by Libba Bray
I take it to the sofa and tear away the paper. It’s a copy of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese.
“Oh,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as disappointed as I feel. “A book.”
“It was your mother’s. They were her favorites. She used to read them to me in the evenings.” He breaks off, unable to continue.
“Father?”
He pulls me to him, holding me close. “I’m glad you’re home, Gemma.”
I feel I should say something, but I don’t know what. “Thank you for the book, Father.”
He lets go. “Yes. Enjoy. And would you take the keys back, please?”
Mrs. Jones enters. "Excuse me, sir. This just arrived for Miss Gemma by messenger.”
“Yes, yes,” Father says a bit irritably.
Mrs. Jones hands the package and note to me. “Thank you,” I say. The note is a formal invitation to dinner addressed to my grandmother. Viscount and Lady Denby request the pleasure of the company of Mr. John Doyle, Mrs. William Doyle, Mr. Thomas Doyle, and Miss Gemma Doyle to dinner on Tuesday, the 17th, at 8 o’clock. The favor of a reply is requested. I’ve no doubt Grandmama will give an enthusiastic yes.
Now to the package. Ripping open the paper, I find Simon Middleton’s beautiful velvet box with a note that reads A place to keep all your secrets.
Curiously, Father doesn’t even ask me about the gift.
“Gemma, pet,” he says, sounding distracted. "Take the keys back now. There’s my good girl, hmmm?”
“Yes, Father,”I say, kissing his forehead. I step merrily up to Grandmama’s room and replace the keys, then run to my own room, where I lie upon the bed, gazing at my beautiful gift. I stare at the note again and again, examining his handwriting, admiring the strong, fine way he makes his letters. Simon Middleton. Yesterday, I did not even know he existed. Now, he is all I can think of. Strange how life can turn like that.
I must have drifted off, for I’m awakened by a loud knock at my door. The clock shows half-past twelve. Tom bursts into my room. He’s very cross.
“Did you give him this?”
“Wha—what?” I ask, wiping sleep from my eyes.
“Did you give Father this?” He’s clutching a brown bottle in his hand. Laudanum.
“No, of course not!” I say, coming to my senses.
“How, pray, did he get it, then?”
He’s no right to barge into my room and badger me so. “I don’t know, but I didn’t give it to him,” I answer in a hard tone.
“I’d locked it in the curio cabinet. Only Grandmama and I had the keys.”
I sink onto the bed, sick and numb. "Oh, no. He asked me to open it so that he could give me an early Christmas gift.”
“I told you he’s clever, didn’t I?”
“Yes, so you did,” I say. I simply didn’t believe it. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
My brother rakes his fingers through his hair. "He was doing so well.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, though it seems little comfort. “Shall I throw it in the rubbish?”
“No,”he says. "We can’t throw it out completely. Not just yet.” He hands me the bottle. "Take this and hide it—somewhere he can’t find it.”
“Yes, of course.” The bottle feels hot in my hand. Such a small thing. So powerful.
Once Tom is gone, I open Simon’s gift and pull up the false bottom.
A place to keep all your secrets . . .
I put the bottle inside and place the clever floor back into the grooves and it’s as if the laudanum doesn’t exist at all.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GRANDMAMA WILL NOT RELENT AND ALLOW ME TO visit Miss Moore, but she does agree to let me shop for Christmas gifts along with Felicity and Ann, provided that Felicity’s maid accompany us as chaperone. When Felicity’s carriage pulls round to our house, I am so overjoyed to see my friends—and so desperate to escape my overbearing grandmother—that I nearly run to greet them.
Ann is very smartly dressed in some of Felicity’s clothes, a new green felt hat on her head. She is beginning to look the part of the debutante. In fact, she’s beginning to look like Felicity’s double. “Oh, Gemma, it’s so wonderful! No one knows that I’m not one of them! I’ve not washed a single dish or been laughed at. It’s as if I truly am a czarina’s descendant.”
“That’s won—”
Ann prattles on. “We’re to attend the opera. And I shall be on the receiving line at their Christmas ball as if I were one of the family!” Ann grins at Felicity, who slips her arm through Ann’s. "And later today—”
“Ann,” Felicity warns quietly.
Ann gives an embarrassed smile. "Oh, sorry, Fee.”
“What is it?” I ask, annoyed at their coziness.
“Nothing,” Ann mumbles. "I shouldn’t say.”
“It’s impolite to keep secrets,” I answer hotly.
“Today we are to accompany Mother to her club for tea.
That’s all,” Felicity says. There is no invitation for me. Suddenly, I’m no longer happy to see them. I wish they were far away. “Oh, Gemma, don’t look so dour. I’d invite you too, but it’s so very hard to bring more than one guest.”
I don’t think this is the case at all. “It’s no trouble,” I say. “I’ve a previous engagement myself.”
“Really?” Ann asks.
“Yes, I’m to see Miss Moore,” I lie. Their mouths hang open as I tell them of my encounter. I’m enjoying their astonishment very much. “I thought I would ask her about the Order. So you see I couldn’t possibly . . .”
“You can’t go without us,” Felicity protests.
“But you’re going to your mother’s club without me,” I say. Felicity has nothing to say to this. “Are we to go to Regent Street to the shops, then?”
“No,” Felicity answers. “We’re going with you to see Miss Moore.”
Ann pouts. “I thought we were to find me a new pair of gloves. It is only nine days until Christmas, after all. Besides, Miss Moore must surely hate us for what happened.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” I say. "She has forgiven us all. And she was distressed to hear about Pip.”
“That settles it,” Felicity says, slipping her other arm through mine. "We shall pay a call on Miss Moore. And afterward, Gemma shall come with us for tea.”
Ann balks. “But what about Franny? You know she tattles over the slightest infractions.”
“Franny shall be no bother at all,” Felicity says.
The sun is high, the day bright and crisp when we arrive at Miss Moore’s modest lodging house on Baker Street. Franny, Mrs. Worthington’s lady’s maid, is all ears and eyes, ready to take note of any indiscretion on our parts so that she may dutifully report to Felicity’s mother and Grandmama. Franny isn’t much older than we are. It can’t be much fun to trail us, reminded daily of another sort of life, one denied her. If she’s bitter about her lot, she wouldn’t dare speak it aloud. But it is there, nonetheless, present in the tight line of her mouth, in the way she forces herself to look through us while seeing everything.
“I was to accompany you to the shops, miss,” she says.
“There’s been a change of plans, Franny,” Felicity says coolly. “Mother asked me to look in on a friend who has taken ill. It is important to perform acts of charity, don’t you think?”
“She didn’t mention it to me, miss.”
“You know how things slip Mother’s mind. She is so very busy.”
The coachman helps us from the carriage. Franny makes to follow. Felicity stops her with a cold smile. “You may wait in the carriage, Franny.”
Franny’s carefully trained, placid face flares to unrehearsed life for a brief moment—all narrowed eyes and half-open mouth—before settling into a hateful resignation.
“Mrs. Worthington asked me to accompany you everywhere, miss.”
“And so you have. But the appointment is for three, not three and a servant.”
I hate Felicity when sh
e is like this. "It’s rather cold out,”I say, hoping she will take the hint.
“I’m sure Franny remembers her place.” Felicity gives a smile that might pass for genteel if I didn’t feel the cruelty behind it.
“Yes, miss.” Franny dips her head under the carriage’s top and tucks her body into the far corner of the seat to wait the hour.
“Now we can have a pleasant afternoon free of my mother’s spy,” Felicity says. So it isn’t about being cruel to Franny; it is Felicity getting revenge on her mother for some reason that escapes me.
Ann stands uncertainly, her eyes on the carriage.
“Are you coming?” Felicity asks.
Ann marches back to the carriage, removes her coat, and hands it to the grateful Franny. Without a word, she sails past me and the astonished Felicity and rings the bell to announce our visit.
“There’s gratitude for you,” Felicity grumbles to me as we catch up. "I bring her home and turn her into Russian royalty and now she’s living the part.”
The door opens. A scowling, squinting old woman stands before us, hand on her ample hip. “Oi! Oo’s there? Whatcha wont, then? ’Aven’t got all day to stand ’ere lookin’ at the likes of you. Got me ’ouse to run.”
“How do you do?” I begin, but I am cut off by the impatient woman. She squints hard in my direction. I wonder if she can see at all.
“If yer collectin’ fer the poor, you can clear off.”
Felicity extends her hand. “I am Felicity Worthington. We are paying a call on Miss Moore. We are her pupils.”
“Pupils, you say? Di’n’t tell me nuffin’ ’bout takin’ in pupils,” she harrumphs.
“Did I not mention it, Mrs. Porter? I was certain I did yesterday.” It’s our Miss Moore coming down the stairs to the rescue.
“Very odd, Miss Moore. If it’s to be regular like, I’ll be raisin’ me fee for the rooms. Nice rooms, they is. Plen’y o’ people lookin’ to let them.”
“Yes, of course,” Miss Moore says.
Mrs. Porter turns to us, chest puffed up. “I likes to be informed as to wha’ goes on in me’ouse. A woman alone can’t be too careful these days. I run a respec’able ’ouse. You ask anybody and they’ll tell you, Missus Por’er’s a respec’able toiype.”
I fear we shall stand out here all day in the cold. But Miss Moore gives us a wink as she steers us in. “Quite right, Mrs. Porter. I shall keep you apprised in the future. How very nice to see you all again. What a lovely surprise.”
“How do you do, Miss Moore?” Felicity gives our former teacher a quick handshake, as does Ann. They both have the decency to look shamed by how shabbily they once treated her. For her part, Miss Moore does not lose her smile.
“Mrs. Porter, allow me to present Miss Ann Bradshaw, Miss Gemma Doyle, and Miss Felicity Worthington. Miss Worthington, of course, is the daughter of our own Sir George Phineas Worthington, the admiral.”
Mrs. Porter gasps and straightens. “You don’t mean it? ’Ow do you like that? The admiral’s daugh’er in me own ’ouse?” Mistaking me for Felicity, the nearsighted Mrs. Porter clasps my hands in hers, shaking the life out of them. "Oh, miss, wha’ an honor this is, I can tell you. The late Mr. Por’er were a seagoing man ’imself. That’s ’im on the wall.”
She points to a very bad painting of a terrier dressed in an Elizabethan ruff. The dog’s pained expression seems to implore me to look away and allow him to bear his humiliation alone.
“Oh, this calls for port! Don’t you agree, Miss Moore?” Mrs. Porter exclaims.
“Perhaps another time, Mrs. Porter. I must get to our lesson or the admiral shall be very put out with me indeed,” Miss Moore says, spinning a smooth lie.
“Mum’s the word, then.” Mrs. Porter smiles conspiratorially, revealing large teeth as chipped and yellow as old piano keys. “Missus Por’er can keep a secret. Don’t you douw’ it.”
“I never would, Mrs. Porter. Thank you for your trouble.”
Miss Moore ushers us up the stairs to the third floor and into her modest rooms. The velvet settee, flowery rugs, and heavy draperies must reflect Mrs. Porter’s taste in furnishings. But the overstuffed bookshelves and the desk awash in drawings are pure Miss Moore. In one corner stands an old globe nestled in its wooden cradle. Paintings, mostly landscapes, crowd one wall. On another is a collection of exotic masks, gruesome in their fierce beauty.
“Oh, my,” Ann says, peering at them.
“Those are from the East,” Miss Moore says. “Do you like my masks, Miss Bradshaw?”
Ann shivers. "They look as if they could eat us up.”
Miss Moore leans close. “Not today, I think. They’ve been fed.” It takes Ann a moment to realize that Miss Moore is making a joke. There is an awkward silence, and I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake in bringing my friends here. I should have come alone.
“This looks like Aberdeen,” Felicity says at last, taking in a painting of hills and purplish pink heather.
“Yes, it is. You’ve been to Scotland, Miss Worthington?” Miss Moore asks.
“On holiday once. Just before my mother went to France.”
“Lovely country,” Miss Moore says.
“Is your family in Scotland?” Felicity asks coyly.
“No. I’m afraid both my parents are long dead. I have no family left to me now, save for some distant cousins in Scotland who are so dull as to make one wish to be an orphan.”
We laugh at this. It is so grand not to have to play at piety all the time.
“Have you traveled very much, Miss Moore?” Ann asks.
“Mmmm,” Miss Moore says, nodding. “And these are my mementos of those lovely visits.” She gestures to her many drawings and paintings that line the walls—a desolate beach, an angry sea, a pastoral English field. "Travel opens your mind as few other things do. It is its own form of hypnotism, and I am forever under its spell.”
I recognize one of the places in the paintings. "Are these the caves behind Spence?”
“Indeed,” Miss Moore says. The awkwardness is back, for we all know that our visit to those caves was one of the reasons for Miss Moore’s dismissal.
Miss Moore brings tea, crumpets, bread, and a slab of butter. "Be it ever so humble, here is tea,” she says, placing the tray on a small table. The clock ticks off nervous seconds as we peck at our food. Felicity clears her throat repeatedly. She’s waiting for me to ask about the Order, as I’d promised. Now I’m not sure it’s a good idea.
“Is the room too warm, Miss Worthington?” Miss Moore asks when Felicity clears her throat a fourth time. Felicity shakes her head. She brings her boot down on mine with a slight pressure.
“Ouch!”
“Miss Doyle? Are you all right?” Miss Moore asks.
“Yes, fine, thank you,” I say, moving my feet away.
“Tell me, ladies, how are things at Spence?” Miss Moore asks, saving me.
“We’ve a new teacher,” Ann blurts out.
“Oh?” Miss Moore asks, buttering a thick slice of crusty bread. Her face is a mask. Does it hurt to hear she’s been replaced?
“Yes,” Ann continues. “A Miss McCleethy. She comes to us from Saint Victoria’s School for Girls in Wales.”
Miss Moore’s butter knife slips, leaving a thick cap of butter on her thumb. “That shan’t make me sweet enough to eat, I should think.” She smiles and we all laugh at her wit. “Saint Victoria’s. I can’t say as I’ve heard of it. And is your Miss McCleethy a very fine teacher?”
“She’s teaching us archery,” Felicity says.
Miss Moore raises an eyebrow. "How very unusual.”
“Felicity is quite good,” Ann says.
“I’m sure she is,” Miss Moore says. "Miss Doyle, what do you think of this Miss McCleethy?”
“I can’t say as yet.” Felicity and I exchange glances that do not go unnoticed by Miss Moore.
“Do I sense dissatisfaction?”
“Gemma is convinced she’s a witch,” Felicity confesses.
“Really? Did you spy her broomstick, Miss Doyle?”
“I never said she was a witch,” I protest.
Ann jumps in, nearly breathless. She loves demonic intrigue. “Gemma told us she arrived at Spence in the dead of night—just as a terrible storm raged!”
Miss Moore’s eyes go wide. "Heavens! Extreme rain? In December? In England? A sign of witchery, to be sure.” They all share a laugh at my expense. "Do go on. I want to hear the part where Miss McCleethy feeds children into her oven.”
There’s a fresh wave of giggles from Felicity and Ann.
“She and Mrs. Nightwing went into the East Wing,”I say. "I overheard them talking about securing something in London. They were making plans together.”
Felicity narrows her eyes. "You didn’t tell us this!”
“It happened the night before last. I was the only one there. They caught me outside the doors and were angry with me. And Miss McCleethy brought me warm milk with peppermint.”
“Peppermint?” Miss Moore says, furrowing her brow.
“She said it would help me sleep.”
“It is an herb known to soothe. Curious that she should know it.”
“She has a strange ring, with two snakes intertwined.”
“Snakes, you say? Odd.”
“She asked about my amulet, too!” I say. “And about my mother.”
“And what did you tell her?” Miss Moore asks.
“Nothing,” I reply.
Miss Moore sips her tea. "I see.”
“She is an old friend of Mrs. Nightwing’s, though she looks to be several years younger,” Felicity muses.
Ann shudders. "Perhaps she’s not. Perhaps she’s made a pact with the devil!”
“Not a very good one if she’s still teaching at a finishing school in England,” Miss Moore notes wryly.
“Or perhaps she’s Circe,” I say at last.
Miss Moore’s teacup halts halfway to her lips. "You’ve lost me.”
“Circe. Sarah Rees-Toome? She was the one from Spence who caused the fire and destroyed the Order, or at least that’s what we read in the diary of Mary Dowd. Do you remember?” Ann says breathlessly.