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I haven’t received such an invitation, and I hope no one will ask me if I have.
Martha fans herself, grimacing. “Oh, dear. It is rather close in here, isn’t it? I’m afraid we cannot all fit.” She glances at Ann. Cecily and her lot have never treated Ann as more than a servant, but since our unfortunate attempt to pass her off in society as a duke’s daughter of Russian blood last Christmas, Ann has become a complete pariah. The gossip has spread in letters and whispers and now there isn’t a girl at Spence who doesn’t know the story.
“We shall miss you dearly, Cecily,” I say, smiling brightly. I should like to kick her squarely in the teeth.
Cecily makes it quite clear she won’t be the one to leave. She spreads out her skirts, taking up even more space. Martha whispers in Elizabeth’s ear and they break into tittering. I could ask what they are laughing about, but they won’t tell me, so there’s no point.
“What is that smell?” Martha asks, making a face.
Cecily sniffs dramatically. “Caviar, perhaps? All the way from Russia! Why, it must be from the czar himself!”
The venal little trolls. Ann’s cheeks blaze and her lips quiver. She stands so quickly she nearly topples over as she rushes for the tent’s flaps. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve needlework to finish.”
“Please do give my best to your uncle, the duke,” Cecily calls after her, and the others snicker.
“Why must you taunt her so?” I ask.
“She doesn’t deserve to be here,” Cecily says with easy certainty.
“That isn’t true,” I say.
“Isn’t it? Some people simply don’t belong.” Cecily fixes me with a haughty stare. “I’ve recently heard your father is unwell and resting at Oldham. How worried you must be. Pray, what is his affliction?”
All Cecily lacks is a forked tongue, for she is certainly a snake beneath that beautiful dress.
“Influenza,” I say, the lie tasting sharp in my mouth.
“Influenza,” she repeats, glancing slyly at the others.
“But he is much improved, and I shall pay him a visit tomorrow.”
Cecily doesn’t yield just yet. “I am glad to know it, for one hears such unsavory stories at times—gentlemen being found in opium dens and forced into sanitariums for it. Scandalous.”
“Cecily Temple, I shall not hear slander this evening,” Felicity warns.
“It is influenza,” I repeat, but my voice has lost its steadiness.
Cecily’s smile is triumphant. “Yes, of course it is.”
I hurry after Ann, calling her name, but she doesn’t stop. Instead, she quickens her pace till she’s nearly running, desperate to be away from us and our talk of parties and teas. All that glittering promise close enough to touch but not to have.
“Ann, please,” I say, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. She’s halfway up. “Ann, you mustn’t pay them any mind. They’re not true girls. They are hideous fiends—troglodytes in ringlets!”
If I’d hoped to make Ann laugh, I’d missed my mark. “But they are the ones who rule,” she says without looking up. “They always have and they always shall.”
“But, Ann, they’ve not seen the things you have in the realms. They don’t know what you’ve done. You turned rocks to butterflies and sailed through a curtain of gold. You saved us from the water nymphs with your song.”
“Once,” she says flatly. “What does any of it matter? It won’t change my fate, will it? Come May, you and Felicity will have your season. I shall go to work for my cousins. It will end, and we’ll never see each other again.”
For a moment, she looks into my eyes, obviously hoping to find comfort there. Tell me I am wrong; tell me you’ve got another trick up your sleeve, Gemma, her eyes plead. But she isn’t wrong, and I’m not quick or glib enough to lie. Not tonight.
“Don’t let them win, Ann. Come back to the tent.”
She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her disgust. “You don’t understand, do you? They’ve already won.” And with that, she retreats into the shadows.
I could return to Fee and the others, but I’m in no humor for it. A melancholy has settled over my heart and will not yield, and I want solitude. I find a proper reading chair in the great hall far away from the chatter of girls. I’ve read no more than a few pages when I notice that I am only an arm’s length away from the infamous column. It is one of the many odd touches at Spence. There is the chandelier of carved snakes in the foyer. The leering gargoyles upon the roof. The ridiculous ostrich-feather paper on the walls. The portrait of Spence’s founder, Eugenia Spence, looming at the top of the stairs, her piercing blue eyes seeing all. I would count among these oddities the giant hearths that seem less like mantels and more like the open maws of terrible beasts. And then there is this column in the center of the great room. It boasts carvings of fairies, satyrs, sprites, nymphs, and imps of all sorts.
It is also alive.
