Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2) Page 24

"Oh Sa--Claire, you have undone me," Mrs. Nightwing says, hand patting her chest as if to stop the laugh there.

"As I recall, it was you who started the trouble," Miss McCleethy says, smiling. "You were quite bold then, I remind you."

Girls rush in like water through a split log, their busy questions pushed along by the current of their insatiable curiosity. "What is it?" they demand."Do tell us!" "Did you not know your headmistress was quite the mischief maker?" Miss McCleethy says, dangling the carrot. "And a romantic, as well."

"Now, now," Mrs. Nightwing chides, sipping another glass of sherry.

"Do tell us," Elizabeth implores. The others join in a chorus of "Yes, please!"

When Mrs. Nightwing offers no protest, Miss McCleethy continues her tale."We were at a Christmas dance. Such glorious favors they had. Do you remember, Lillian?"

Mrs. Nightwing nods, eyes closed. "Yes. Cards with thick red tassels. Lovely, lovely."

"There were many gentlemen in attendance, but of course, we all had our hearts set on a particular man with dark hair and the most elegant figure. He was so very handsome."

Mrs. Nightwing says nothing, only has more sherry.

" 'That is the man I shall marry,' your headmistress announced to all of us, bold as you please. We laughed, but in a moment, she took my arm and paraded past--"

"I did not parade. ..."

". . . and dropped her dance card very artfully at his feet, pretending not to notice. Of course, he came after her. And they danced three in a row till the chaperones intervened."

We are delighted by this.

"What happened then?" Felicity asks.

"She married him," Miss McCleethy answers. "That very Christmas."

Mr. Nightwing? I forget that Mrs. Nightwing was once married, was once a girl herself. I try to picture her young and laughing, talking with her friends. Nothing comes. I can only see her as she is now, the pouf of graying hair, the spectacles, the severe manner.

"That is terribly romantic," Cecily says, swooning. "Yes, terribly," we all agree.

"It was quite bold of you, Lillian," Miss McCleethy says.

A cloud passes over Mrs. Nightwing's face."It was folly."

"When did Mr. Nightwing die?" I whisper to Felicity.

"I don't know. I'll pay you a pound to ask about him," she whispers back.

"Not on your life."

"Don't you want to know?"

"Not that badly."

"A pound, you say?" It's Ann.

Felicity nods.

Ann clears her throat."Mrs. Nightwing, has Mr. Nightwing been gone from us long?"

"Mr. Nightwing has been with the angels for twenty-five years," our headmistress says, without looking up from her glass. Mrs. Nightwing is a woman of but forty-eight, fifty perhaps. That she's been a widow for half her life seems a pity.

"He was a young man, then?" Cecily prods.

"Yes. Young, young," she says, staring into the pale red sherry.

"We'd been married for six very happy years. One day . . ." She trails off.

"One day?" Ann prompts.

"One day, he left for work at the bank." She stops, takes a sip. "And I never saw him again."

"What happened?" Elizabeth gasps.

Mrs. Nightwing seems startled, as if we've asked her a question she doesn't understand, but then the answer comes slowly. "He was run down by a carriage on the street." A terrible silence descends, the kind that accompanies the sort of unexpected bad news you can do nothing to change or improve. I think of Mrs. Nightwing as the impenetrable fortress that is our headmistress. Someone who can control anything. It's hard to think that she cannot.

"How awful for you," Martha says at last.

"Poor Mrs. Nightwing," Elizabeth chimes in.

"That is so very sad," Ann says.

"Let's not become sentimental. It was a very long time ago. Forbearance. That is the thing. One must learn to lock unpleasant thoughts away and never think on them. Else we should spend our lives crying 'Why?' into our handkerchiefs and accomplish nothing." She drains her glass. The chink in the armor has been mended. She is Nightwing again. "Now. Who has a Christmas story to share with us?"

"Oh, I do," Elizabeth trills. "It is a chilling tale about a ghost named Marley with a long chain--"

Miss McCleethy interrupts. "Do you mean A Christmas Carol by Mr. Dickens? I believe we are all familiar with that one, Miss Poole."