Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

"Shall we move on, ladies? We've yet to see the Romantics." Miss Moore strides purposefully on in the gallery. Ann follows, but Felicity doesn't move. She's fascinated by the painting.

"You wouldn't leave me out, would you?" she asks me.

"Leave you out of what?" I ask.

"The realms. The Order. All of it."

"Of course not."

She cocks her head to one side."Do you think they missed him terribly when he fell? Did God cry over his lost angel, I wonder?"

"I don't know," I say.

Felicity links her arm through mine, and we stroll after the others, leaving the angels and their eternal struggle behind.

"I say, is that you, Ann? It is our Annie!"

A woman approaches us. She's quite overdressed in ropes of pearls and diamond earbobs that would be better suited to evening.

It is obvious that she has money and that she wants everyone to know it. I am embarrassed for her. Her husband, a man with a neatly trimmed mustache, doffs his tall black hat to us. He carries an ornate walking stick for effect.

The woman embraces Ann gingerly."What a surprise it is to see you here. But why are you not at the school?"

"I--I--I...."Ann stammers."M-may I present my cousin, Mrs. Wharton."

Introductions are made, and we come to understand that Mrs. Wharton is Ann's distant cousin, the one helping with her schooling so that she might become governess to her children in another year.

"I do hope the exhibit is tasteful," Mrs. Wharton says, wrinkling her nose. "We took in an exhibit in Paris that was obscene, I'm sorry to say. Paintings of savages sitting about without a stitch on." "It certainly was dear enough," Mr. Wharton says, laughing, though it is in very bad taste to mention money.

Miss Moore stiffens beside me. "Ah. True art appreciators, I see. You simply must see the Moretti painting," she adds, mentioning the daring painting of a nude Venus, goddess of love, that made me blush with its boldness. It is certain to offend the Whartons, and I suspect she has done this on purpose.

"We shall indeed. Thank you," Mrs. Wharton chirps. "It is fortunate indeed that our paths crossed, Annie. It seems our governess, Elsa, is leaving sooner than expected. She'll be going in May, and we shall need you to begin straightaway. I know Charlotte and Caroline will enjoy having their cousin as governess, though I suspect Charlotte is looking forward to having someone call her Miss Charlotte now that she is eight. You mustn't let her boss you about too much." She laughs at this, oblivious to Ann's torment.

"We should be getting on, Mrs. Wharton," Mr. Wharton says, offering his arm. He has grown bored with us already.

"Yes, Mr. Wharton. I shall write to Mrs. Nightingale," his wife says, getting the name wrong. "So very nice to have met you," she says, letting her husband lead her away like a child.

We repair to a dark, cozy tearoom for afternoon tea. It is not like the clubs and parlors we usually visit, filled with flowers and stiff talk. This is a place for working women, and it fairly pulses with activity. Felicity and I are alive with the power of art. We discuss our favorite paintings and Miss Moore tells us what she knows about the artists themselves, which makes us feel very sophisticated, as if we are guests at some famous salon in Paris. Only Ann is silent. She drinks her tea and eats two large pieces of cake, one right after the other.

"Continue eating like that, and you'll never fit into your gown by the Christmas ball," Felicity chides.

"What does it matter?" Ann asks. "You heard my cousin. I'll be gone by May."

"Come now, Miss Bradshaw. There are always other choices," Miss Moore says crisply."Your future hasn't been decided just yet."

"Yes, it has. They've helped to pay my way at Spence. I am indebted to them." "What if you refused them but offered to repay your debt once you'd secured employment elsewhere?" Miss Moore asks.

"I could never repay the debt."

"You could, over time. It wouldn't be easy, but it could be done."

"But they'd be so very angry with me," Ann says.

"Yes, most likely. It shan't kill any of you."

"I couldn't bear to have someone think badly of me."

"Would you rather spend your life at the mercy of Mrs. Wharton and the Misses Charlotte and Caroline?"

Ann stares at the crumbs on her plate. The sadness is that I know Ann. Her answer is yes. She gives a weak smile."Perhaps I'll be like the heroine in one of those schoolgirl stories, and someone will come for me. A rich uncle. Or I might strike the fancy of a good man who wishes to make me his wife." She says this last bit glancing nervously at me, and I know she is thinking of Tom.