Rebel Angels (17 page)

But there was something different about this vision, a detail I remember now. Something about the woman’s hand. She wore a ring of some kind, something unusual. It takes me a moment on the floor to regain my senses. And then I think I know what it was.

The ring on the woman’s hand was in the shape of two intertwined snakes.

I’ve seen that ring before—in the case beneath Miss McCleethy’s bed.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“GEMMA, DON’T PLAY WITH YOUR HAIR SO,” GRANDMAMA tuts from her perch beside me in our carriage.

“Oh,” I say. I’ve been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I haven’t noticed I’ve been twirling a tiny tendril of hair round and round my finger. All day long, I’ve been lost, thinking of last night’s vision and what it means. A woman adorned with a snake ring. Miss McCleethy has a snake ring. But what connection could she have to that cloaked woman or to the girls? These visions make no sense. Who are these girls, and why do they need my help? What are they trying to show me?

I must push these thoughts away for now. I’ve a party to attend, and the thought of facing the formidable Lady Denby is more frightening than any vision I could conjure.

I count three additional carriages when we arrive at Simon’s house, which is a magnificent picture of brick and light. Across the lane, Hyde Park is a dark smudge, lost in the incandescent haze of the gaslights that cast us in foggy halos, making us seem brighter than we are, heaven’s borrowed things. Kartik takes my hand, helping me down. I step on the front of my gown, tumbling against him. He catches me round the waist, and for a second, I’m in his embrace.

“Steady there, Miss Doyle,” he says, helping me to my feet.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Kartik.”

“Old Potts never would have made such a catch, I daresay,” Father teases Tom. I look back to see Kartik gazing at me in my blue gown and velvet coat as if I were someone altogether different, a stranger to him.

Father takes my arm and walks me to the door. Clean-shaven, in white tie and gloves, he is almost the father I remember.

“You look very handsome, Papa,” I say.

The twinkle is back in his eyes. "Smoke and mirrors,” he says with a wink.
"Smoke and mirrors.”

That is my fear. How long will the magic work? No, I shan’t worry about that now. It has worked, and he is my own dear father again, and in a moment, I shall have dinner with a handsome young man who finds me interesting, for some reason.

We are greeted by a phalanx of footmen and maids in uniforms so pressed their creases could draw blood. It seems there is a servant for everything. Grandmama is beside herself with excitement. If she were to stand any straighter, her spine might snap. We’re ushered into a very large parlor. Simon stands by the fire, deep in conversation with two gentlemen. He gives me a wolfish grin. I immediately look off into the distance, as if I have just noticed the papered walls and am fascinated beyond measure, though my heart beats out a new rhythm:
He likes me;
he likes me; he likes me.
I’ve little time to swoon. Lady Denby swoops through the room making introductions, her stiff skirts rustling with every step. She greets a gentleman warmly but is rather cool to his wife.

If Lady Denby likes you, you are set for life. If she finds you wanting
in any way, you are shunned.

My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. I cannot swallow. She gives me a solid looking-over as she approaches. Simon’s beside her in an instant.

“Mother, may I present Mr. John Doyle; his mother, Mrs. William Doyle; Mr. Thomas Doyle; and Miss Gemma Doyle. Thomas is a chum from my Eton days. He’s currently a clinical assistant under Dr. Smith at Bethlem Hospital,” Simon adds.

His mother is smitten with Tom immediately. “Why, Dr. Smith is an old friend. Tell me, is it true you have a patient who was once a member of Parliament?” she asks, hoping for a bit of gossip.

“Madam, if we confined the lunatics of Parliament, there’d be no Parliament left,” Father jokes, forgetting that Simon’s father is a member himself. I may die.

Surprisingly, Lady Denby laughs at this. “Oh, Mr. Doyle! You are quite the wit.” The breath leaves my body in a small whoosh that I hope cannot be detected.

The butler announces dinner. Lady Denby rounds up her guests like a seasoned general marshaling his troops for battle. I am doing my best to remember all Mrs. Nightwing has taught me about manners. I’m deathly afraid I’ll commit some hideous faux pas and cast my family into enduring shame.

“Shall we?” Simon offers his arm and I loop mine through his. I’ve never taken the arm of a man who was not my blood relative. We keep a respectful distance between us, but that does nothing to stop the current coursing through me.

After the soup, we’re given roast pork. The sight of a pig on a platter with an apple in its mouth does nothing to whet my appetite. While the others prattle on about country estates, fox hunting, and the problem of finding good help, Simon whispers, “I hear he was a very disagreeable pig. Always complaining. Never a nice word for anyone. He once bit a duckling in spite. I shouldn’t feel guilty about eating him if I were you.”

I smile. Lady Denby’s voice breaks the moment. “Miss Doyle, there is something familiar about you.”

“I—I was a guest of Mrs. Worthington’s at the Alexandra yesterday, to hear Miss Bradshaw sing.”

“Miss Bradshaw sang?”Tom is delighted to hear of Ann’s social rise.
"How delightful.”

My eyes are on Lady Denby, who says, “Yes, strange business that. Mr. Middleton,” she says, addressing her husband, “have you ever met the Duke of Chesterfield?”

“Can’t say as I have, unless he’s a hunting man.”

Lady Denby purses her lips as if mulling something over, then says, “I hear you are attending Spence?”

“Yes, Lady Denby,” I answer nervously.

“How do you find it?” she inquires, taking a serving of roast potatoes. I feel like an insect under the intense focus of the microscope.

“It is a most agreeable school,” I say, averting my eyes.

“Of course, she had a proper English governess while in India,” Grandmama interjects, ever afraid of social impropriety. “I did fear sending her away from home, but I was assured that Spence was a fine finishing school.”

“What do you think, Miss Doyle? Are you inclined to believe that young ladies should be taught Latin and Greek these days?” Lady Denby asks.

It is not an innocent question. She is testing me, I am sure. I take a deep breath. “I believe it is just as important for daughters to be learned as it is for sons. Else how can we be able wives and mothers?” It is the safest answer I can muster.

Lady Denby gives a warm smile. "I quite agree, Miss Doyle. What a sensible girl you are.”

I breathe a small sigh of relief.

“I can see why my boy is enchanted,” Lord Denby announces.

A flush works its way into my cheeks, and I find I cannot look at anyone. I have to fight to keep a ridiculous grin from surfacing. I have only one giddy thought in my head: Simon Middleton, a boy of such perfection, likes me, the strange and vexing Gemma Doyle.

Low chuckling ripples through the assembled guests. “Now you’ve done it,” a mustachioed gentleman quips. “She’ll never come back.”

“Oh, really, Mr. Conrad,” Lady Denby chides playfully. I do not see why Felicity thinks so badly of Lady Denby. She seems rather nice to me, and I quite like her.

The evening passes like a happy dream. I have not felt so peaceful and content since before Mother died. Seeing Father come alive again is heaven, and I am finally glad for this strange, beautiful power. During the dinner, he is his old charming self, entertaining Lady Denby and Simon with tales of India. Grandmama’s face, usually lined with worry, is serene tonight, and Tom is actually likeable, if such a thing could be said of him. Of course, he thinks he has cured Father, and for once, I am in no mood to contradict him. It means so much to see my family enjoying themselves. I want to preserve this happy bubble of time, this feeling that I belong somewhere. That I am wanted. I want this night to go on forever.

The talk at the table turns to Bethlem. Tom is holding court with tales of his duties there. “. . . he insisted that he was the emperor of West Sussex and as such, should be allowed an extra serving of meat. When I refused, he promised he would have me beheaded.”

“Dear me,” Lady Denby laughs.

“You’d best keep your wits about you, young man. Wouldn’t want to wake up with no head,” Simon’s father says. He has Simon’s kind blue eyes.

“Or would that be an improvement in your case, my good man?” Simon taunts Tom, who pretends to be affronted.

“Oh, ho! Touché!”

“Now then, my son must keep his head,” Father says, looking quite serious. “I paid a dear amount for his new hat, and I shan’t get it back.” Everyone erupts in laughter.

Grandmama speaks up. "Is it true that Bethlem holds public dances fortnightly, Lady Denby?”

“Yes indeed. It is ever so rejuvenating for them to be amongst the public, to remember the social niceties. My husband and I have gone on several occasions. There’s another dance in a week’s time. You must come as our guests.”

“We’d be delighted,” Grandmama says, answering for us all, as she so often does.

My face aches from trying to wear such a pleasant expression at all times. Is it time to don my gloves again? Should I eat the last of my dessert as I’d desperately like or leave half to show my delicate appetite? I do not want to make a misstep, not tonight.

“Oh, do tell us another tale,” Lady Denby begs Tom.

“Yes, do,” Simon says. "Else I’ll be forced to talk of the time I looked into the eyes of an unhappy pheasant in the country and you’ll all be bored to catatonia.” Simon looks at me again. I find I like it when he looks for my reaction. I like being courted. It is rather a powerful feeling.

“Ah, let’s see . . . ,” Tom says, thinking. “There was Mr.

Waltham, who claimed he could hear what was happening inside each house as he passed—that the very stones spoke to him. I am happy to say that he was cured and released just last month.”

“Bravo!” Simon’s father exclaims. "Nothing science and man can’t overcome in time.”

“Exactly,” Tom says, thrilled to find a friend in so high a place.

“What else?” a lady in a peach silk gown asks.

“There’s Mrs. Sommers, who seems to think this life is all a dream and that she sees spirits in her room at night.”

“Poor dear,” Grandmama says by habit.

These stories are stealing away my happiness. What would my dinner companions think if they knew that I see visions and visit other realms?

Tom continues. “There is Nell Hawkins, age nineteen. Diagnosed with acute mania while away at school.”

“You see?” the mustachioed gentleman says, wagging his finger.
"The female constitution cannot stand up to the rigors of a formal education. Nothing good can come of it.”

“Oh, Mr. Conrad,” his wife chides playfully. “Do go on, Mr. Doyle.”

“Nell Hawkins suffers from delusions,”Tom says, preening.

Father joins in. "Thinks she’s Joan of Arc, does she?”

“No, that would be Mr. Jernigan in ward M1B. Miss Hawkins is unique. She suffers from the delusion that she is part of some mystical sect of sorceresses called the Order.”

The room narrows. My heart races. From far away I hear myself ask, “The Order?”

“Yes. She claims that she knows the secrets of a place called the realms, and that a woman named Circe wants all the power. She claims she has driven herself mad in an attempt to keep her mind clouded and away from Circe’s grasp.” Tom shakes his head.
"A most difficult case.”

“I agree with you, Mr. Conrad, too much formal education is not good for our daughters. And this is the cost. I’m so grateful that Spence stresses the essentials of a lady’s training.” Grandmama shoves a rather large bite of chocolate cream into her mouth.

It is all I can do not to bolt from the table, for I’m trembling all over. Somewhere in Bethlem Hospital sits a girl who might be able to tell me everything I need to know, and I must find a way to get to her.

“What can be done for such a case?” Mr. Conrad asks.

“She does take some comfort from poetry. The nurses read to her when they can.”

“Perhaps I could read poetry to her?” I volunteer, hoping I don’t sound as desperate as I feel. I would do anything to see this girl. “Perhaps she would find some comfort in speaking with a girl of her own age, that is.”

Simon’s father raises his wine to me. “Our Miss Doyle is a very kind soul.”

“She is our angel,” Father says.

No, I’m not. I am a wretched girl for deceiving them so, but I must see Nell Hawkins.

“Very well, then,” Tom says grudgingly. “I shall take you tomorrow afternoon.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

AFTER DESSERT HAS BEEN CLEARED AWAY, THE MEN are ready to have their brandy and cigars in the study while the women retire to the parlor for tea and talk.

“Mother, I believe Miss Doyle would like to see the portrait of Grandfather,” Simon says, catching us on our way in. I’ve heard no mention of this painting.

“Yes, of course. We shall all go,” Lady Denby says.

Simon’s smug smile falters. “I should hate to take you away from the fire, Mother. It is a bit drafty in the library, you know.”

“Nonsense, we shall bring our shawls and be fine. You really must see dear George—he was painted by a Cotswold portraitist of great renown.”

I don’t know what has just occurred, but I gather that Simon has lost.

“Here we are.” Lady Denby leads us into a spacious room dominated by a painting as large as a door. It is a hideously ornate depiction of a barrel-chested man astride a horse. He wears a red jacket and looks every bit the country gentleman off to the hunt. At his heels sit two obedient dogs.

Simon nods to it. “Miss Doyle, may I present my grandfather, Cornelius George Basil Middleton, Viscount of Denby.”

Grandmama makes a spectacle of herself fawning over it, though all she knows of art could fit inside a thimble. Still, it makes Lady Denby proud. She moves on to an objet d’art upon a mantel, forcing a maid who was cleaning a grate to stand waiting, brush in sooty hand.

“What a beautiful painting,” I say diplomatically.

Simon raises an eyebrow. “If by beautiful you mean to say silly, overdone, and grotesque, then I accept your compliment.”

I stifle a laugh. "The dogs are quite distinguished-looking.”

Simon stands beside me, and I feel that strange current again. He cocks his head, taking in my comment and the painting. “Yes. In fact, perhaps I could claim
them
as kin instead.” His eyes are so blue. And his smile is so warm. We are standing only inches apart. From the corner of my eye, I can see Grandmama and the others touring the room.

“How many of these have you read?” I ask, moving toward the bookshelves, pretending to be interested.

“Not many,” Simon says, falling into step. “I’ve a great many hobbies. They take up much of my time. It’s my duty to see after our interest in Denby, the manor and such.”

“Yes, of course,” I say, continuing my slow promenade.

“Are you attending Admiral and Lady Worthington’s Christmas ball, by any chance?”

“Yes, I am,” I say, walking to the windows overlooking the street.

“I shall be there as well.”He catches up. Here we are, side by side again.

“Oh,” I say. "How nice.”

“Perhaps you will save me a dance?” he asks shyly.

“Yes,” I say, smiling. "Perhaps I will.”

“I see you’re not wearing your necklace this evening.”

My hand springs to my bare neck. "You noticed my jewelry?”

Seeing his mother occupied, he whispers in my ear, “I noticed your neck. The necklace happened to be there. It is very unusual.”

“It was my mother’s,”I say, still blushing from the bold compliment. “It was given to her by a village woman in India. A charm of protection. I’m afraid it didn’t work for her.”

“Perhaps it isn’t for protection,” Simon says.

I’ve never thought of that. "I can’t imagine what else it could be for.”

“What is your favorite color?” Simon asks.

“Purple,” I answer. "Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he says, smiling. “I might have to invite your brother to my club. He seems a good fellow.”

Ha! “I’m sure he would enjoy that.”Tom would leap through rings of fire for the chance to go to Simon’s club. It is the best in London.

Simon regards me for a moment. “You’re not like other young ladies my mother trots before me.”

“Oh?” I say, wincing, desperate to know how I’m different.

“There’s something adventurous about you. I feel as if you have a great many secrets I should like to know.”

Lady Denby notes us standing at the windows so close. I pretend to take an interest in a leather-bound copy of
Moby-Dick
that sits upon a side table. The spine crackles when I lift the cover, as if it’s never been read.
"Perhaps you wouldn’t really want to know them,” I say.

“How do you know?” Simon asks, repositioning a ceramic figurine of two cupids.
"Offer me a test.”

What can I say? That I suffer from the same delusions as poor Nell Hawkins but that they are not delusions at all? That I’m afraid I’m one step away from the madhouse myself? It would be so nice to confide in Simon and have him say, See, that wasn’t so very bad now, was it? You’re not mad. I believe you. I am with you.

I let the chance pass. “I have a third eye,” I say breezily. “I’m a descendant of Atalanta. And my table manners are inexcusable.”

Simon nods. “I suspected as much. That is why we’re going to ask you to eat in the stable from now on as a precaution. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.” I close the book and turn away. “What terrible secrets do you have, Mr. Middleton?”

“Besides the gambling, carousing, and pillaging?” He falls into step behind me.
"The truth?”

My heart skips a beat. “Yes,” I say, turning to him at last. “The truth.”

He stares into my eyes. "I’m frightfully dull.”

“That isn’t true,” I say, moving away again, looking up at the enormous bookcases.

“I’m afraid it is. I am to find a suitable wife with a suitable fortune and carry on the family name. It’s what they expect of me. My wishes don’t enter into it at all. I’m sorry. That was far too forward of me. You don’t need to hear my troubles.”

“No, truly. I’m happy to listen.” I am, strangely enough.

“Shall we retire to the parlor?” Lady Denby asks. With a sigh, the maid resumes her scrubbing once the ladies have gone. Simon and I follow slowly.

“Your flower is slipping, Miss Doyle.” The rose, pinned to my hair, slides to my neck. I reach for it just as he does. Our fingers touch for a moment before I turn away.

“Thank you,” I say, completely flustered.

“May I?” With great care, Simon secures the flower behind my ear. I should stop him, lest he think me too permissive. But I don’t know what to say. I am reminded that Simon is nineteen, three years my senior. He knows things that I do not.

There’s a tap at the window, followed by another, harder tap that makes me jump. “Who is throwing rocks?” Simon peers out into the hazy dark. He opens the glass. Cold air rushes in, raising gooseflesh on my arms. There is no one below that we can see.

“I should join the ladies. Grandmama will be worried about me.”

Making a hasty retreat, I nearly trip over the maid, who never even looks up from her scrubbing.

It is well after midnight when we say our goodbyes and emerge into a night alive with stars and hope. The evening has been a wild jumble for me. There is the good—Simon. His family. The warmth they’ve shown me. My father regained. Then there is the sobering prospect of meeting Nell Hawkins at Bedlam to see if she holds the key to finding the Temple and Circe. And there is the curious—the rocks thrown against the window.

At the carriage, Kartik seems agitated. “A pleasant evening, miss?”

“Yes, very pleasant, thank you,” I answer.

“So I noted,” he mutters, helping me into the carriage and pulling away from the curb with a bit too much gusto. What ever is the matter with him?

Once my family is safely to bed, I don my coat and dash across cold, hard ground to the stables. Kartik sits reading
The
Odyssey
and having a cup of hot tea. He is not alone. Emily sits near, listening to him read.

“Good evening,” I say, marching in.

“Good evening,” he says, standing.

Emily looks stricken. "Oh, miss, I was just . . . just . . .” “Emily, I have some business to discuss with Mr. Kartik just now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Like a shot, Emily is running for the house.

“What did you mean by your comment tonight?”

“I simply asked if you had a pleasant evening. With Mr. Muddleton.”

“Middleton,” I correct him. "He is a gentleman, you know.”

“He looks like a fop.”

“I’ll thank you not to insult him. You know nothing about him.”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you. As if you were a piece of ripe fruit.”

“He doesn’t do anything of the sort. Wait a moment. How do you know how he looks at me? Were you spying on me?”

Chagrined, Kartik buries his nose in his book. "He did look at you that way. In the library.”

“You threw those rocks against the window!”

Kartik jumps up, the book forgotten. “You allowed him to touch your hair!”

It’s true. It was much too unladylike of me. I’m embarrassed but I’m not about to let on to Kartik. “I do have something to tell you, if you can stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to hear it.”

Kartik scoffs. "I’m not feeling sorry for myself.”

“A good night to you, then.”

“Wait!” Kartik takes a step after me. I’m gloating. It is unattractive, but there it is. “I’m sorry. I promise to be on my very best behavior,” he says. He falls to his knees dramatically and pulls an acorn from the ground, holding it to his neck.
"I beg of you, Miss Doyle. Tell me or I shall be forced to kill myself with this mighty weapon.”

“Oh, do get up,” I say, laughing in spite of myself. “Tom has a patient at Bethlem. Nell Hawkins. He says she suffers from delusions.”

“That would explain her confinement in Bethlem.” He gives me a smug smile. When I do not return it, he says contritely, “Sorry. Please go on.”

“She claims she’s a member of the Order, and that a woman named Circe is trying to find her. She says she’s driven herself mad to keep Circe from getting to her.”

The smirk vanishes. “You must see Nell Hawkins straightaway.”

“Yes, I’ve arranged it already. Tomorrow, around noon, I shall read poetry to Nell Hawkins and find out what she knows about the Temple. Was he really looking at me that way?”

“What way?”

“Like a piece of ripe fruit?”

“You’d best be on your guard with him,” Kartik says.

He’s jealous! Kartik is jealous and Simon finds me . . . delicious? I am a bit giddy. And confused. But no, mostly giddy, I find.

“I am quite able to look after myself,” I say. I turn smartly on my heel and smack directly into the wall, raising a bump upon my forehead that will probably remain forever.