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“No, I rather think it was not meant to be given to everyone indiscriminately but governed carefully by those who know best,” she says, pointedly. “For when we read about magic in fairy stories or tales of myth, we read time and again that it is subject to strict laws, else chaos follows. Look out there. What do you see?” Miss McCleethy waves her hand toward the green horizon.
“Hills,” Ann offers. “Roads.”
“Flowers and shrubs,” Cecily adds. She looks to Miss McCleethy as if there might be a prize for the right answer.
“What we can see is proof. Proof that man can conquer nature, that chaos can be turned back. You see evidence of the importance of order, of law. For conquer chaos we must. And if we see it in ourselves, we must root it out and replace it with steadfast discipline.”
Can we really conquer chaos so easily? If that were so, I should be able to prune the pandemonium of my own soul into something neat and tidy rather than this maze of wants and needs and misgivings that has me forever feeling as if I cannot fit into the landscape of things.
“But aren’t many gardens beautiful because they are imperfect?” I say, glancing at McCleethy. “Aren’t the strange, new flowers that arise by mistake or misadventure as pleasing as the well-tended and planned?”
Elizabeth purses her lips. “Are we speaking of art?”
Miss McCleethy smiles broadly. “Ah, a perfect segue to the topic at hand. Look at the art of the masters and you will see that their work has been created according to strict rules: Here we have line and light and a color scheme.” She holds my gaze as if she has me in checkmate. “Art cannot be created without order.”
“What of the Impressionists in Paris, then? It is not ordered so much as felt with the brush, it seems,” Felicity says, eating cake with her fingers.
“There are always rebels and radicals, I suppose,” McCleethy allows. “Those who live on the fringes of society. But what do they contribute to the society itself? They reap its rewards without experiencing its costs. No. I submit that the loyal, hardworking citizens who push aside their own selfish desires for the good of the whole are the backbone of the world. What if we all decided to run off and live freely without thought or care for society’s rules? Our civilization would crumble. There is a joy in duty and a security in knowing one’s place. This is the English way. It is the only way.”
“Quite so, Miss McCleethy,” Cecily says. But really, what would I expect from her?
I know that is to be the end of the discussion, but I can’t let it go. “But without the rebels and radicals, there would be no change, no one to push back. There would be no progress.”
Miss McCleethy shakes her head thoughtfully. “True progress can only happen when there is safety first.”
“What if safety…is only an illusion?” I say, thinking aloud. “What if there is no such thing?”
“Then we fall.” Miss McCleethy squeezes what’s left of her cake, and it falls to bits. “Chaos.”
I take a small bite of my cake. “What if that is only the beginning of something new? What if, once we let go, we are freed?”
“Would you take that chance, Miss Doyle?” Miss McCleethy holds my gaze till I’m forced to look away.
“What are we talking about?” Elizabeth clucks.
“Miss McCleethy, the ground is so hard. Couldn’t we return to Spence now?” Martha complains.
“Yes, very well. Miss Worthington, I leave you in charge. Girls, follow her lead.” Miss McCleethy places the crumbles of cake into a napkin and ties it up neatly. “Order. That is the key. Miss Doyle, I’ll need your help to gather our things.”
Felicity and I exchange glances. She draws her finger across her throat like a blade, and I make a note to tell her later how very witty I find her. Miss McCleethy takes a bouquet of wildflowers and bids me follow her farther into the graveyard. It is a steep climb to the very top of the hill. The wind blows hard here. It pulls tendrils of her hair free so that they whip wildly about her face, lessening its severity. From here I can see the girls tripping through the trees in a merry line, Ann bringing up the rear. In the distance, Spence rises from the land as if it were a part of it, as if it has always existed, like the trees or the hedgerows or the distant Thames.
Miss McCleethy lays the flowers at the base of a simple headstone. Eugenia Spence, Beloved Sister. May 6, 1812–June 21, 1871.
“I did not know there was a gravestone for Mrs. Spence.”
“It is how she would have wanted to be remembered—simply, without ceremony.”
“What was she like?” I ask.
“Eugenia? She had a quick mind and a skilled grasp of the magic. In her time, she was the most powerful of the Order. Kind but firm. She believed that the rules must be followed without exception, for to deviate in any way was to court disaster. This school was her life’s work. I learned a great deal from her. She was my mentor. I loved her dearly.”
She wipes her hands free of dirt and pulls on her gloves.
“I am sorry for your loss,” I say. “I’m sorry that my mother…”
Miss McCleethy buttons her cape with quick fingers. “Chaos killed her, Miss Doyle. Two girls stepping outside the rules took our beloved teacher away. Remember that.”
I swallow my shame, but my red cheeks do not go unnoticed.
