Rebel Angels

by Libba Bray

  “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.

&nb
sp; 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.”

  We look at each other guiltily. "Yes, Miss Moore.”

  “Ann, what have you done there?” she asks.

  Ann’s been scribbling on a piece of paper. She tries to cover it with her hand. "N-nothing.”

  That’s all it takes for Felicity to pull it away.

  “Give that back!” Ann whines, trying unsuccessfully to grab it.

  Felicity reads aloud. “Hester Moore. Room She Reet.”

  “It is an anagram of your name. Not a very good one,” Ann says hotly. "Fee, if you please!”

  Felicity reads on, undaunted. “O, Set Her More. Set More Hero.” Felicity’s eyes flash. A feral grin appears. “Er Tom? Eros He.”

  It doesn’t matter that it makes no sense. It is that Tom and Eros have been combined in the same sentence that has humiliated Ann to no end. She snatches it back. Others in the tearoom have noted our childish behavior, and I’m terribly embarrassed that our visit has ended on such a note. Miss Moore will probably never invite us on an outing again.

  Indeed, she checks her pocket watch. "I should be seeing you girls home.”

  In the cab, Miss Moore says, “I do hope you have no further acquaintance with the water nymphs. They sound particularly gruesome.”

  “That makes two of us,” Ann says, shivering.

  “Perhaps you can bring me into the story. I should like to fight the nymphs, I think.” Miss Moore adopts a mock heroic face. It makes us laugh. I am relieved. I’ve so enjoyed our day; I should hate to think there will not be another like it.

  When Ann and Felicity are safely home again, we travel the short distance to Belgrave Square. Miss Moore takes in the sight of the lovely house.

  “Would you like to come in and meet Grandmama?” I ask.

  “Another time, perhaps.” She looks a bit worried. “Gemma, do you really distrust this Miss McCleethy?”

  “There is something unsettling about her,” I answer. “I cannot say what it is.”

  Miss Moore nods. “Very well. I shall make enquiries of my own. Perhaps it is nothing at all, and we shall laugh at how silly we’ve all been. In the meantime, you might do well to be wary of her.”

  “Thank you, Miss Moore,” I say. " Thank you for everything.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WHEN I COME THROUGH THE DOOR, M
RS. JONES IS beside herself. "Your grandmother is expecting you in the parlor, miss. She said for you to come the moment you arrived.”

  Mrs. Jones sounds so dire that I am afraid something terrible has happened to Father or Tom. I burst into the parlor to see Grandmama sitting with Lady Denby and Simon. I have just come in from the cold. My nose is on the verge of dripping from the sudden warmth of the room. I will it to stop.

  “Lady Denby and Mr. Middleton have come to pay us a call, Gemma,” Grandmama says with a panicked smile as she takes in my rough appearance. "We shall wait for you to dress so that you can receive them.”

  It is not a request.

  Once I am presentable, we take a stroll in Hyde Park. Lady Denby and Grandmama trail behind us, allowing Simon and me a chance to talk while also being chaperoned.

  “Such a lovely day for a walk,” I say, even as a few wayward snowflakes land on my coat sleeve.

  “Yes,” Simon agrees, taking pity on me. "Brisk. But lovely.”

  Silence stretches between us like an elastic garter near to snapping.

  “Have you—”

  “Was—”

  “Forgive me,” I say.

  “The fault is mine. Please, do go on,” Simon says, making my heart skip a beat.

  “I was simply wondering...” What? I’d nothing to say. I was only desperate to make conversation and prove myself a witty, amusing, and thoughtful girl, the sort one cannot imagine living without. The difficulty, of course, is that I am in command of none of these qualities at present. It should prove a miracle if I can make some commentary on the state of the cobblestones. “. . . if . . . what I mean is . . . I . . . Aren’t the trees so lovely this time of year?”