"What a splendid idea! I cannot wait to begin," Felicity says too brightly, hoping to cover any overheard unpleasantness with a
fresh coat of charm.
"Have you some experience with the bow and arrow, Miss Worthington?"
"A trifling amount," Felicity demurs. In truth, she is excellent.
"How marvelous. I'd wager you ladies have all manner of surprises ready for me." A curious half smile tugs at the corners of Miss McCleethy's taut mouth. "I look forward to our becoming friends. My previous pupils have found me to be rather jovial, despite my reputation as a hideous prig."
She's heard everything. We're done for. She shall hate us forever. No, she shall hate me forever. Jolly good start, Gemma. Bravo.
Miss McCleethy inspects my desk, lifting my few belongings there--the ivory elephant from India, my hairbrush--for closer examination. "Lillian--Mrs. Nightwing has told me of your unfortunate involvement with your former teacher Miss Moore. I am sorry to hear that she misused your trust so."
She gives us that penetrating stare again. "I am not Miss Moore. There will be no stories, no impropriety. I will not tolerate disruption in the ranks. We shall follow the letter of the law and be the better for it." She takes in our pale faces. "Oh, come now, you all look as if I've sentenced you to the guillotine!"
She attempts a laugh. It is not winning or warm."Now, I do believe we should allow Miss Doyle to rest. They're serving eggnog in the parlor. Come and tell me of yourselves and let's be good friends, hmmm?"
Like a great bird spreading her gray wings, she puts her hands on Felicity's and Ann's backs, ushering them toward the door. I'm left to suffer the curse alone.
"Good night, Gemma," Ann says.
"Yes, good night," Fee echoes.
"Good night, Miss Doyle. Sleep well," Miss McCleethy adds. "Tomorrow dawns ere we know it."
"I'm sorry I shall miss the archery," I say.
Miss McCleethy turns back. "Miss it? You'll do no such thing, Miss Doyle."
"But, I thought . . . given my condition . . ."
"There'll be no time for weakness on my watch, Miss Doyle. I shall see you tomorrow on the range, or you shall lose conduct marks." It feels less like a statement than a challenge.
"Yes, Miss McCieethy," I say. I have decided: I do not like Miss McCleethy.
I can hear happy laughter floating up from the parlor. No doubt Felicity and Ann have told Miss McCleethy their entire histories by now. They're probably all thick as thieves, sitting round the fire, sipping the froth from the eggnog, while I'll still be known as the ghastly, ill-mannered girl who called Miss McCleethy a prig.
My stomach aches anew. Blasted inconvenience. What do young men have to mark their entry into adulthood? Trousers, that's what. Fine, new trousers. I despise absolutely everyone just now. In time, the brandy makes me warm and drowsy. The room grows narrower with each heavy blink. I slip into sleep.
I am walking through the garden. The grass is sharp and prickly, scratches my feet. I'm near the river, but it is shrouded in mist.
"Closer/comes a strange voice.
I inch forward.
"Closer still."
I am at the river's edge, but I can see no one, only hear that eerie voice.
"So it's true. You have come. . . ."
"Who are you?" I say."I can't see your face."
"No," comes the voice."But I have seen yours. . . ."
CHAPTER NINE
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON AT TEN MINUTES TO three o'clock, we report to the great lawn. Six targets have been placed in a line. The brightly colored eyes in the center seem to mock me--Go on, hit us if you think you can. All during breakfast, I had to endure tales of the splendid night I missed with the absolute dearest Miss McCleethy, who wanted to know simply every little thing about the girls.
"She told me that the Pooles were descendants of King Arthur himself!" Elizabeth trills.
"Gemma, she tells the most wonderful stories," Ann says.
"Of Wales and the school there. They had dances practically every other week, with actual men present," Felicity says.
Martha speaks up. "I pray that she will prevail upon Mrs. Nightwing to let us do the same."
"Do you know what else she said?" Cecily asks.
"No. For I was not there," I answer. I'm feeling rather sorry for myself.
"Oh, Gemma, she did ask about you as well," Felicity says.
"She did?"
"Yes. She wanted to know all about you. She didn't even seem to mind that you'd called her a prig."
