Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2)

Rebel Angels (Gemma Doyle #2) Page 70

"He ... he spoke to me," I stammer.

Tom looks confused. "Mr. Carey spoke to you? That's impossible. Mr. Carey doesn't speak a word, ever. He is mute. What was it you thought he said to you?" "We're coming for you," I repeat, realizing as I say it that it was not Mr. Carey speaking to me but someone else.

Someone from the realms.

"What happened to Nell Hawkins?" I ask as we take a cab to meet Felicity and Ann on Regent Street.

"That information is privileged," Tom replies with a sniff.

"Come, Tom. I'm not likely to share it with anyone," I lie.

Tom shakes his head."Absolutely not. It is horrible and indelicate, not the sort of thing for a young lady's ears. Besides, you've a vivid imagination as it is. I won't add to your nightmares."

"Very well," I grumble."Will she recover?"

"Difficult to say. I am working to that end, though I doubt she will ever return to Saint Victoria's. I would advise against it, certainly."

I sit straight up, my nerves on fire."What did you say?"

"I said I would advise against it."

"No, before that."

"Saint Victoria's School for Girls. It's in Swansea, I believe. It's said to be a very fine school, but one does wonder. Why do you ask?"

There's a tingle in my stomach, a sense of foreboding. A snake ring. A woman in green. Don't trust her . . . "I believe one of our teachers comes from Saint Victoria's."

"Well, I do hope they keep better watch over the flock at Spence than they do at Saint Victoria's. That is all I can say about the matter," Tom states grimly.

I am troubled beyond words. Was Miss McCleethy at St. Victoria's when Nell Hawkins was a pupil there? What happened that is too "indelicate" for Tom to share? What happened to Nell Hawkins that drove her mad? Whatever it was, I pray that I shall not suffer the same fate.

"Have you an address for Saint Victoria's?" I ask.

"Yes. Why?"Tom's suspicious.

I look out at the shops displaying their Christmas wares. "Our headmistress charged me--us--with performing an act of charity over the holiday. I thought perhaps I could write to them, let them know that another schoolgirl is spending time with Miss Hawkins and reminding her of happier days."

"Very commendable. In that case, I shall give you the address. Ah, here we are."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE CAB STOPS BEFORE A STATIONER'S SHOP ON Regent Street. Felicity and Ann rush out to meet us, trailed by the ever-observant Franny. I want desperately to tell them what I've learned about Nell Hawkins and wonder how I shall possibly do so now.

Tom tips his hat to my friends. Pleasantries are exchanged. "How are you finding London, Miss Bradshaw?" he asks.

"I like it ever so much," Ann says, giving him a ridiculously demure smile.

"That is a very smart hat. It becomes you."

"Thank you," Ann mumbles, looking at the ground shyly. In a moment, I shall hurl myself under a passing brougham.

"Might I escort you into the stationer's?"

Felicity smiles impatiently."Yes, we're very grateful, I'm sure, but you mustn't trouble yourself. Good day to you."

"That was not very hospitable of you," Ann scolds--as much as Ann can scold--once we're inside the shop.

"I could have told him that Very smart hat' was mine," Felicity snaps.

"I've news," I say, before Ann can retort. Now I've got their full attention.

"What is it?" Ann asks.

Franny hovers near, her eyes trained on the distance before us, her ears taking in our every word with a reporter's accuracy.

"We shan't have any fun at all with her in tow," Felicity whispers bitterly as we make a pretense of examining the sheaves of thick ivory paper bundled in colorful ribbons. "She dogs our every step as if she were Mrs. Nightwing herself. It is impossible to think that we have more freedom at Spence, but there it is."

We leave the stationer's shop and walk past a milliner's, a linen draper's, a toy shop, and a tobacconist, where gentlemen sit smoking fat cigars. The steets are crowded with people hunting for just the right pair of gloves for Aunt Prudence or the perfect toy drum for little Johnny. Franny does not lose her stride, however, and Felicity is on the verge of a full snit.

"Mama thinks she can run off to France, then come back and act as if I am to be under her heel and smile about it. Well, it won't do. I've a mind to give Franny the slip," Felicity complains, pouting.