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Felicity drops the glasses quickly and reaches for her sketch pad. “Don’t look now, but I believe we’ve caught the eye of one of the men.”
Elizabeth jumps up, craning her neck this way and that. “Which one? Which one?” Felicity steps on Elizabeth’s foot, and she falls back.
“Ow! What did you do that for?”
“I said, don’t look now,” Felicity hisses through clenched teeth. “The key is to make it seem as if you do not notice their attention.”
“Ohhh,” Elizabeth says in understanding.
“That one on the end, in the shirt with the unfortunate red patching,” Felicity says, feigning interest in her sketch. Her coolness is a talent I wish I could manage. Instead, every day, I search the horizon for some sign of another young man, one I’ve not heard a word from since I left him in London three months ago.
Elizabeth steals a peek through the opera glasses. “Oh, my!” she says, dropping them. “He winked at me! The cheek of him! I should report him to Mrs. Nightwing at once,” she protests, but the breathless excitement in her voice betrays her.
“By all the saints.” Brigid has finally reached us. Hurriedly, Felicity hands the opera glasses to Martha, who squeaks and drops them in the grass before shoving them into the pocket of her cape.
Brigid takes a seat on a rock to catch her breath. “You’re too quick for your old Brigid. Have you no shame, leaving me so?”
Felicity smiles sweetly. “Oh, we are sorry, Brigid. We didn’t know you’d fallen so behind.” Under her breath she adds, “You old battle-ax.”
Brigid narrows her eyes at our tittering. “Here now, wot are you on about? Making sport of your Brigid, are you?”
“Not at all.”
“Oh, this is no good.” Cecily sighs. “How can we possibly draw the East Wing from so far a distance?” She looks hopefully at Brigid.
“You’ll sketch it from here and not an inch closer, miss. You’ve ’eard wot Missus Nightwing ’as to say on the matter.” Brigid stares at the timber spine, the masons cutting stone. She shakes her head. “It ain’t right putting that cursed place back together. They should leave well enough alone.”
“Oh, but it’s thrilling!” Elizabeth argues.
“And think how lovely Spence will look once the East Wing has been restored!” Martha echoes. “How could you say it’s not right, Brigid?”
“Because I remember,” Brigid says, tapping the side of her head. “There was something not right about that place, the turret in particular. Somethin’ you could feel. I could tell you stories…”
“Yes, I’m sure you could, Brigid, and fine stories they’d be,” Felicity says, as sweetly as a mother placating her irritable child. “But I do worry that the chill will put the ache in your back.”
“Well,” Brigid says, rubbing her sides. “’Tis a bother. And m’knees ain’t gettin’ no younger.”
We nod in concerned agreement.
“We’ll only step a fraction closer,” Felicity coos. “Just enough for a proper sketch.”
We do our best to look as innocent as a choir of angels.
Brigid gives us a quick nod. “Off you go, then. Don’t go gettin’ too close! And don’t think I won’t be watching!”
“Thank you, Brigid!” we shout gleefully. We move quickly down the hill before she can change her mind.
“And be quick about it! Looks like rain!”
A sudden gust of brisk late-March wind blows across the brittle lawn. It rattles the weary tree limbs like bone necklaces and whips our skirts up till we have to push them down. The girls squeal in surprise—and delight—for it has brought us the attention of every man’s eyes for one unguarded, forbidden moment. The gust is the last charge of winter’s army. Already the leaves are shaking off sleep and arming themselves. Soon they will mount their attack of green, forcing winter’s retreat. I pull my shawl about my neck. Spring is coming, but I cannot yet shake the cold.
“Are they looking?” Elizabeth asks excitedly, stealing glances at the men.
“Steady,” Felicity says under her breath.
Martha’s curls hang limply at her neck. She gives them a hopeful push, but they will not spring back into shape. “Tell me truthfully, has the damp made a ruin of my hair?”
“No,” Elizabeth lies at the precise moment I say, “Yes, it has.”
