With a flourish, Miss Moore draws a neat mustache on the Lady of Shallot. “God is in the details,” she says.
Except for Cecily, who strikes me more and more as a secret goody-goody, we’re giggling over her boldness, happy to be naughty with her. Miss Moore’s face comes to life with a smile, and my unease slips away.
When I rush full-speed into my room to retrieve Mary Dowd’s diary, I run headlong into the back of Brigid, who is supervising the training of a new upstairs maid.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I sputter with as much dignity as I can, considering that I’m flat on the floor with my skirts up to my knees. Running into the broad Brigid is a bit like flinging myself into the side of a ship. There’s a ringing in my head and I fear I may go deaf from the crushing force of her.
“Sorry? Aye, and you should be,” Brigid says, yanking me to my feet and straightening my hem to a modest level. The new maid turns away, but I can see her slender shoulders bobbing from her stifled laughter.
I start to thank Brigid for helping me to my feet, but she’s only just begun her tirade.
“Carrying on in that way, galloping like a stallion about to meet the gelder’s knife! Now, I ask you, is that any way for a proper lady to conduct ’erself? Hmm? Now wot would Missus Nightwing say if she was to see you makin’ such a spectacle o’ yerself?”
“I am sorry.” I look down at my feet, hoping this passes for contrition.
Brigid makes a clucking sound. “I’m glad you’re sorry, then. Wot’s got you in such a rush, then, hmmm? Mind you tell old Brigid the truth. After twenty-some-odd years ’ere I’ve got keen eyes, I do.”
“I forgot my book,” I say, stepping quickly to my wardrobe. I grab my cape and slip the diary inside.
“All that runnin’ about, nearly killin’ folk for a book,” Brigid grumbles, as if it were she and not me lying dazed on the floor a moment ago.
“Sorry to have troubled you. I’ll just be off,” I say, attempting to sail past her.
“’Old on a minute. Let’s be sure you’re presentable first.” Brigid takes my chin and tilts my face toward the light to inspect it. Her cheeks go pale.
“Is something the matter?” I ask, wondering if I’m more seriously injured than I thought. Brigid’s backside may be formidable, but I don’t think I could’ve sustained a bleeding head wound from my battle with it.
Brigid drops my chin, backs away a bit, wiping her hands on her apron as if they’re dirty. “Nuffin. Just . . . your eyes is very green. That’s all. Go on, now. You’d best catch up wit’ the others.” And with that, she turns her attention to Molly, who is apparently using the feather duster in the wrong way, and I am free to go about my business.
CHAPTER TEN
THE GIRLS ARE TAKING SOME FRESH AIR WHEN I COME out to the great lawn. The sun has held all day, and now it’s a bright blue afternoon. Low clouds drift lazily across the sky. Up on the hill, the chapel stands straight and tall. Out on the green, the younger girls have wrapped a blindfold around the eyes of a little brown-haired girl. They spin her in circles, then scatter like marbles. She puts her arms out unsteadily, wobbles across the lawn, calling out “Blind man.” They yell back “buff,” and she feels her way toward their high-pitched voices. Ann’s sitting on a bench, reading her halfpenny paper. She spies me but I pretend I don’t see her. It’s not very kind of me, but I want to be alone.
The forest off to my right looks inviting, and I dart into its cool shelter. The sunlight leaks through the leaves in bits of warmth. I try to catch its sweetness in my fingers but it drips through them to the earth. There’s a stillness here, broken only by the muffled calls of “buff” from the girls’ game. Mary Dowd’s diary sits quietly inside my cape, her secrets weighing the pocket down against my thigh.
If I can discover what she wants me to know, perhaps I’ll find a way to understand what is happening to me. I open to a new page and read.
December 31, 1870
Today is my sixteenth birthday. Sarah was quite saucy with me. “Now you will know how it is,” she said. When I pressed her to tell me more, she refused me—I, who am like her very own sister! “I cannot tell you, my dearest, dearest friend. But you shall know soon enough. And it shall be as a door opening for you.” I don’t mind saying that I felt very cross with her. She is already sixteen and knows more than I, dear diary. But then she took both my hands in hers, and I cannot feel anything but fondness for her when she is so very kind with me.
What exactly is so glorious about being sixteen is beyond me. If I’d hoped Mary’s diary would get more interesting or insightful, I was mistaken. But there’s nothing else to do, so I find another passage.
January 7, 1871
Such frightful things are happening to me, dearest diary, that I am afraid to recount them here. I am afraid to speak of them all, even to Sarah. What will become of me?
There’s a strange, knotting feeling in my stomach. What could be so terrible that she couldn’t confide in her own diary? A breeze comes, bringing the sound of girls. Blind man. Buff. The next entry is dated February 12th. My heart beats faster as I read.
Dearest diary, such blessed relief at last! I am not mad, as I feared. No longer do my visions overtake me with their power, for I have begun to control them at last. Oh, diary, they are not frightful, but beautiful! Sarah promised it would be so for me, but I confess I was too afraid of their glory to let myself enter fully. I could only be pulled along against my will, fighting it. But today, oh, it was glorious indeed! When I felt the fever coming on me, I asked it to come. I choose this, I said, and stuck my courage fast. I did not feel a great pressure pushing in on me. This time, it was no more than a gentle shudder, and there it was—a beautiful door of light. Oh, diary, I walked through it into a realm of such beauty, a garden with a singing river and flowers that fall from trees like the softest rain. There, what you imagine can be yours. I ran, fast as a deer, my legs powerful and strong, and I was filled with a joy I cannot describe. It seemed I was there for hours, but when I came through the door again, it was as if I’d never left. I found myself again in my room, where Sarah was waiting to embrace me. “Darling Mary, you’ve done it! Tomorrow, we shall join hands and become one with our sisters. Then we shall know all the mysteries of the realms.”
I’m trembling. Mary and Sarah both had visions. I am not alone. Somewhere out there are two girls—two women—who might be able to help me. Is this what she wants me to know? A door of light. I’ve never seen such a thing—or a garden. There’s been nothing beautiful at all. What if my visions aren’t like theirs at all? Kartik told me they would put me in danger, and everything I’ve experienced seems to prove him right. Kartik, who could be watching me right now, here in these woods. But what if he’s wrong? What if he’s lying?
It’s too much for my head to hold right now. I tuck the book away again and thread in and out between enormous trees, letting my fingers trail over rough bumps on ancient bark. The ground is littered with acorn shells, dead leaves, twigs, forest life.
I reach a clearing and there in front of me is a small, glass-smooth lake. A boathouse stands sentry on the far side. A battered blue rowboat with only one oar is anchored to a tree stump. It slides out and back with the breeze, wrinkling the surface slightly. There’s no one around to see me, so I loose the boat from its mooring and climb in. The sun’s a warm kiss on my face as my head rests against the bow. I’m thinking of Mary Dowd and her beautiful visions of a door of light, a fantastical garden. If I could control my visions, I’d want most to see my mother’s face.