard that story, too, Miss Bradshaw. Many Britons believe that Camelot itself may have been erected in this region, and that Merlin chose the spot because the land held such enchantment within it.”
“How could the land be enchanted?” Felicity asks. Her mouth is far too full, and McCleethy gives her a hard look.
“Miss Worthington, we are not savages, if you please,” she chides, handing Felicity a napkin. “Many of the ancients did believe that there were sites that held extraordinary power. That is why they worshipped there.”
“Does that mean that if I stand in the center of Stonehenge, I could become as powerful as King Arthur?” Cecily asks with a laugh.
“No, I rather think it was not meant to be given to everyone indiscriminately but governed carefully by those who know best,” she says, pointedly. “For when we read about magic in fairy stories or tales of myth, we read time and again that it is subject to strict laws, else chaos follows. Look out there. What do you see?” Miss McCleethy waves her hand toward the green horizon.
“Hills,” Ann offers. “Roads.”
“Flowers and shrubs,” Cecily adds. She looks to Miss McCleethy as if there might be a prize for the right answer.
“What we can see is proof. Proof that man can conquer nature, that chaos can be turned back. You see evidence of the importance of order, of law. For conquer chaos we must. And if we see it in ourselves, we must root it out and replace it with steadfast discipline.”
Can we really conquer chaos so easily? If that were so, I should be able to prune the pandemonium of my own soul into something neat and tidy rather than this maze of wants and needs and misgivings that has me forever feeling as if I cannot fit into the landscape of things.
“But aren’t many gardens beautiful because they are imperfect?” I say, glancing at McCleethy. “Aren’t the strange, new flowers that arise by mistake or misadventure as pleasing as the well-tended and planned?”
Elizabeth purses her lips. “Are we speaking of art?”
Miss McCleethy smiles broadly. “Ah, a perfect segue to the topic at hand. Look at the art of the masters and you will see that their work has been created according to strict rules: Here we have line and light and a color scheme.” She holds my gaze as if she has me in checkmate. “Art cannot be created without order.”
“What of the Impressionists in Paris, then? It is not ordered so much as felt with the brush, it seems,” Felicity says, eating cake with her fingers.
“There are always rebels and radicals, I suppose,” McCleethy allows. “Those who live on the fringes of society. But what do they contribute to the society itself? They reap its rewards without experiencing its costs. No. I submit that the loyal, hardworking citizens who push aside their own selfish desires for the good of the whole are the backbone of the world. What if we all decided to run off and live freely without thought or care for society’s rules? Our civilization would crumble. There is a joy in duty and a security in knowing one’s place. This is the English way. It is the only way.”
“Quite so, Miss McCleethy,” Cecily says. But really, what would I expect from her?
I know that is to be the end of the discussion, but I can’t let it go. “But without the rebels and radicals, there would be no change, no one to push back. There would be no progress.”
