Rebel Angels - Page 17/158

Miss McCleethy walks the perimeter of the room, her hands folded in front of her like a priest in prayer. A slow smile spreads across her face as she takes in the whole of us. Something amusing has happened on the stage. The girls laugh. It sounds distorted and faraway to me, as if I am underwater. Miss McCleethy puts a hand on the back of a girl sitting on the end; she bends to hear the child's question with a smile, but beneath those thick, dark brows her eyes find mine. Though it is cold, I have begun to perspire as if I am feverish. I have a mad desire to run from the room. In fact, I'm feeling ill.

Felicity's whispering something to me but I can't hear the words. The whisper itself has a horrible din, like the dry wings and scratching legs of a thousand insects. My eyelids flutter. A roaring fills my ears, and I am falling hard and fast through a tunnel of light and sound. Time stretches out like a band. I am aware of my own breathing, the flow of blood in my veins. I'm caught in the grip of a vision. But this is like no vision I've ever had. It is much more powerful.

I'm near the sea. Cliffs. Smell the salt. Sky's a reflection, whitecap clouds churning above, an old castle on a hill. Happening fast. Too fast. Can't see . . . Three girls in white jump about the cliffs absurdly fast. The salt, tangy on my tongue. Green cloak. A hand raised, a snake, sky churning, clouds braiding black and gray. Something else. Something's--oh, God--something's rising. Fear, at the back of my throat like the sea. Their eyes. Their eyes! So afraid! Open now. See it rising from the sea. Their eyes a long, silent scream.

Feel my blood pull me back, away from the sea and the fear.

I hear voices. "What is it? What happened?" "Stand back, give her air." "Is she dead?" I open my eyes. A cluster of concerned faces looms over me. Where? What are they? Why am I on the floor?

"Miss Doyle . . ."

My name. Should answer. Tongue's thick as cotton.

"Miss Doyle?" It's Mrs. Nightwing. Her face swims into focus. She waves something foul beneath my nose. Horrible sulfur odor. Smelling salts. Makes me groan. I roll my head to escape the smell.

"Miss Doyle, can you stand?"

Like a child, I do as I'm told. I see Miss McCleethy across the room. She hasn't moved from her spot.

Startled gasps and whispers float by. "Look. There. How shocking."

Felicity's voice rises over the others. "Here, Gemma, take my hand."

I see Cecily whispering to her friends. Hear the whispers. "How appalling." See Ann's troubled face.

"What . . . what happened?" I ask. Ann looks down shyly, unable to answer.

"Here now, Miss Doyle, let's see you to your room." Only when Mrs. Nightwing helps me to my feet am I able to see the cause of the gossip--the large red stain spreading across my white skirt. I have begun to menstruate.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BRIGID TUCKS THE HOT WATER BOTTLE BENEATH the covers against my belly. "Poor dear," she says. "It's always such a bother. I've 'ad me troubles with the curse. And 'avin' to be on about my duties through it all. No rest for the weary, I can tell you that."

I am in no humor to hear about our long-suffering housekeeper's aches and pains. Once she starts, there's no stopping her. And I'll

be hearing about her rheumatism, her poor eyesight, and the time she once nearly worked for the household of the Prince of Wales's twelfth cousin four times removed.

"Thank you, Brigid. I think I'll rest now," I say, closing my eyes.

"Of course, lamb. Rest is wha' you need. Rest is the thing. Why, I remember when I was to work for a very fine lady-- she'd once been lady's maid to the cousin of the Duchess of Dorset, oo was as respec'able a lady as could be foun', I tell you . . ."

"Brigid." It's Felicity, trailed by Ann. "I believe I saw the parlormaids slipping belowstairs for a game of cards. I thought you might want to know."

Brigid places her fists on her meaty hips. "They've no leave from me. These new girls--they don't know their place. In my day, the 'ousekeeper was the law." Brigid harrumphs past us, muttering under her breath the while. "Off to cards. We'll see abou' that!"

"Were they really off to cards?" I ask Felicity once Brigid is gone.

"Of course not. I needed to dispatch her somehow."

"How are you feeling?" Ann asks, blushing.

"Wretched," I answer.

Felicity sits on the edge of my bed."Do you mean to say that this is the first time you've been . . . inconvenienced by your monthly illness?"