A Great And Terrible Beauty (32 page)

I’m so proud of her. How could my mother not want us to use this magic? How could she think we weren’t ready for it?

When she finishes, Mr. Grunewald applauds. The man whose hands have never joined together to make a clapping sound is applauding Ann. Every girl joins in. They see her differently now, as somebody. And isn’t that what everyone wants? To be seen?

We bask in the glory of our day until evening comes. That’s when we can feel the last of the magic draining from our bodies, leaving us all a bit worn out. Mrs. Nightwing appraises Pippa during our free time.

“Miss Cross, you’re looking a bit tired this evening.”

“I am rather tired, Mrs. Nightwing.” Pippa blushes. Mrs. Nightwing has no idea what’s going on while she sleeps off her sherry.

“Best get to bed straightaway for your beauty sleep. You want to look your best when Mr. Bumble comes to call tomorrow.”

“Ugh, I’d forgotten he’s coming to call,” Pippa laments as we trudge up to bed.

Ann stretches her arms overhead in a catlike movement. “Why couldn’t you dispense with him? Just tell him you’re not interested.”

“That should go over very well with my mother,” Pippa scoffs.

“We could go back into the realms and make you hideously ugly,” Felicity says.

“I think not!”

We’ve reached the landing. The ceiling is smudged where the gaslights have deposited their grime. Funny how I’ve never noticed that before.

“All right, then. Say goodbye to Sir Perfection and become a barrister’s wife,” Felicity says, sneering.

Pippa’s lovely face is all worry, but the frown lines smooth. There’s a new determination to her brow. “I could simply tell him the truth. About my epilepsy.”

The walls are sooty too. So much I haven’t noticed.

“He’s to come for a visit tomorrow at eleven o’clock,” Pippa says.

Felicity nods. “Then let’s send him packing, shall we?”

With a yawn, I pass the all-too-familiar photographs, those half-erased women. But it’s a night for seeing things for the first time. In its severe black frame, one of the photographs has begun to buckle and ripple behind the glass. Probably the damp. It’s sliding toward ruin. But there’s something else. When I look closer I can see the smudgy outline on the wall where a fifth portrait once hung.

“That’s odd,” I say to Ann.

“What?” She yawns.

“Look here on the wall. See the mark. There
was
another photograph.”

“So there was. What of it? Perhaps they got tired of it.”

“Or perhaps it’s the missing class of 1871—Sarah and Mary,” I say.

Ann drifts off to our room, stretching and yawning. “Fine. You look for it, then.”

Yes,
I think.
Perhaps I will at that.
I don’t believe there was no photograph.

I think it was removed.

My sleep is fitful, filled with dreams. I see my mother’s face in the clouds, soft and fair. The clouds blow apart. The sky changes. It swells into a gray beast with holes for eyes. Everything goes dark. The little girl appears. The white of her pinafore, the exotic dress underneath it, stand out in the darkness. She turns around slowly and it starts to rain. Cards. It’s raining tarot cards. They catch fire as they fall.

No. I don’t want this dream.

It’s gone. I’m dreaming of Kartik again. A hungry dream. Our mouths are everywhere at once. The kissing is feverish and hard. His hands rip at the fabric of my nightgown, exposing the skin of my neck. His lips rake the curve there, taking small nips that almost hurt but mostly inflame. We’re rolling together, a wheel of hands and tongues, fingers and lips. A pressure builds inside me till I think I might come apart from it. And when I feel I can’t take another moment of it, I wake with a start. My nightgown is damp against my body. My breath is shallow. I place my hands rigidly beside me and do not move for a very long time, until at last I sleep and do not dream.

MR.
BUMBLE
COMES
TO
CALL
FOR
PIPPA
AT
ELEVEN
o’clock sharp. He’s well turned out in his handsome black coat, crisp shirt, and cravat, clean white spats protecting his shoes, and a brushed bowler in his hand. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that he was a doting father come to call on his young daughter, not his future wife.

Mrs. Nightwing has readied a small sitting room. She’s got her knitting so that she can sit in a corner as the silent chaperone. But we’ve thought of this, too. Felicity is having a sudden, all-consuming attack of stomach pains. She’s upstairs writhing in agony on her bed. Appendicitis is feared, and Mrs. Nightwing has no choice but to rush to her bedside at once. Which leaves me to act as chaperone in the interim. And so I find myself sitting quietly with a book as a rose-colored teacup trembles in Pippa’s hands.

Mr. Bumble watches her as if he’s appraising a piece of land he might buy. “I take it your ring is most satisfactory?” It’s not a question but a chance to be complimented on his taste.

“Oh yes,” Pippa says, distracted.

“And your family? They’re well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I cough, flash Pippa an urging look.
Go ahead—get on with it.
Upon hearing my cough, Mr. Bumble gives me a weak smile. I cough again and dive into my book.

“And I trust you are well?” he presses.

“Oh, yes,” Pippa says. “Well, no.”

Here we go.

His teacup stops mid-sip. “Oh? Nothing serious, I trust, my dear.”

Pippa brings her handkerchief to her mouth as if overcome. I could swear she’s worked up real tears. She’s very good and I must say that I am quite impressed.

“What is it, my dear? You must unburden yourself to me, your fiancé.”

“How can I when I’ve worked to deceive you!”

He draws back a bit, his voice suddenly cool. “Go on. How is it that you have deceived me?”

“It’s my affliction, you see. I have terrible seizures that could come on at any time.”

Mr. Bumble stiffens. “How—how long have you had this . . . affliction?” His well-bred lips can scarcely say it.

“All my life, I’m afraid. My poor mother and father have suffered so. But as you are such an honorable man, I find that my heart will not permit me to continue this deceit.”

Bravo
. The British stage is missing a fine actress in Pippa. She gives me a sideways glance. I smile in approval.

Mr. Bumble looks exactly like a man who has bought a fine piece of china, only to bring it home and discover the crack. “I am an honorable man. One who honors his commitments. I shall speak to your parents at once.”

Pippa grabs hold of his hand. “Oh, no. Please! They would never forgive me for telling you the truth. Please understand that I’m only looking out for your welfare.”

She’s giving him her large, pleading eyes. Her charms have the desired effect.

“You do understand that if I were to break this engagement, your reputation—your very virtue—would be called into question.”

Ah, yes. Wouldn’t want us if the old virtue were questionable. Heaven forbid.

“Yes,” Pippa says, eyes downcast. “That is why I think it would be best for
me
to refuse
you
.” She slides the ring from her finger and drops it into his palm. I wait to see if he will beg her to reconsider, if he will pledge his love in spite of her ailment. But he seems relieved, his tone imperious.

“What shall I say to your parents, then?”

“Say that I am too young and foolish to take as a wife and that you have been noble enough to allow me to end things and save my reputation. They will not press you.”

Pippa has never been lovelier than she is at this moment, with her head held high, her eyes shining in triumph. For once, she’s not flowing with the current but swimming against it.

“Very well, then.”

Mrs. Nightwing enters. “Oh, Mr. Bumble, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. One of our girls had a bit of the hysterics, but she seems to be fine now.”

“It’s no matter, Mrs. Nightwing. I was just leaving.”

“Already?” Mrs. Nightwing is quite flummoxed.

“Yes. I’m afraid I have a pressing matter that needs my attention. Ladies, good day to you.”

Confused but duty-bound, Mrs. Nightwing sees him out.

“How was I?” Pippa asks, sinking into the chair like lead.

“Brilliant. Miss Lily Trimble herself couldn’t have done better.”

Pippa surveys her bare finger. “Pity about the ring, though.”

“You could have waited till he asked to have it back!”

“He wouldn’t have, though.”

“Exactly my point!”

We’re laughing when Mrs. Nightwing enters, suspicious and predatory. “Pippa, is all as it was between you and Mr. Bumble?”

Pippa swallows hard. “Yes, Mrs. Nightwing.”

“Then where, pray tell, has your ring gone to?”

We hadn’t gotten this far in our planning—how to explain the loss of the ring to everyone. Now we’re stuck, I fear. But Pippa lifts her chin, the faintest hint of a smile beginning to show.

“Oh, that. He noticed a flaw.”

We sit, sheltered by the colorful scarves of Felicity’s private salon. Pippa and I are giving an account of the morning’s adventure with Mr. Bumble in rapid, sometimes overlapping detail.

“And then Pippa said . . .”

“. . . he found a flaw!”

We laugh till no sound comes out of our mouths, till our sides ache from it.

“Oh, that’s sublime,” Felicity says, wiping a tear from her eye. “Let us hope that is the last we shall see of the unfortunate Mr. Bumble.”

“Mrs. Bartleby Bumble.” Pip spits out the hard
B
s. “Can you imagine the horror of that?”

We laugh again and our laughter drifts down into sighs.

“Gemma, I want to go again,” Felicity says when it’s quiet.

Ann nods. “Me too.”

“It might be pressing our luck to do it again so soon,” I say.

“Do be a sport,” Ann pleads.

Felicity nods. “Yes, after all, nothing terrible happened. And think of how marvelous it’s been having all that power at our fingertips. Perhaps your mother was simply doing what mothers do best—worrying needlessly.”

“Perhaps,” I say. I must admit that I’m in love with the feeling the magic of the runes provides. One more visit to them can’t hurt. And then I promise I’ll stop and do as my mother says. “All right, then,” I say. “The caves it is.”

“Oh, honestly, I’m too tired to run off to the woods tonight,” Pippa groans.

“We could do it right now. Right here,” Felicity says.

Pippa’s eyes widen. “Are you mad? With Mrs. Nightwing and all the others around us?”

Felicity lifts a section of scarf with her finger. Crowded around the warm fire in clumps of threes and fours, the others are oblivious to us. “They’ll never know we were gone.”

We take that ride on the mountaintop, falling into ourselves without trying to stop. I have only one rough moment. I’m a mermaid, rising from the sparkling sea, but when I look down, the water is my mother’s face, tight and fearful. I’m suddenly afraid and wish I could stop. But in the next moment we’re swept away to Felicity’s tent. Our eyes are shining, our skin is rosy, our all-knowing smiles are back. Our bodies feel like luxurious sighs as we stand in the great hall, completely invisible.

Oh, God, the great and terrible beauty of it. Around us, the motion of the room has slowed to the lethargic tempo of a music box coming unwound. Their voices are deep and every word seems to take a lifetime to say. Mrs. Nightwing sits in her chair, reading
David Copperfield
aloud to the younger girls. The temptation is too much for me. I touch her arm, ever so slightly. She doesn’t stop reading, but slowly, slowly, her free hand lifts and comes to rest on the spot I’ve touched. She scratches at the place where my hand has been, an irritation like an insect bite she’s reacted to and forgotten again. It’s extraordinary.

Pippa lets out with a tiny whelp of joy. “They can’t see us! It’s as if we’re not really here! Oh, the things I’d like to do . . .”

“Why not do them?” Felicity says, arching a brow. With that, she reaches over and flips the book in Mrs. Nightwing’s hands so that it is upside down. It takes Mrs. Nightwing a moment to register what has happened, but when she does, she’s completely perplexed. The girls at her feet cover their mouths with their hands to suppress their giggles.

“Why is everything so slow?” I say, leaning my hand against a marble column. It wriggles beneath my hand and I pull it back fast.

The column is alive.

Hundreds of tiny marble fairies and satyrs move on the surface. An odious little gargoyle unfurls his wings, cocks his head to one side. “You see things the way they really are now,” he says. “The others think this is only dreaming. But they live in the dream, not us.” He spits and wipes his nose on his wing.

“Ugh,” Felicity says. “Disgusting. I’m tempted to squash him.”

With a screech, the gargoyle is off, flying higher on the column.

A glimmering fairy boy with yellow eyes smiles up at me. “Why don’t you free us, then?” His voice is a soft murmur.

“Free you?”

“We’re trapped here. Free us—just for a moment, long enough to stretch our wings.”

“All right,” I say. It seems a reasonable request, after all. “You are free.”

With screeches and yelps, the fairies and nymphs run down the column like water till they’re scurrying about the floor, scavenging bits of cheese, hunks of bread, the odd checker piece. It’s madness with all these creatures running and flying about.

“Gracious!” Pippa squeals.

A satyr the size of my thumb strides to a girl seated on the rug. He peeks under the hem of her dress, lets loose with a lascivious howl.

“So sweet and plump,” he growls.

“What filthy creatures,” Felicity says, laughing. “The ladies of Spence are in for a very naughty treat.”

“We can’t let them do this,” I say, half-laughing myself at their pranks. As the satyr climbs the girl’s calf, I pick him up with my fingers. “Oh, no you don’t,” I chide merrily.

He writhes and curses in protest. In an instant, his face transforms into a demonic mask and he sinks his sharp teeth into the tender skin of my wrist. With a cry of pain, I drop him. Is it my imagination, or is he suddenly larger? Felicity gasps beside me, and now I know it’s true—the beast is growing. He looms over us, his horned head touching the ceiling.