Rebel Angels

"No, I don't believe he did."

Tom gives me a smirk. "I've become a clinical assistant at Bethlem Royal Hospital," he parrots smartly.

"Really, Thomas," Grandmama chides without enthusiasm.

"Do you mean Bedlam, the lunatic asylum?" I ask.

Tom's knife scrapes his plate."We do not call it that."

"Do eat your peas, Gemma," Grandmama says. "We've been invited to a ball hosted by Lady George Worthington, the admiral's wife. It is the most coveted invitation of the Christmas season. What sort of girl is Miss Worthington?"

Ah, an excellent question. Let's see. . . . She kisses Gypsies in the woods and once locked me in the chapel after asking me to steal the communion wine. By the light of a pale moon, I saw her kill a deer and climb from a ravine naked and splattered with blood. She is also, strangely, one of my best friends. Do not ask me to explain why.

"Spirited," I say.

"I thought tomorrow we would call upon my friend Mrs. Rogers. She is to have a program of music in the afternoon."

I take a deep breath."I've been invited to pay a call tomorrow."

Grandmama's fork stops midway to her mouth. "To whom? Why was no card left here for me? Absolutely not. Out of the question."

This is going well. Perhaps next I could hang myself with the table linens.

"It is Miss Moore, an art teacher at Spence." There is no need to mention her dismissal from that same institution. "She is tremendously popular and beloved, and of all her students, she has invited only Miss Bradshaw, Miss Worthington, and me to visit her at home. It is quite an honor."

"Miss Bradshaw . . . Didn't we meet her at Spence? She's the scholarship student, is she not?" Grandmama says, scowling. "The orphan?"

"Did I not tell you?" My newly discovered penchant for lying is fast becoming a skill.

"Tell me what?"

"It was discovered that Miss Bradshaw has a great-uncle, a duke, who lives in Kent, and she is actually descended from Russian royalty. A distant cousin to the czarina."

"You don't say!"Tom exclaims. "That is lucky indeed." "Yes," Grandmama says. "It's rather like those stories they print in the halfpenny papers."

Exactly. And please dig no further or you're likely to see the startling similarities.

"Perhaps I shall have to take another look at Miss Bradshaw now that she is in possession of a fortune," Tom jokes, though I suspect he may be in earnest.

"She is wise to fortune hunters," I warn Tom.

"Do you suppose she'd find me so disagreeable?" Tom sniffs.

"As she has both ears and eyes, yes," I snap back.

"Ha! You've been called down, my good man," Father says, laughing.

"John, don't encourage her. Gemma, it is not becoming to be so unkind," Grandmama chides. "I do not know this Miss Moore. I don't know that I can allow this visit."

"She gives excellent instruction in drawing and painting," I offer.

"And charges handsomely for it, no doubt. That sort always does," Grandmama says, taking a bite of potatoes. "Your drawing will not suffer during these few weeks. Your time is better spent at home or accompanying me on calls so that you may become better acquainted with people who matter."

I could kick her for that comment. Miss Moore is worth ten of her "people who matter." I clear my throat. "Of course, we will be making ornaments to brighten the hospitals this time of year. Miss Moore stresses that one cannot perform enough charitable acts."

"That is quite admirable," Grandmama says, cutting her pork loin into tiny pieces."Perhaps I shall go with you and see this Miss Moore for myself."

"No!" I practically shout. "What I mean is . . ." What do I mean? "Miss Moore would be terribly embarrassed to have her good works so publicly known. She advises discretion in all matters. As the Bible says ..." I pause. Having never read much of the Bible, I haven't the vaguest idea what it says. "Let thine ornaments be only for God's ears--fingers. God's fingers."

Hurriedly, I take a sip of tea. Grandmama seems perplexed. "The Bible says that? Where?"

Too much hot tea fills my mouth. I choke it down."Psalms," I rasp out, coughing.

Father gives me a curious look. He knows I'm lying.

"Psalms, you say? Which psalm?" Grandmama asks.

Father's wry smile seems to say, Aha, now you're caught in a trap, my girl.