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"Yes," I say, fighting back the tears."Everyone thinks me mad. Perhaps I am mad." I try to laugh, but it comes out a small sob. "Perhaps there is something the matter with me that I cannot be happy with him."
I wait for Mrs. Nightwing to confirm that this is the case, that everyone knows it, that I should dry my eyes and stop acting the fool. Instead, her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. "It is best to be sure, through and through," she says, keeping her eyes steadfastly on the girls running and playing on the lawn."Else you could find yourself one day coming home to an empty house, save for a note: I've gone out. You could wait all night for him to return. Nights turn into weeks, to years. It's horrible, the waiting. You can scarcely bear it. And perhaps years later on holiday in Brighton, you see him, walking along the boardwalk as if out of some dream. No longer lost. Your heartbeat quickens. You must call out to him. Someone else calls first. A pretty young woman with a child. He stops and bends to lift the child into his arms. His child. He gives a furtive kiss to his young wife. He hands her a box of candy, which you know to be Chollier's chocolates. He and his family stroll on. Something in you falls away. You will never be as you were. What is left to you is the chance to become something new and unsure. But at least the waiting is over."
I'm scarcely breathing. "Yes. Thank you," I say when I manage to find my voice again.
Mrs. Nightwing gives my shoulder one small pat before taking her hand away to straighten her skirt, smoothing the waistband of its creases. One of the girls shouts. She's found an orphaned baby bird that has somehow survived the winter. It cries in her hands as she runs to Mrs. Nightwing with it.
"Oh, what madness is this?" our headmistress mutters, springing into action.
"Mrs. Nightwing, please . . . may we keep it?" The young girl's face is open and earnest. "Please, please!" the girls chirp like the eager little chicks they are.
"Oh, very well." The girls erupt in cheers. Mrs. Nightwing shouts to be heard. "But I shall not be responsible for it. It is your charge. You keep it. I've no doubt I'll come to regret this decision," she says with a sniff. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I should like to finish my book, alone, without the presence of a single ringleted girl to disrupt me. If you should come for me at dinner and find me in my chair, gone to the angels at last, you shall know that I died alone, which is to say in a state of utter bliss."
Mrs. Nightwing marches down the hill toward the school. At least four girls stop her along the way to ask about this or that. They besiege her. At last, she gives up and, with a gaggle of girls in tow, heads into Spence. She will not read her book until this evening, and somehow I know this is what she wants--to be needed. It is her charge.
It is her place. She has found it. Or it has found her.
After dinner, when we have gathered round the fire in the great hall, Mademoiselle LeFarge returns from her day in London with Inspector Kent. She's beaming. I've never seen her so happy.
"Bonjour, mes filies!" she says, sweeping into the room in her handsome new skirt and blouse."I've news."
The girls make a mad dash for her, barely allowing her time to sit by the fire and remove her gloves. When she does, we immediately note the presence of a small diamond on the third finger of her left hand. Mademoiselle LeFarge has news indeed.
"We are to be married come May," she says, smiling as if her face could break from joy.
We fawn over the ring and our teacher, peppering her with questions: How did he ask for her hand? When will they marry? May we all attend? It should be a London wedding-- no, a country wedding! For luck, will she wear orange blossoms? Will she wear them
in her hair or embroidered upon her dress?
"It is remarkable to think that even an old spinster such as I can find happiness." she says, laughing, but then I catch her straightening the third finger of her left hand. She's looking at the ring without wanting to seem as dazzled by it as she is. On the first Wednesday of the new year, we make our pilgrimage to Pippa's altar. We sit at the base of the old oak, watching for signs of spring, though we know they are months away yet.
"I've written Tom and told him the truth," Ann says.
"And?" Felicity prompts.
"He did not like being misled. He said that I was a horrible girl to have pretended to be someone I'm not."
"I am sorry, Ann," I say.
"Well, I think he is a boor and a poor sport besides," Felicity claims.
"No, he's not. He had every right to be cross with me."
There is nothing I can say to this. She is right.
"In books, the truth makes everything good and fine. The good prevail. The wicked are punished. There is happiness. But it's not like that really, is it?"
"No," I say."I suppose it only makes everything known."
We lean our heads back against the tree and look up at the puffy, white clouds.
"Why bother with it at all, then?" Ann says.
A cloud castle floats lazily by, becoming a dog in the process.
"Because you can't keep up the illusion forever," I say. "No one has that much magic."
For a long while, we sit, saying nothing. No one attempts to hold hands or tell a merry joke, to talk of what has happened or what is to come. We simply sit, our backs to the tree, our shoulders grazing one another. It is the lightest of touches and yet it is enough to weight me to the earth.
