Rebel Angels (20 page)

“We?” I ask, when I find my voice again.

Behind her in the jungle growth are perhaps a dozen or so young girls, many of them burned, all of them dead.

“Those of us who couldn’t get out. Fire got some; some jumped and the fall got ’em,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

“Can’t rightly say,” she answers. "Feels like forever.”

“When was the fire?” Pippa asks.

“Third of December 1895, miss. Lot of wind that day, I recall.” They’ve been here about two weeks, less time than Pippa. “I’ve seen you before, miss,” she says, nodding to Pippa. “You and yer gen’leman.”

Pippa’s mouth hangs open. “I’ve never seen you in my life. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I am sorry for the offense, miss. I meant no harm, I’m sure.” I don’t know why Pip’s in such a foul temper. She’s not helping matters.

The girl tugs at my sleeve, and I have to hold back the scream when I see that hand on me.
"Is this heaven or hell, miss?”

“It is neither,” I say, taking a step back. "What is your name?”

“Mae. Mae Sutter.”

“Mae,” I whisper. "Has anyone among you been acting strangely?”

She thinks for a moment. “Bessie Timmons,” she says, pointing to another burned girl with a badly broken arm. “But in truth, miss, she’s always been a bit strange. She’s been talking to somebody off by herself, telling us we need to follow her to a place called the Winterlands, that they can help us there.”

“Listen closely to me, Mae. You must not go to the Winterlands. Soon everything will be as it should be, and you and your friends will cross over the river to what lies beyond.”

Mae looks at me, scared. "And what might that be?”

“I—I don’t know exactly,” I say, offering no comfort. “But in the meantime, you must trust no one you meet here. Do you understand?”

She gives me a hard look. “Then why should I trust you, miss?” She walks back to her friends, and as she does I hear her say, “They can’t help us. We’re on our own.”

“All those spirits waiting to cross . . . ,” Felicity says.

“Waiting to be corrupted,” Ann says.

“You don’t know that,” Pippa says.

We fall silent.

“Let’s press on,” I say. "Perhaps the Temple is near.”

“I don’t want to go on,” Pippa says. “I don’t want to see any more horror. I’m going back to the garden. Who’s joining me?”

I look to the green ahead of us. The path dwindles under a heavy cover of leaves. But through them, I think I see a flash of ghostly, glowing white rustling through the brush.

Bessie Timmons steps onto the path. There’s a hard look in her eye.
"Why don’t you clear off, then, if you can’t help us? Go on—clear off. Or else.”

She doesn’t explain what the “or else” might be. Some of the other girls come to stand behind her, closing ranks. They don’t want us here. It’s not worth fighting them, not right now.

“Come on,” I say. "Let’s go back.”

We turn back on the little path. Bessie Timmons calls out behind us.

“Don’t be so proud. Soon you’ll all be like we are. My friends are coming for us. They’ll make us whole! They’ll make us queens! And you’ll be nothing but dust.”

The walk back to the garden is a quiet one. We are tired and sticky and sullen, Pippa particularly.

“Now may we please have a bit of fun?” she huffs when we’ve reached the place where the runes used to stand. “This hunting about for the Temple is so dreary.”

“I know a place for games, m’lady.”

From behind a tree the knight emerges, startling us all. He has a cloth-wrapped bundle in one hand. We gasp and he falls to one knee.
"Did I frighten you?” he asks, cocking his head to one side so that his curtain of straw-gold hair falls bewitchingly across his face.

Pippa flashes him a dark look. "You haven’t been summoned.”

“I am sorry,” he says. He does not sound sorry. He sounds as if he is enjoying himself at our expense. “How shall I pay for my fault, m’lady? What would you bid me do?” He places his dagger at his throat.
"Do you demand blood, m’lady?”

Pippa is oddly cool. "If you wish.”

“What is your wish, m’lady?”

Pippa turns away, her long black curls bouncing against her shoulder blades.
"I wish for you to leave me alone.”

“Very well, m’lady,” the knight says. “But I shall leave you with a gift.”

He tosses the bundle to the ground and walks back into the thicket.

“I thought you said you’d gotten rid of him,” Felicity says.

“Yes. I thought I had,” Pippa answers.

“What did he bring you?” Ann asks. She unwraps the bundle and falls back in the grass with a small scream.

“What is it?” Felicity and I ask, rushing forward.

It is a goat’s head, covered in flies and dried blood.

“How horrid!” Ann says, putting her hand to her mouth.

“If that man were to return I’d have something to say to him,” Felicity says, her cheeks pink.

It was a ghastly thing to do, and I wonder that the knight, who was once dreamed of and called by Pippa’s longing— a creature bound to her by the magic—could have become so cruel. Pippa’s staring at the goat’s head intently. She clutches her stomach, and at first, I think she is going to be ill or cry. But then she licks her lips just slightly, a look of longing in her eyes.

She sees me watching her. “I’ll give it a proper burial later,” she says, linking her arm through mine.

“Yes, that would be good,” I say, moving away.

“Come back tomorrow!” she shouts. "We’ll try another path. I’m sure we’ll find it tomorrow!”

The ornate cuckoo clock on Felicity’s mantel cries the hour. It feels as though we’ve been gone for hours but it’s been less than a second of London time. I’m still unsettled by the day’s events—Miss McCleethy standing outside Bedlam, the anagram, Mae Sutter and her friends. And Pippa. Yes, especially Pippa.

“Shall we have some fun?” Felicity asks, rushing for the front door with us running behind her.

Shames, the butler, comes after us. “Miss Worthington? What is the matter?”

Felicity closes her eyes and holds out her hand. “You don’t see me here, Shames. We are in the sitting room having our tea.”

Without a word, Shames shakes his head as if he cannot understand why the door is standing open. He closes it behind us, and we are free.

The London fog hides the stars. They glint here and there but cannot break through the soupy sky.

“What should we do now?” Ann asks.

Felicity breaks into a broad grin. "Everything.”

Flying over London on a cold night by magic is an extraordinary thing. Here are the gentlemen leaving their clubs, the queue of carriages coming up to meet them. There are the mudlarks, those poor, grubby children, searching through the filthy banks of the Thames for a few coins and a bit of luck. We’ve only to dip low and we could touch the tops of the theaters in the West End or put our fingertips to the great Gothic spires of the Houses of Parliament, which we do. Ann sits upon the rooftop beside the towering clock of Big Ben.

“Look,” she says, laughing. "I’ve a seat in Parliament.”

“We could do anything! Steal into Buckingham Palace and wear the crown jewels,” Felicity says, stepping across the spindly towers on her tiptoes.

“You w-wouldn’t d-do that, w-would you?” Ann asks, horrified.

“No, she wouldn’t,” I answer firmly.

It is exhilarating to have such freedom. We fly lazily over the river, coming to rest beneath Waterloo Bridge. A rowboat passes under us, its lantern fighting the fog and losing. It’s a curious thing, but I can hear the thoughts of the old gentleman in the boat, just as I have those of the fallen women in the Haymarket and the toppers driving through Hyde Park in their fancy private carriages as we were flying past. It is faint, like overhearing a conversation in another room, but nonetheless, I know what they are feeling.

The old man puts stones in his pocket, and I know his purpose.

“We’ve got to stop that man in the boat,” I say.

“Stop him from what?” Ann asks, twirling in the air.

“Can’t you hear him?”

“No,” Ann says. Felicity shakes her head as she floats on her back like a swimmer.

“He means to kill himself.”

“How do you know that?” Felicity asks.

“I can hear his thoughts,” I say.

They’re dubious, but they follow me down into the thick fog. The man sings a mournful song about a bonnie lass lost forever as he puts the last of the stones in his pocket and moves to the edge of the rocking boat.

“You were right!” Ann gasps.

“Who goes there?” the man shouts.

“I’ve an idea,” I whisper to my friends. "Follow me.”

We push through the fog, and the man nearly topples backward at the sight of three girls floating toward him.

“You mustn’t do such a desperate act,” I say in a quavering voice that I hope sounds otherworldly.

The man falls to his knees, his eyes wide. “Wh-what are you?”

“We are the ghosts of Christmas, and woe to any man who does not heed our warnings,” I wail.

Felicity moans and turns a flip for good measure. Ann stares at her openmouthed, but I, for one, am impressed by her quick thinking and her acrobatics.

“What is your warning?” the old man squeaks.

“If you should persist in this dreadful course, a terrible curse shall befall you,” I say.

“And your family,” Felicity intones.

“And their families,” Ann adds, which I think is a bit much, but there’s no taking it back.

It works. The man removes stones from his pocket so quickly I fear he’ll turn over the boat. “Thank you!” he says. “Yes, thank you, I’m sure.”

Satisfied, we fly away home, laughing at our resourcefulness and feeling quite smug indeed about saving a man’s life. When we reach the elegant houses of Mayfair once again, I’m drawn to Simon’s house. It would be an easy thing to fly close and perhaps hear his thoughts. For a moment, I hover, moving closer to him, but at the last moment, I change course, following Felicity and Ann into the sitting room again, where the tea is now cold.

“That was thrilling!” Felicity says, taking a seat.

“Yes,” Ann says. "I wonder why Fee and I weren’t able to hear his thoughts as well.”

“I don’t know,” I say.

A little girl in immaculate dress and pinafore steals in. She can’t be more than eight years old. Her fair hair has been pulled back at the crown with a fat white ribbon. Her eyes are the same blue-gray as Felicity’s. In fact, she looks a good deal like Felicity.

“What do you want?” Felicity snaps.

A governess steps in. “I’m sorry, Miss Worthington. Miss Polly seems to have lost her doll. I’ve told her she must take greater care with her things.”

So this is little Polly. I pity her for living with Felicity.

“Here it is,” Felicity says, finding the doll under the Persian carpet.
"Wait. Let me be certain she’s all right.”

Felicity makes a show of playing nursemaid to the doll, which makes Polly giggle, but when she closes her eyes and puts her hands over the doll, I feel the tug on the magic that we’ve brought back.

“Felicity!” I say, breaking her concentration.

She hands the doll to Polly. “There now, Polly. All better. Now you’ve got someone to look after you.”

“What did you do?” I ask, when Polly’s gone to the nursery with her governess.

“Oh, don’t look at me that way! The doll’s arm was broken. I only fixed it,” Felicity huffs.

“You wouldn’t do anything to harm her, would you?”

“No,” Felicity says coolly. "I wouldn’t.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

THE MOMENT I WAKE, I DASH OFF A LETTER TO THE headmistress of St. Victoria’s School for Girls asking when Miss McCleethy was in their employ. I have Emily post it before the ink is completely dry.

As it is Thursday, Miss Moore takes us to the gallery as promised. We travel by omnibus through the London streets. It is glorious to sit at the top, the bracing wind in our faces, peering down at the people milling about on the streets and at the horses pulling carts filled with wares. It is less than a week until Christmas, and the weather has turned much colder. Overhead, the clouds are heavy with the coming snow. Their white underbellies sit on the chimney tops, swallowing them whole before moving on to the next and the next, resting each time as if they have such a long way to go.

“Our stop is nigh, ladies,” Miss Moore calls out over the street noise. The wind has picked up so that she has to secure her hat with one hand. With careful steps, we descend the staircase that leads to the bottom of the omnibus, where a smartly uniformed conductor takes our hands and helps us into the street.

“Gracious me,” Miss Moore says, adjusting her hair beneath her hat.
"I thought I should blow away entirely.”

The gallery is housed in a former gentlemen’s club. Many people have come out today. We move from floor to floor in their close company, taking in each exquisite painting. Miss Moore leads us down a hall devoted to the works of lesser-known artists. There are quiet portraits of pensive maidens, fiery scenes of war at sea, and pastoral landscapes that make me want to run barefoot through them. I find that I am drawn to a large painting in the corner. In it, an army of angels are joined in battle. Below them lies a lush garden and a lone tree, and a great number of people turned away, moaning. Below that is a vast wasteland of black rock bathed in a fiery orange glow. A golden city sits in the clouds far above. In the center, two angels are locked in combat, arms entwined till I cannot tell where one stops and the other begins. It is as if without this struggle to keep them aloft, they might both pitch into the void.

“Did you find something you like?” Miss Moore asks, suddenly by my side.

“I cannot say,” I answer. "It’s . . . disturbing.”

“Good art often is. What do you find disturbing about this painting?”

I take in the vibrant hues of the oils, the reds and oranges of the fire; the whites and pale grays of the angels’ wings; the variations of the flesh tones that make muscles seem to come alive, straining for victory.

“It seems rather desperate, as if there’s too much at stake.”

Miss Moore leans forward to read the brass plate beneath the painting. “Artist unknown. Circa 1801. A Host of Rebel Angels.” She quotes what sounds like poetry. “ ‘To reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav’n.’ John Milton.
Paradise Lost,
Book One. Have you ever read it?”

“No,” I say, blushing.

“Miss Worthington? Miss Bradshaw?” Miss Moore asks. They shake their heads. “Gracious, what is to become of the Empire when we do not read our best English poets? John Milton, born 1608, died 1674. His epic poem,
Paradise Lost,
is the story of Lucifer.” She points to the dark-haired angel in the center. “Heaven’s brightest and best-loved angel, who was cast out for inspiring a rebellion against God. Having lost heaven, Lucifer and his rebel angels vowed to continue fighting here on earth.”

Ann blows her nose daintily into her handkerchief. “I don’t understand why he had to fight. He was already in heaven.”

“True. But he wasn’t content to serve. He wanted more.”

“He had all he could ask for, didn’t he?” Ann asks.

“Exactly,” Miss Moore states. “He had to ask. He was dependent upon someone else’s whim. It’s a terrible thing to have no power of one’s own. To be denied.”

Felicity and Ann flash me a glance, and I feel a surge of guilt. I have the power. They do not. Do they hate me for it?

“Poor Lucifer,” Felicity murmurs.

Miss Moore laughs. "That is a most unusual thought, Miss Worthington. But you are in good company. Milton himself seemed to feel sympathy for him. As does this painter. Do you see how beautiful he’s made the dark angel?”

The three of us peer through the brushstrokes at the angels’ strong, perfect backs. They seem almost as lovers, oblivious to the rest of us. It’s the struggle that matters.

“I wonder . . . ,” Miss Moore muses.

“Yes, Miss Moore?” Ann prompts.

“What if evil doesn’t really exist? What if evil is something dreamed up by man, and there is nothing to struggle against except our own limitations? The constant battle between our will, our desires, and our choices?”

“But there is real evil,” I say, thinking of Circe.

Miss Moore gives me a curious look. "How do you know?”

“We’ve seen it,” Ann blurts out. Felicity coughs and gives Ann an indelicate elbow to the ribs.

Miss Moore leans in close. “You’re quite right. Evil does exist.” My heart skips a beat. Is this it? Will she confess something to us here and now? “It is called finishing school.” She gives a mock shudder, and we giggle. A grim, gray couple passes at that moment, giving us a sharp glance of disapproval.

Felicity stares at the painting as if she wants to touch it. “Do you think it’s possible . . . that some people aren’t quite right, in some way? That there is some evil in them that makes others . . .” She trails off.

“Makes others what?” Ann asks.

“Do things.”

I don’t know what she means.

Miss Moore keeps her eyes on the painting. “We must each be accountable for our own actions, Miss Worthington, if that is what you are asking.”

If that is indeed what Felicity wants to know, she doesn’t let on. I cannot tell whether her question has been answered.

“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.

“That’s rather a lot to hang your hopes on,” Miss Moore says. Ann sniffles. Fat teardrops fall into her tea.

“Come now,” Miss Moore says, patting her hand. “There is time. What shall we do to cheer you? Would you like to tell me more of your story about all the lovely things you do in the realms?”

“I’m beautiful there,” Ann says, voice thick with the ache of tears held back.

“Very beautiful,” I say. “Tell her how we frightened away the water nymphs!”

A smile flickers across Ann’s lips for a moment. “We did show them, didn’t we?”

Miss Moore pretends to be put out. “Now then, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me about the water nymphs.”

As we tell her the tale in great description, Miss Moore listens intently. “Ah, I see you’ve been reading after all. That is consistent with the ancient Greek tales of nymphs and sirens, who led sailors to their deaths with their song. And have you had success in finding your temple, was it?”

“Not yet. But we visited the Golden Dawn, a bookseller’s near Bond Street, and found a book on secret societies by a Miss Wilhelmina Wyatt,” Ann says.

“The Golden Dawn . . . ,” Miss Moore says, taking a bit of her cake.
"I don’t believe I know it.”

“Miss McCleethy had an advert for it in her suitcase,” Ann blurts out.
"Gemma saw it there.”

Miss Moore raises an eyebrow.

“It was open,” I say, blushing. "I could not help seeing it.”

“We saw Miss McCleethy there at the shop. She asked for the book, so we did as well. It has knowledge about the Order!” Felicity says.

“Did you know the Order used anagrams to conceal their true identities when needed?” I ask.

Miss Moore pours tea for us. "Is that so?”

Ann jumps in. “Yes, and when we did an anagram for Miss McCleethy, it spelled out
They Call Me Circe
. That proves it.”

“Proves what?” Miss Moore asks, spilling a bit of tea that she must sop up with her napkin.

“That Miss McCleethy is Circe, of course. And she’s come back to Spence for some diabolical purpose,” Felicity explains.

“Would that be the teaching of drawing or Latin?” Miss Moore asks with a wry smile.

“It is a serious matter, Miss Moore,” Felicity insists.

Miss Moore leans in with a solemn face. “So is accusing someone of witchcraft for visiting a bookseller’s.”

Properly chastised, we drink our tea.

“We followed her,” Ann says quietly. "She went to Bedlam, to where Nell Hawkins lives.”

Miss Moore stops midsip. "Nell Hawkins. Who is she?”

“She’s a girl who believes in the Order. She says that Circe is trying to get to her. That’s why she went mad,” Ann says with relish. She really does have a taste for the macabre.

“My brother, Tom, is a clinical assistant at Bethlem. Nell Hawkins is a patient there,” I explain.

“Interesting. And you’ve spoken with this person?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Did she tell you she was acquainted with Miss McCleethy?”

“No,” I answer, somewhat embarrassed. "She is mad, and it is difficult to decipher her ramblings. But she was at Saint Victoria’s School for Girls when this terrible misfortune befell her, and we’ve reason to believe that Miss McCleethy was in their employ at the same time.”

“That is curious,” Miss Moore says, pouring milk into her tea till the liquid turns a cloudy beige.
"Do you know that for a fact?”

“No,” I admit. “But I’ve sent an enquiry to their headmistress. I expect to know shortly.”

“Then you know nothing, really,” Miss Moore says, smoothing her napkin in her lap. “Until you do, I would advise you to be careful with your accusations. They can have unforeseen repercussions.”