It is one week later before I stop refusing to discuss the events of that night. Pippa does not seem to understand. Although I know that to be married against your will must be simply abhorrent, she does not seem to realise that I have lost so much these past few weeks. I do not know that I am strong enough to lose anything else.
"Gemma, darling, please speak to us. You simply must. We're worried about you." Felicity grabs my fingers and interlocks them seductively with her own. I try to tear away, but she is surprisingly strong and her fingers flex and grip mine until I relent, wincing slightly under the pressure.
"Felicity, I've told you, I've told you all, I'm fine. I just don't want to talk about it."
"Well, you don't want to talk about anything, it seems." Pippa pouts petulantly, and a flash of dislike crosses my vision. I don't understand how she can be so selfish and thoughtless, and yet I still regard her as one of my closest friends. I don't understand any of them.
How can Pippa be so distraught over her engagement, when she is using it as a weapon against everyone? She is taking advantage of it, and although I understand that she may want to discuss it, she should at least realise that I may not be in the mood for idle chitchat at the moment. And, similarly, how can Ann be so bold and brave and hopeful one minute and then collapse, beaten and broken, the next? It does not make sense.
But the one who tests my logic and sanity the most is, of course, Felicity. I despise her and adore her all at the same time. She is nothing to me, and she is everything to me, and I love her and hate her and she is cruel and kind and everything imaginable in the world.
She is Felicity.
She holds my hand and kisses my mouth and cuts me with her sharp as steel gaze. But I know she is real. I have the scars to prove it.
I do not see Kartik for that week, and it finally sinks in that, now my mother is gone and my sister is at rest, he has no real reason to stay.
Apart from me.
But I am not a real reason.
It stings, to be truthful. I thought I meant something to him, thought I meant more than rash kisses and grazing fingertips and floating fantasies. But how could I? He was a man, a full-grown man, and I am a 16-year-old schoolgirl. He is a gypsy, and I am a proper English lady. He is dangerous and passionate and wild and I am –
Am I? Am I really boring and insipid and predictable? A meek wife, a good mother, a gossiping society lady? Is that all I really am?
Are any of us?
I know that Felicity is more, certainly. And Ann, well, Ann will never even be that. And Pippa ... it seems as though Pippa will become that, but I will do as much as I can to swim against that current.
My only question is, will she?
Her wedding date is set, everything is falling into place. Her parents, her mother in particular, are ecstatic, joyously awaiting the fateful day. The ring gleams wickedly on her finger, a detestable reminder of her destiny every time she looks down.
He has come to meet her.
We are told this in the morning. It is Sunday, and our day of rest. This is when we catch up with work, write letters to our loved ones, continue with our cross stitch and finish our reading books. Some of the younger girls are playing skipping games in various places across the grounds, and I can hear childish laughter as they sing limericks and rhymes.
Felicity, Ann and I are waiting agitatedly in mine and Ann's room. Felicity is pacing the worn floorboards, rhythmically creaking as she steps down on the wood. Ann is chewing her bottom lip, sat slumped in front of the chipped mirror. She tries in vain to awaken her lank, dull hair. I watch, exasperated. It would be so much easier if she were to just ask for our help, but she refuses.
I myself am dressed to perfection: Felicity took care of that. My hair is finely curled, due to the rags that she put in last night by candlelight. My dress is fresh and pressed, and my skin smelling softly of rose water.
I almost wonder why we are going to all of this trouble: he has not come to see us, but Pip. But whenever I try to tentatively bring up the subject, Felicity's eyes flash with irritation, and Ann sighs, defeated.
So I say nothing at all.
Fee reaches the window once more, and squeals in surprise. A handsome carriage pulls up to the school, and we can hear it, even up here, crunching across the neat gravel. Fee is out of the door before Ann even rises, and I grab her hand and drag her after me.
"Why are we running?" pants Ann, breathless, and I hurtle round the bend in the stairs and arrive, gasping and trying to regain my composure, in front of the door.
Pippa looks delightful, and I know that she detests it. She is wearing a dress of pale blue silk, with a matching ribbon in her hair and little white gloves. She positively shines, but Felicity breathes in her ear, "Pip, darling, you look simply horrendous. Once he sees you, he will, no doubt, break off the engagement." Pippa tries to smile weakly, but it comes out as a pathetic little thing, and Felicity withdraws. We pretend to be idly walking through, although I can tell that Mrs Nightwing is not fooled. She smiles archly at us as we pace for the third time. Then the maid hurries to open the door and we crane surreptitiously to catch sight of the man that has claimed our dear Pippa.
He is old, older than I would have thought, 40 at least. He leers in the direction of Pippa, who can barely hide her distaste. He is balding and portly, with a red face and blubbery lips. He casts a wayward glance in our direction, and his eyes rest upon, first Felicity, and then me. I feel like I am a piece of meat hanging from a hook in a butchers shop, being eyed up by some customer. It is, altogether, and unpleasant experience, and my sympathy for my dear Pip grows even more.