"Come on," Ann says in a shaky voice once they're gone. "It's time for prayers." I don't know if she means in general or strictly for herself.
We scurry across the threshold of the quiet, cavernous chapel and take our seats, our footsteps echoing off the marble floors. Arched wood-beamed ceilings soar a good fifteen feet above us. Candelabras line the sides of the church, casting long shadows over the wooden pews. Stained-glass windows line the walls, colorful advertisements for God, pastoral scenes of angels doing angelic sorts of thingsvisiting villagers, telling them good news, petting sheep, cradling babies. There is the odd panel with a severed gorgon's head, an angel in armor standing next to it, brandishing a sword dripping blood. Can't say that I've heard that particular Bible storyor want to, really. It's a bit gruesome so I turn my attention to the altar where a vicar stands, tall and thin as a scarecrow.
The vicar, whose name is Reverend Waite, leads us in prayers that all begin with "O Lord" and end with our somehow not being worthysinners who have always been sinners and will forever more be sinners until we die. It isn't the most optimistic outlook I've ever heard. But we're encouraged to keep trying anyway. I have to watch Ann and the others to see when to kneel, when to rise, and when to mouth along to the hymn. My family is vaguely Anglican, like everyone else, but the truth is that we rarely went to church in India. On Sundays, Mother took me for picnics under hot, cloudless skies. We'd sit on a blanket and listen to the wind whip across dry land, whistling to us.
"This is our church," she'd say, combing fingers through my hair.
My hearts a tight fist in my chest while my lips form words I don't feel. Mother told me that most of the English only prayed with heart and soul when they needed something from God. What I want most from God is to have my mother back. That isn't possible. If it were, I'd pray to anyone's god, night and day, to make it so.
The vicar sits and Mrs. Nightwing stands. Ann moans slightly under her breath.
"Oh, no. She's going to make a speech," she whispers.
"Does she do this every vespers?" I ask.
"No," Ann says, giving me a sidelong glance. "She's doing it for your benefit."
Suddenly, I can feel every pair of eyes glaring at me. Well, this should get me off to a rousing start with everyone.
"Ladies of Spence Academy," Mrs. Nightwing begins. "As you know, for twenty-four years, Spence has enjoyed a reputation as one of England's finest finishing schools. While we can and will teach you the necessary skills to become England's future wives and mothers, hostesses and bearers of the Empire's feminine traditions, it will be up to each of you to nurture and feed your souls, and to apply yourselves with grace, charm, and beauty. This is the Spence motto: Grace, charm, and beauty. Let us all rise and say it together."
There is a great rustling as fifty girls stand at attention and recite the pledge, chins tilted upward toward the future. "Thank you. You may be seated. For those girls who have returned to us this year, you shall set the example for the others. For those who are new to us"Mrs. Nightwing scans the chapel till she finds me next to Ann"we expect nothing less than your very best."
Thinking this is our dismissal, I rise from the pew. Ann pulls on my skirt.
"She's just begun," she whispers.
And, indeed, Mrs. Nightwing astonishes me by prattling on about virtue, the well-mannered girl, suitable breakfast fruits, the unfortunate influence of Americans on British society, and her own fondly remembered school days. Time has no meaning. I feel as if I have been left in the desert to die and am waiting eagerly for the vultures to begin their work and end my misery.
Candle shadows stretch long over the walls, making our faces look haunted and hollow. The chapel is hardly a comforting site. It's ghostly. Certainly not someplace I'd want to be alone after dark. I'm shivering at the thought of it. At last, Mrs. Nightwing finishes her long-winded address, which makes me utter my own silent prayer of gratitude. Reverend Waite reads a benediction and we're dismissed for dinner.
One of the older girls stands at the door. When we reach her, she sticks out her foot and sends Ann sprawling to the floor. Her eyes dart past us where they find Felicity and Pippa a few heads behind.
I give Ann my hand and help her to her feet. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," she says, giving the same straight-ahead stare that seems to be her only expression.
The girl steps around her. "You really should be more careful." The others stream past us, casting glances at us, giggling.
