"Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth his men, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof. . ."
Why is there no panel showing women saying, No, I'm sorry, I don't want this gift. You may have it back. I've sheep to look after and bread to bake, and I've no desire to be a holy messenger.
That is the window I long to see.
A ray of light breaks through the glass, and for a moment, the angel seems to flare like the sun.
I am allowed to spend the afternoon with Felicity and Ann, so that Grandmama and Tom may tend to Father. Mrs. Worthington is seeing to the outfitting of little Polly, which has put Felicity into a hateful mood to match my own. Only Ann is enjoying the day. It is the first Christmas she can remember in a real home with a ball to attend, and she's positively giddy about it, badgering us with questions.
"Should I wear flowers and pearls in my hair? Or is it too gauche?" she asks. "Gauche," Felicity responds. "I don't see why we have to take her in. There are plenty of relatives more suited, I should think."
I sit at Felicity's dressing table running a brush through my hair, counting the strokes, seeing the hurt in Kartik's eyes with each swipe of the brush. "Sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six . . ."
"They fawn and fret over her as if she's a visiting princess," Felicity grumbles.
"She's a very pretty little girl," Ann says thoughtlessly. "I was thinking of wearing perfume. Gemma, does Tom find girls who wear scent too bold?"
"He is attracted to the smell of manure," Felicity says. "You might wallow in the stables to bring out the full flower of his love."
"You are in quite a mood," Ann grumbles.
I shouldn't have danced with him. I shouldn't have let him kiss me. But I wanted him to kiss me. And then I insulted him.
"Oh, it's all such a bother," Felicity harrumphs as she makes her way to the bed, which is awash in discarded stockings, silk, and petticoats. The whole of Felicity's cupboards, it seems, are splayed out for the world to see. And yet she can't seem to find anything that suits.
"I'm not going," Felicity blurts out. She's sprawled petulantly on a chaise in her dressing gown, woolen stockings pooled about her ankles. All pretense of modesty has been abandoned.
"It's your mother's ball," I say. "You must go. Sixty-seven, sixty-eight . . ."
"I've nothing to wear!"
I gesture grandly to the bed and resume my counting.
"Won't you be wearing one of the gowns your mother had made for you in Paris?" Ann asks. She's holding one of the dresses against her body, turning this way and that. She gives a slight curtsy to an imaginary escort.