A Great And Terrible Beauty (29 page)

“What if I refuse to bring you here the next time?”

Felicity has managed to pierce a small rabbit. It hangs limp and lifeless from her arrow. “What is the matter?”

Pippa pouts. “It’s Gemma. She doesn’t want to bring us back.”

Felicity is still holding the bloody arrow in one hand. “What’s all this, Gemma?” Her face is grim and determined and I find myself breaking the staring contest by looking away.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, you implied it,” Pippa sniffs.

“Can we just forget this whole silly argument?” I snap.

“Gemma.” Pippa sticks her bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Don’t be cross.”

Felicity adopts the same ridiculous face. “Gemma, please stop. It’s very hard to talk with my mouth like this.”

Ann is on it now. “I won’t smile until Gemma does. You can’t make me.”

“Yes.” Felicity is giggling through her bulldog face. “And everywhere people will say, ‘They use to be so attractive. Pity about that lip problem.’”

I can’t help it. I start to laugh. They roll on the ground with me then, the four of us screaming and making the most asinine faces imaginable till we’re exhausted and it’s time to go.

The door appears, and we slip one by one through the portal. I’m the last to go. My skin is beginning to tingle with the door’s breath-stopping energy when I catch sight of Mother holding the little girl’s hand. Beneath the large white pinafore, the girl’s dress is colorful and unusual. Not something one would see at an English girls’ school. Interesting that I’ve never noticed it.

The two of them are looking at me, hopeful and wary. As if I can change things for them. But how can I help them when I don’t even know how to help myself?

TODAY
IS
ASSEMBLY
DAY
. MY
DICTIONARY
HAS
NO formal entry for this occasion, but if it did, it might go something like this:

Assembly Day
(n.)
A boarding school tradition in which the family of the schoolgirl is allowed a visit, resulting in the mortification of all and the enjoyment of none.

I’ve coiffed my hair, buttoned, laced, and pinned myself into ladylike perfection—or as close as I can get to it. But inside, I’m still reeling from my visit with Mother and our argument. I behaved terribly. Tonight I’ll go to her and apologize, feel her warm arms around me again.

Still, I wish I could tell my family—Father especially—that I’ve seen Mother. That somewhere beyond here in another world, she is alive and loving and beautiful as we all remember her to be. I have no idea what I’ll find when I go downstairs, and I’m torn up with hoping and wishing. Father might walk in, looking well fed and well groomed in his fine black suit. He might hold out a gift for me, something wrapped in gold paper. He might call me his jewel, might even get sour-faced Brigid to laugh at his tales, might hold me close.
He might. He might. Might. Is there any opiate more powerful than that word?

“Perhaps I could come along with you,” Ann says as I try to tame my hair for the hundredth time. It doesn’t want to stay neatly coiled atop my head as a lady’s should.

“You’d be dreadfully bored within five minutes,” I say, pinching roses into my cheeks that flare and fade straightaway. I don’t want Ann along when I’m not sure of what I’ll find.

“Will your brother be coming today?” Ann asks.

“Yes, God help us all,” I mutter. I don’t want to encourage Ann where Tom is concerned. Two springy curls flop down low on my forehead. I’ve got to do something with this hair.

“At least you have a brother to annoy you.”

In the washstand mirror, I catch a glimpse of Ann sitting forlornly on her bed, dressed in her best with nowhere to go, no one to see. I’m going on and on about the trials of seeing my family, while she’ll spend the entire day alone. Assembly Day must be excruciating for her.

“All right,” I sigh. “If you’re up for the torture, you can come along.”

She doesn’t say thank you. We both know it’s a mission of mercy, but for which one of us, I can’t say yet. I take in the sight of her. White dress straining at the seams over her chubby body. Wisps of lank hair already escaping from her chignon, hanging in her watery eyes. She’s not the beauty I saw last night in the garden.

“Let’s do something with that hair of yours.”

She tries to see around me in the mirror. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing a good brushing and several pins can’t cure. Hold still.”

I take down her hair. The brush yanks through a knotty snarl at the base of her scalp. “Ouch!”

“The price of beauty,” I say by way of apologizing without really apologizing. After all, she said she wanted to come along.

“The price of baldness, you mean.”

“If you’d hold still, this wouldn’t be so difficult.”

She’s suddenly so still she could be mistaken for a stone. Pain is underrated as a tool of motivation. I put what seems like a thousand pins in to hold her hair in place. It’s not half bad. At least it’s an improvement, and I’m feeling a little impressed with myself, actually. Ann positions herself in front of the mirror.

“What do you think?” I ask.

She turns her head left and right. “I liked it the other way.”

“There’s gratitude for you. You’re not going to be this sullen all day, are you? Because if you are—”

Felicity pushes open the door and leans provocatively against the frame, playing the coquette. “
Bonjour, mesdemoiselles
. ’Tis I, the Queen of Sheba. You may save your genuflecting for later.” The laces of her corset have been cinched so tight that her breasts are pushed forward noticeably. “What do you think, darlings? Am I not irresistible?”

“Beautiful,” I answer. When Ann hesitates, I nudge her foot with mine.

“Yes, beautiful,” she echoes.

Felicity smiles as if she’s only just discovering the world. “He’s coming. I can’t wait for him to see what a lady I’ve become these past two years. Can you believe it’s been two long years since I last saw my father?” She twirls around the room. “Of course, you must meet him. He’ll adore you all, I’m sure of it. I want him to see that I’m getting on well here. Does either of you have any scent?”

Ann and I shake our heads.

“No perfume at all? I can’t go without smelling lovely!” Felicity’s mood is dropping fast.

“Here,” I say, pulling a rose from a vase on the windowsill. The petals crush easily, leaving a sweet, sticky juice on my fingers. I dab it behind Felicity’s ears and onto her wrists.

She brings her wrist to her nose and inhales. “Perfect! Gemma, you are a genius!” She throws her arms around me, gives me a little kiss. It’s a bit disconcerting, this side of Felicity, like having a pet shark that thinks itself a goldfish.

“Where’s Pip?” Ann asks.

“Downstairs. Her parents came with Mr. Bumble. Can you imagine? Let’s hope she sends him packing today. Well,” Felicity says, breaking away. “
Adieu, les fille
s. I shall see you anon.” With a low bow, she is gone in a haze of roses and hope.

“Come on, then,” I say to Ann, wiping the last traces of flower from my fingers. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

The front parlor is crowded with girls and their various family members when we arrive downstairs. I’ve seen better organization on India’s infamous trains. My family is nowhere to be seen.

Pippa comes over to us, head bowed. A woman in a ludicrous hat complete with feathers trails behind her. She is outfitted in a dress better suited for a younger woman and for evening wear at that. A fur stole hangs from her shoulders. There are two men with her. I recognize the bushy-whiskered Mr. Bumble straightaway. The other I take to be Pippa’s father. He has her dark coloring.

“Mother, Father, may I present Miss Gemma Doyle and Miss Ann Bradshaw?” she says, her voice almost a whisper.

“How do you do? It’s so charming to meet Pippa’s little friends.” Pip’s mother is as beautiful as her daughter, but her face is harder, a fact she’s tried to hide with plenty of jewels.

Ann and I make our polite hellos. After a silence, Mr. Bumble clears his throat.

Mrs. Cross’s mouth is a tight line of a smile. “Pippa, aren’t you forgetting someone?”

Pippa swallows hard. “May I also present Mr. Bartleby Bumble, Esquire?” The next part comes out like a quiet cry. “My fiancé.”

Ann and I are too astonished to speak.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintances.” He looks down his nose at us. “I do hope they serve tea soon,” he says, glancing at his pocket watch with impatience.

This rude old man with the fat face is going to be lovely Pippa’s husband? Pippa, whose every waking moment is consumed by thoughts of a pure, undying, romantic love, has been sold to the highest bidder, a man she does not know, does not care about. She stares at the Persian carpet as if it might open up and swallow her down whole, save her.

Ann and I extend our hands and make our subdued greetings.

“It’s good to see that my fiancée is acquainted with the right sort of girls,” Mr. Bumble sniffs. “There’s so much that can taint the young and impressionable. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Cross?”

“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Bumble.”

He deserves to have his head on a spike for all to see. Warning: If you are insufferable, do not walk here. We shall eat you down to the marrow.

“Oh, there is Mrs. Nightwing. She will need to know our news. She might even want to announce it today.” Mrs. Cross swans across the room with her husband in tow. Mr. Bumble smiles at the back of Pippa’s head as if she were the biggest prize on display at this carnival.

“Shall we?” he says, offering his arm.

“May I have a moment with my friends, please? To share my news?” Pippa asks in a sad, quiet way. The idiot thinks he’s being flattered.

“Of course, my dear. But don’t be too long about it.”

When he’s gone, I reach out for Pippa’s hands. “Please don’t,” she says. Tears pool in her violet eyes. I can’t think of anything to say.

“He seems quite distinguished,” Ann offers after a moment of silence.

Pippa gives a short, sharp laugh. “Yes. Nothing like a wealthy barrister to wipe away Father’s gambling debts and save us from ruin. I’m nothing more than a marker, really.” She doesn’t say it bitterly. That’s what hurts. She’s accepted her fate without fighting it.

Behind her, Bartleby Bumble, Esquire, is anxiously waiting for his future bride. “I’ve got to go,” Pippa says with all the enthusiasm of a woman meeting her executioner.

“Her ring is lovely,” Ann says, after a moment. Above the crowd, we can hear Mrs. Nightwing offering her loud congratulations and others chiming in.

“Yes. Very lovely,” I agree. We’re both trying to put a good face on it. Neither of us wants to admit the enraging hopelessness of the situation—or the guilt at not having drawn that short straw ourselves. Not yet, at least. I can only hope that when my time comes, I’m not foisted off on the first man who dazzles my family.

Felicity breezes by. She’s got a handkerchief in her hand that she’s twisting into a messy lump.

“What is the matter? You look as if the world has ended.”

“Pippa is engaged to Mr. Bumble,” I explain.

“What? Oh, poor Pip,” she says, shaking her head.

“Has your father come?” I ask, hoping for happier news.

“Not yet. Forgive me, but I’m far too nervous to wait around here. I’m going to stay out in the garden till he comes. Are you certain I look presentable?”

“For the last time, yes,” I say, rolling my eyes.

Felicity is so anxious she doesn’t come back with a snappy reply. Instead, she nods gratefully and, looking as if she might be unable to hold her breakfast a moment longer, dashes off toward the lawn.

“Well, if it isn’t the lady Doyle.”

With a great flourish and an exaggerated bow, Tom announces his arrival. Grandmama is beside him in her best black crepe mourning clothes.

“Is Father here? Did he come?” I’m nervously craning my neck, searching for him.

“Yes,” Tom starts. “Gemma . . .”

“Well, where is he?”

“Hello, Gemma.”

At first I don’t see Father. But there he is, hidden away behind Tom, a ghost in his ill-fitting black suit. There are deep circles under his eyes. Grandmama takes his arm in an effort to hide how badly he shakes. I’m sure she’s given him only a touch of his usual dose to get him through, with a promise of more after. It’s all I can do not to cry.

I’m ashamed for my friends to see him this way.

And I’m ashamed of being ashamed.

“Hello, Father,” I manage, kissing his hollow cheeks.

“Did anyone know we’d be seeing a queen today?” he jokes. The laugh makes him cough hard and Tom has to hold him steady. I can’t look at Ann.

“They’re serving tea in the ballroom,” I say, steering them upstairs to a quiet, out-of-the-way table, away from the crowd and the gossips. Once we’re seated, I introduce Ann.

“Charming to see you again, Miss Bradshaw,” Tom says. Ann blushes.

“And where is your family today?” my grandmother asks, looking around for someone more interesting to talk to than the two of us. She would have to ask that question, and it will have to be answered, and then we’ll all sit in awkward silence or my grandmother will say something unkind under the guise of being kind.

“They’re abroad,” I lie.

Happily, Ann doesn’t try to correct me. I think she’s grateful not to have to explain that she’s an orphan and endure everyone’s polite, silent pity. Sudden interest overtakes my grandmother, who, I’m sure, is wondering at this very moment whether Ann’s relatives are rich or titled or both.

“How very exciting. Where are they traveling?”

“Switzerland,” I say, just as Ann barks out, “Austria.”

“Austria and Switzerland,” I say. “It’s an extensive trip.”

“Austria,” my father starts. “There’s a rather funny joke about Austrians . . .” He trails off, his fingers shaking.

“Yes, Father?”

“Hmmm?”

“You were saying something about the Austrians,” I remind him.

He knits his brows together. “Was I?”