"Best not hold you here. You don't want to be late for Mr. Grunewald. Rememberbe sparing with the marmalade."

"Yes, I'll do that. Thank you," I say, and stumble out the door. I am lower than a crustacean. I don't even deserve to have a teacher like Mademoiselle LeFarge. And even so, I know I'm going to be out in the caves tonight, disappointing her in ways I hope she never discovers.

Pippa's note peeks out of the edges of my French book. Slowly, I open it. Her perfect round script is cruel and mocking.

Let's meet at the boathouse this afternoon. My mother sent new gloves, and I shall let you wear them. For pity's sake, don't invite her. If she tried to put her big ox hands inside, the gloves would be thoroughly ruined.

For the first time all day, I'm afraid I really will vomit, though it has nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with how deeply I hate them at this momentPippa, for writing the note, and Felicity for giving it to me.

As it turns out, Pippa won't be going to the boathouse after all. The great hall is abuzz with the newsMr. Bumble is here. Every girl at Spence, from six to sixteen, is crowded around Brigid, who is delivering the latest gossip to us in breathless fashion. She goes on and on about what a fine, respectable man he is, how beautiful Pippa looks, and what a grand match they are. I don't believe I've ever seen Brigid so animated. Who could have guessed that the old sourpuss was a secret romantic?

"Yes, but what does he look like?" Martha wants to know.

"Is he handsome? Tall? Does he have all his teeth?" Cecily presses.

" Aye" Brigid says, knowingly. She's relishing thisbeing the oracle for a bit. "Handsome and respectable," she says again, in case we missed this salient quality the first time. "Oh, wot a luv'ly match our Miss Pippa has made. Let this be a lesson to youif you take to heart all that Mrs. Nightwing and the othersincluding yours trulyimpart, you could be where Miss Pippa's headed. To the altar in a rich man's carriage."

It seems the wrong time to mention that if Mrs. Nightwing and the others, including Brigid, were so knowledgeable they might be altar-bound themselves. I can see by the dewy-eyed rapture on the girls' faces that they are taking Brigid's words to be gospel truth.

"Where are they now?" Felicity presses.

"Well." Brigid leans in close. "I 'eard Mrs. Nightwing say they'd be touring the gardens, but"

Felicity turns to the girls. "We could see the gardens from the window on the second-floor landing!"

Amid Brigid's protests, there is a mad stampede up the stairs to the window. We older girls elbow our way past the younger girls, their petulant "no fair!"s no match for our sheer power and force. Within seconds, we've secured our position at the window and the others mash in behind us, straining for a view.

Out in the gardens, Mrs. Nightwing chaperones Pippa and Mr. Bumble along the path that weaves through the rows of roses and hyacinths. Through the open window, we have an unobstructed view of them standing awkwardly apart. Pippa is burying her face in a nosegay of red flowers that he must have brought her. She looks bored out of her mind. Mrs. Nightwing is prattling on about the different flora on the path.

"Could you make room for the rest of us, please?" a chubby girl demands, hands on hips.

"Shove off," Felicity growls, deliberately using bad language to intimidate her.

"I'm going to tell Mrs. Nightwing!" the girl squawks.

"Do it and see what happens. Now shushwe're trying to hear!"

Bodies squirm and press, but at least there's no more whingeing. It's so odd to see Pippa and Mr. Bumble together. Despite Brigid's glowing report, he is, in fact, a fat, bushy-whiskered man, who is quite a bit older than Pippa. He looks off over Mrs. Nightwing's head as if he's above it all. As far as I can tell, there is nothing special about him. Some of the younger girls have managed to crawl beneath us. They're struggling up between our bodies and the window like weeds toward the window's light. We push against them, and they push back. We're all on top of each other, trying to get a better look and to listen.

"Lucky Pip," Cecily says. "She could marry a suitable chap and not even have to go through a season, having every man and his mother size her up for marriage."

"I don't think Pip would agree with you," Felicity says. "I don't think that's what she wants at all."

"Well, it's not as if we can do what we want, is it?" Elizabeth says simply.

No one has anything to say to that. The breeze shifts toward us, carrying Mrs. Nightwing's voice with it. She says something about roses being the flower of true love. And then they're around a tall hedge, hidden from sight.