"What did he do?" I ask, blowing my nose.
"He took off his hat, bowed to the donkey, and said, 'After you. " And the donkey moved on with us following."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You've made up that story."
Father puts his hand to his chest dramatically. "You doubt the word of your father? To the stocks with you, ungrateful child!"
This makes me laugh--and sneeze. Father pours me more tea.
"Drink up, darling. Don't want you missing Tom's dance with the lunatics this evening."
"I've heard Mr. Snow is fond of getting too familiar with his partners," I say.
"Lunatic or not, I'd have his hide if he dared," Father says, puffing out his chest and blustering like some retired naval officer. "Unless he's larger than I am. Then I'd need you to protect me, my dear."
I laugh again. He's in a happy temper today, though he's looking thin, and his hands still tremble at times.
"Your mother would have loved the idea of a dance at Bedlam, I can tell you. She did so love the unusual." Silence descends. Father fiddles with the wedding band he still wears, turning it round and round. I'm torn between speaking honestly and keeping him here. Honesty wins. "I miss her," I say.
"As do I, pet." It is quiet again for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say to close the gap between us. "I know she'd be happy to see you at Spence."
"She would?"
"Oh, yes. It was her idea. She said that should anything happen to her, I was to send you there. Strange thing for her to say, now that I think of it. Almost as if she knew . . ." He stops, looks out the window.
This is the first I've heard of my mother's wanting me to attend Spence, the school that very nearly destroyed her and the school that introduced her to her friend-turned-enemy, Sarah Rees-Toome. Circe. Before I can ask Father more about it, he's up and making his goodbyes. The liveliness has been invaded by cold truth, and he cannot stay and make friends with it.
"I'm off then, my angel."
"Can't you stay a bit longer?" I whine, though I know he hates it when I do.
"Mustn't keep the old boys at the club waiting."
Why does it always seem that I have only the shadow of my father? I'm like a child constantly grabbing at his coattails and missing.
"Right," I say. I give him a smile, pretend to be his bright, shiny thing of a girl. Don't break his heart, Gemma.
"I'll see you for supper, pet."
He kisses my forehead and then he is gone. The room does not seem to miss him. He has not even made a dent on the bed where
he was sitting.
Mrs. Jones bustles in with more tea and the afternoon's post. "Letter for you, miss." I can't think of a soul who would send me a Christmas card, so I am surprised until I spy that it has come from Wales. Mrs. Jones spends an eternity tidying the room and opening drapes. The letter sits on my lap, taunting me.
"Will there be anything else, miss?" our housekeeper asks with no enthusiasm.
"No, thank you," I say with a smile. It is not returned.
At last, Mrs. Jones leaves, and I tear open the letter. It is from St. Victoria's headmistress, a Mrs. Morrissey.
Dear Miss Doyle,
Thank you for your inquiry. It is so very comforting to hear that our Nell has found a friend in one so kind. St. Victoria's did indeed employ a teacher by the name of Claire McCleethy. Miss McCleethy was with us from the fall of 1894 through the spring of 1895. She was a most excellent teacher of the arts and poetry and was very popular with certain of our girls, Nell Hawkins among them. Unfortunately, I seem to have no photograph of Miss McCleethy for Miss Hawkins to keep, as requested, nor do I have an address for her. When she left St. Victoria's, she was to take a post at a school near London where her sister is headmistress. I do hope this letter is of help to you and that you have the merriest of
Christmases.
Yours sincerely,
Mrs. Beatrice Morrissey
So she was there! I knew it!
. . . she was to take a post at a school near London where her sister is headmistress . . .
A school near London. Spence? Does that mean Mrs. Nightwing is Miss McCleethy's sister?
I hear raised voices from below.
In a moment, Felicity barrels through my door with a sheepish Ann and furious Mrs. Jones just behind her. "Hello, Gemma, darling. How are you feeling? Ann and I thought we'd come for a visit."
"The doctor said you should rest, miss." Mrs. Jones snips the ends of her words like an angry gardener.