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"Miss Doyle, can you stand?"
Like a child, I do as I'm told. I see Miss McCleethy across the room. She hasn't moved from her spot.
Startled gasps and whispers float by. "Look. There. How shocking."
Felicity's voice rises over the others. "Here, Gemma, take my hand."
I see Cecily whispering to her friends. Hear the whispers. "How appalling." See Ann's troubled face.
"What . . . what happened?" I ask. Ann looks down shyly, unable to answer.
"Here now, Miss Doyle, let's see you to your room." Only when Mrs. Nightwing helps me to my feet am I able to see the cause of the gossip--the large red stain spreading across my white skirt. I have begun to menstruate.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRIGID TUCKS THE HOT WATER BOTTLE BENEATH the covers against my belly. "Poor dear," she says. "It's always such a bother. I've 'ad me troubles with the curse. And 'avin' to be on about my duties through it all. No rest for the weary, I can tell you that."
I am in no humor to hear about our long-suffering housekeeper's aches and pains. Once she starts, there's no stopping her. And I'll
be hearing about her rheumatism, her poor eyesight, and the time she once nearly worked for the household of the Prince of Wales's twelfth cousin four times removed.
"Thank you, Brigid. I think I'll rest now," I say, closing my eyes.
"Of course, lamb. Rest is wha' you need. Rest is the thing. Why, I remember when I was to work for a very fine lady-- she'd once been lady's maid to the cousin of the Duchess of Dorset, oo was as respec'able a lady as could be foun', I tell you . . ."
"Brigid." It's Felicity, trailed by Ann. "I believe I saw the parlormaids slipping belowstairs for a game of cards. I thought you might want to know."
Brigid places her fists on her meaty hips. "They've no leave from me. These new girls--they don't know their place. In my day, the 'ousekeeper was the law." Brigid harrumphs past us, muttering under her breath the while. "Off to cards. We'll see abou' that!"
"Were they really off to cards?" I ask Felicity once Brigid is gone.
"Of course not. I needed to dispatch her somehow."
"How are you feeling?" Ann asks, blushing.
"Wretched," I answer.
Felicity sits on the edge of my bed."Do you mean to say that this is the first time you've been . . . inconvenienced by your monthly illness?"
"Yes," I snap, feeling a bit like an exotic, misunderstood animal. In addition to the hot water bottle, I've been packed off to bed with some strong tea and a tiny bit of brandy, compliments of Mrs. Nightwing, who insisted that in this case the brandy was medicinal and not licentious. The tea has gone cold and bitter. But the brandy is soothing. It dulls the pulsing throb in my belly. I have never felt more ridiculous. If this is what it means to be a woman I am not the slightest bit interested.
"Poor Gemma," Ann says, patting my hand. "In public, no less. How embarrassing for you."
I could not be more humiliated than I am now. "If I may be so bold, may I ask, when did you commence with . . . ?" I trail off.
Felicity moves to my table, where she examines my things. She runs my brush through her white-blond hair. "Years ago."
Of course she did. How silly of me to ask. I look to Ann, who blushes the color of a radish instantly.
"Oh, I, we sh-sh-shouldn't t-t-talk of such things."
"Quite right," I say, fingering the edge of my bed linen with great care.
"She's probably not yet a woman," Felicity says coolly.
Ann is up in protest."I am! For six months now!"
"Six months! There you are. She's practically an expert on the subject."
