"I think you shall be very happy here, Miss Doyle."
Translation: That is an order.
"Spence has turned out many wonderful young women who've gone on to make very good marriages."
We don't expect much more from you. Please don't embarrass us .
"Why, you might even be sitting here in my position someday."
If you turn out to be completely unmarriageable, and you don't end up in an Austrian convent making lace nightgowns. Mrs. Nightwing's smile wavers a bit. I know that she's waiting for me to say something charming, something that will convince her that she hasn't made a mistake in taking in a grief-stricken girl who seems completely unworthy of Spence's training. Come on, Gemma. Throw her a bone -- tell her how happy and proud you are to be part of the Spence family . I only nod. Her smile disappears.
"While you're here, I can be a solid ally, if you follow the rules. Or the sword that cuts you into shape if you do not. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes, Mrs. Nightwing."
"Excellent. Let me show you around, and then you may dress for prayers."
"Your room is here." We're on the third floor, making our way down a long hall with many doors. Photographic portraits of Spence's various classes hang on the wallsgrainy faces even harder to see in the dim light of the few gas lamps. Finally we come to a room at the end on the left. Mrs. Nightwing opens the door wide to reveal a cramped, musty-smelling room that could optimistically be described as cheerless and realistically be called drab. There's a water-stained desk, a chair, and a lamp. Iron beds hug the left and right walls. One bed looks lived in, with a neatly tucked quilt. The other, my bed, fits tight in a nook under a steep eave that could probably break my skull if I sit up too quickly. It's a dormer room, one that juts out over the side of the building like an afterthought--perfect for an afterthought of a girl, added to the roster at the last possible moment.
Mrs. Nightwing rubs a finger over the top of the desk and frowns upon discovering dust there. "Of course, we do give preference to those girls who are returning to us this year," she says by way of apology for my new home. "But I think you'll find your room cheery and quite serviceable. There is a marvelous view from the window."
She's right. Standing in front of it, I can see the moonlit back lawn, the gardens, the chapel on the hill, and a great wall of trees.
"It is a lovely view," I say, trying to be both cheery and serviceable.
This appeases Mrs. Nightwing, who smiles. "You'll share a room with Ann Bradshaw. Ann is most helpful. She is one of our scholarship students."
That's a nice way of saying "one of our charity cases," some poor girl packed off to school by a distant relative or given a scholarship by one of Spence's benefactors. Ann's quilt is tucked in straight and smooth as glass, and I wonder what her situation is, or whether we'll get on well enough for her to want to tell me.
The wardrobe is ajar. A uniform hangs therea flared white skirt; a white blouse with lace insets along the bib and puffed sleeves tapering to fitted cuffs; white boots with hooks and laces; and a dark blue velvet cape with a hood.
"You may dress for prayers. I'll give you a moment." She closes the door, and I slip into the uniform, fastening the many small buttons. The skirt is too short but otherwise it is a comfortable fit. Mrs. Nightwing notices the gap at the bottom, frowns. "You're quite tall." Just what a girl wants to be reminded of. "We'll get Brigid to add a ruffle to the hem." She turns and I follow her out.
"Where do those doors lead?" I ask, pointing to the darkened wing on the opposite side of the landing where two heavy doors stand sentry, secured by a large lock. It's the kind of lock needed to keep people out. Or hold something in.
Mrs. Nightwings brows furrow, her lips go tight. "That is the East Wing. It was destroyed in a fire years ago. We don't use it anymore, so we've closed it off. Saves on heating. Come along."
She swings past me. I start after her, then glance back, my eyes falling to the bottom of those locked doors, where there's a one-inch crack of light. It may be the lateness of the day and the long journey, or the fact that I'm growing accustomed to seeing things, but I could swear that I see a shadow move along the floor behind the doors.
No. Begone.
I refuse to let the past find me here. I have to get hold of myself. So I close my eyes for just a second and make myself a promise.
There is nothing there. I am tired. I will open my eyes and see only a door.
When I look, there is nothing.