Rebel Angels (22 page)

Kartik points to my damaged amulet. “I can see that. What happened here?”

“Oh,” I say, removing it. “That wasn’t me. That was Miss Hawkins. The first time I visited her, she pulled it from my neck. I thought she meant to do me in. But she held it in front of her like this,” I say, demonstrating.

Kartik frowns. “Like a weapon?” He takes the amulet from me and swipes at the air with it, as if it were a dagger. In the amber light of the tavern’s lanterns, the metal glows golden warm.

“No. She cradled it like this.” I take it back and move it in my hands as Nell had done.
"She kept peering at the back of it as if she were looking for something.”

Kartik sits up. "Do that again.”

I move it back and forth once more. “What? What are you thinking?”

Kartik slumps down into the chair. “I don’t know. It’s just that what you’re doing rather reminds me of a compass.”

A compass! I pull the lantern close and hold the amulet beside its flickering light.

“Do you see anything?” Kartik asks, moving his chair so close to mine that I can feel the warmth of him, smell the air—a mix of chimney soot and spice—in his hair. It is a good smell, an anchoring smell.

“Nothing,” I say. There are no markings that I can see. No directions.

Kartik leans back. "Well, it was a good thought.”

“Hold on,” I say, still looking at the amulet. “What if we can only see it in the realms?”

“Will you try it?”

“As soon as I can,” I say.

“Good show, Miss Doyle,” Kartik says, smiling broadly.
"Let’s get you home before I’m out of a job.”

We leave the tavern and travel the two twisting streets back to where we’ve left our carriage. But when we come to that street, the little boy is no longer there. Instead, there are three men in the same cut of black suit. Two carry sticks that look as if they could do us harm. The third sits in the carriage, an open newspaper in front of his face. The street, which only a half hour ago was teeming with people, is deserted.

Kartik puts a hand out to slow my approach. The men see him and whistle. The man in the carriage folds his paper neatly. It’s the man with the scar, the one who’s been trailing me since I arrived in London.

“The Eastern Star is hard to find,” the man with the scar says. “Very hard to find.” I spy the sword-and-skull pin on his lapel. The others don’t have one.

“ ’Ello, mate,” one of the burly men says, coming closer. He pats the stick against his palm with a thwack.
"Remember me?”

Kartik rubs absently at his head, and I wonder what on earth they’re talking about.

“Mr. Fowlson ’ere requires your presence at a business mee’in’ of sorts by the lady’s carriage.” He pulls Kartik hard. The other man escorts me.

“Fowlson,” I say. "So you have a name.”

The man scowls at the big hooligan for this.

“There’s no need for pretense. I know you are Rakshana. And I’ll thank you to stop following me about.”

The man speaks in a low, controlled voice, as if he might be gently admonishing a wayward child. “And I know you are an impertinent girl with no regard for the seriousness of the business before you, else you should be in the realms searching for the Temple rather than dallying about London’s seamier streets. Surely the Temple is not here. Or is it? Tell me, just where did this one take you?”

He doesn’t know about Kartik’s hiding place. Beside me, I feel Kartik holding his breath.

“Sightseeing,” I say, standing a stone’s throw from a slaughterhouse.
"I wished to see these slums for myself.”

The big man with the club scoffs at me.

“I assure you, sir. I am in earnest about my duty,” I say to Fowlson.

“Are we, now, lass? The task is simple: Find the Temple and bind the magic.”

“If it is so simple a matter, why don’t you do it?” I answer hotly.
"But no, you can’t. So you will have to rely on me, an ‘impertinent girl,’ won’t you?”

Fowlson looks as if he would like to hit me very hard. “For the present, it would seem so.” He gives Kartik a cold smile. “Do not forget
your
task, novitiate.”

He tucks his newspaper under his arm and motions to his men. The three of them back away slowly, vanishing at last around a corner. Kartik springs into action, practically pushing me into the carriage.

“What did he mean, do not forget
your
task?” I ask.

“I told you,” he says, leading Ginger into the street.
"My task is to help you find the Temple. That is all. What did
you
mean when you asked Fowlson to stop following you about?”

“He
has
been following me! He was at the train station the day I arrived in London. And then when I was out walking in Hyde Park with Grandmama,” I say, purposefully avoiding Simon’s name, “he rode by in a carriage. And I saw a woman in a green cloak with him, Kartik. A green cloak!”

“There are plenty of green cloaks in London, Miss Doyle,” Kartik tells me. “They do not all belong to Circe.”

“No. But one does. I am only asking if you are certain that Mr. Fowlson can be trusted?”

“He is one of the Rakshana, part of my brotherhood,” he says.
"Yes. I am certain.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says this, and I’m afraid that any trust we’ve begun to have has been frayed by my questions. Kartik takes his perch behind the reins. With a snap, we are off, the horse’s blinders keeping her docile but her hooves kicking up a storm of dust on the cobblestones.

In the evening, Grandmama and I take up our needlework by the fire. Each time a carriage passes by, she sits a bit straighter. At last I realize she is listening for our own carriage, for Father’s return from his club. Father has been spending a great deal of time there, especially in the evenings. Some nights I hear him coming home just before sunrise.

Tonight it is particularly hard for Grandmama to bear. Father left in a terrible temper, accusing Mrs. Jones of losing his gloves, practically tearing the library apart looking for them before Grandmama discovered them in his coat pocket. They’d been there the entire time. He left without so much as an apology.

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon,” I say, when another carriage clip-clops past our house.

“Yes. Yes, quite right,” she says absently. “I’m sure he’s simply forgotten the time. He does so enjoy being among people, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” I say, surprised that she cares so much about her son. Knowing this makes it harder to dislike her.

“He loves you more than Tom, you know.”

I am so startled I prick my finger. A tiny bubble of blood pushes its way through the flesh at the tip.

“It’s true. Oh, he cares for Tom, of course. But sons are a different matter to a man, more a duty than an indulgence. You are his angel. Don’t ever break his heart, Gemma. He has weathered too much already. That would finish him.”

I’m trying not to cry, from the pinprick and the unwanted knowledge.
"I shan’t,” I promise.

“Your needlework is coming along nicely, dear. Shorter stitches round the edge, though, I think,” Grandmama says as if we’ve discussed nothing else.

Mrs. Jones enters. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Doyle. This came for Miss Doyle this afternoon. Emily took it and forgot to tell me.” Though it’s clearly intended for me, she offers Grandmama the box, which is beautifully wrapped with a pink silk bow.

Grandmama reads the card. "It is from Simon Middleton.”

A gift from Simon? I am intrigued. Inside the box is a beautiful, delicate necklace of small amethyst stones that fan out along a chain. Purple, my favorite color. The card reads
Gems
for our Gemma.

“So beautiful,” Grandmama says, holding them up to the light.
"I do believe Simon Middleton is bewitched!”

It is beautiful, possibly the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me.
"Would you help me with the clasp?” I ask.

I remove my mother’s amulet, and Grandmama secures the new necklace. I rush over to the mirror to see. The gems fall sweetly over my collarbones.

“You must wear it to the opera tomorrow evening,” Grandmama advises.

“Yes, I shall,” I say, watching the stones catch the light. They sparkle and shine till I hardly recognize myself.

I’ve a note from Kartik on my pillow:
There’s something I need to
tell you. I’ll be in the stables.
I don’t like that Kartik feels he can trespass in my room any time he likes. I shall tell him that. I don’t like that he’s keeping secrets from me. I shall tell him that, too. But not now. Now I am wearing a new necklace from Simon. Beautiful Simon, who thinks of me not as someone who can help him move up in the ranks of the Rakshana, but as a girl worthy of gems.

Gingerly, I lift the note from the pillow and twirl around the room with it stretched between my fingers. The necklace weighs against my skin like a calming hand.
Gems for
our Gemma.

I toss Kartik’s note into the fire. The ends of the paper curl and blacken, and in an instant it is gone to ash.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

IF I AM ANXIOUS ABOUT THIS EVENING’S TRIP TO the opera, Grandmama is beside herself.

“I do hope those gloves will do,” she tuts as a seamstress makes last-minute adjustments to my gown, a white duchess satin, the color young ladies wear to the opera. Grandmama has had my first opera gloves sent round from Whiteley’s department store. The seamstress slips the pearl buttons through the loops at my wrist, shutting my naked arms away behind expensive kid leather. My hair has been artfully arranged away from my face with flowers in the chignon. And of course, I’ve put on Simon’s lovely necklace. When I spy myself in the mirror, I must admit that I look quite lovely, like a true and proper lady.

Even Tom rises when I enter the parlor, shocked to see my transformation. Father takes my hand and kisses it. His own hand shakes a bit. I know that he was out until dawn, and he slept all the day, and I hope that he is not taking ill. He mops his sweaty brow with a pocket square, but his voice is merry enough.

“You are a queen, my pet. Isn’t she, Thomas?”

“Not an embarrassment, to be sure,” Tom answers. For an imbecile, he’s rather elegant in his tails.

“Is that the best you can manage?” Father admonishes.

Tom sighs. “You look most presentable, Gemma. Do remember not to snore at the opera. It’s frowned upon.”

“If I have kept myself awake while you speak, Tom, I’m certain I can manage.”

“The carriage has been brought round, sir,” Davis, the butler, announces, saving us all from further conversation.

As we walk to the carriage, I catch sight of Kartik’s expression. He stares, boldly, as if I am an apparition, someone he does not know. I’m oddly satisfied by this. Yes. Let him see that I am not some “impertinent girl,” as the Rakshana henchman put it.

“The door, Mr. Kartik, if you please,” Tom says tersely. As if pulled from a dream, Kartik quickly opens the carriage door. “Really, Father,” Tom says when we are on our way. “I do wish you’d reconsider. Just yesterday, Sims made a recommendation on a driver—”

“The matter is closed. Mr. Kartik gets me where I need to go,” Father says stiffly.

“Yes, that is my concern,” Tom mutters under his breath, so that only I hear.

“Now, now,” Grandmama says, patting Father’s knee. “Let’s be of good cheer, shall we? After all, it is nearly Christmas.”

As the door to the Royal Opera House opens, I’m seized by panic. What if I look ridiculous, not elegant? What if something— my hair, my dress, my bearing—is out of place? I am so very tall. I wish I were shorter. Daintier. Brunette. Unfreckled. An Austrian countess. Is it too late to run home and hide?

“Ah, there they are,” Grandmama announces. I spy Simon. He is so handsome in his white tie and black tails.

“Good evening,” I say, curtsying.

“Good evening,” he says. He gives me a small smile, and with that smile, I feel such relief and happiness that I could sit through ten operas.

We receive our programs and join the crowd. Father, Tom, and Simon are pulled into a conversation with another man, a portly, balding fellow sporting a monocle on a chain, while Grandmama, Lady Denby, and I stroll slowly, nodding and making our hellos to various society ladies. It is a necessary parade designed to show off our finery. I hear my name being called. It’s Felicity with Ann. They are well turned out in their white gowns. Felicity’s garnet earbobs shine against her white-blond hair. A pink cameo rests against the hollow of Ann’s throat.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Denby says. "It’s that wretched Worthington woman.”

The comment has Grandmama aflutter. “Mrs. Worthington? The admiral’s wife? Is there some scandal?”

“You do not know? Three years ago, she went to Paris— for her health, they said—and she sent the young Miss Worthington away to school. But I have it on good authority that she took a lover, a Frenchman, and now he’s left her and she’s back with the admiral, pretending that none of it ever happened. She is not received in the best homes, of course. But everyone attends her dinners and balls out of affection for the admiral, who is the soul of respectability. Shhh, here they come.”

Mrs. Worthington strides over, the girls in tow. I hope the flush on my cheeks does not give me away, for I don’t like Lady Denby’s snobbery.

“Good evening, Lady Denby,” Mrs. Worthington says, her smile radiant.

Lady Denby does not offer her hand but opens her fan instead. "Good evening, Mrs. Worthington.”

Felicity gives a dazzling smile. If I didn’t know her better I wouldn’t recognize the ice in it. “Oh, dear. Ann, you seem to have lost your bracelet!”

“What bracelet?” Ann asks.

“The one the duke sent from Saint Petersburg. Perhaps you lost it in the dressing room. We must look for it. Gemma, would you mind awfully?”

“No, of course not,” I say.

“Be quick about it. The opera is about to begin,” Grandmama warns.

We escape to the dressing room. A few ladies preen at the mirrors, adjusting shawls and jewels.

“Ann, when I say you’ve lost your bracelet, play along,” Felicity chides.

“Sorry,” Ann says.

“I do loathe Lady Denby. She’s a horrid woman,” Felicity mutters.

“She isn’t,” I argue.

“You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t so besotted with her son.”

“I am not
besotted
. He simply invited my family to the opera.”

Felicity’s raised eyebrow says she doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Perhaps you’d like to know that I’ve discovered something about my amulet,” I say, changing the subject.

“What is it?” Ann asks, removing her gloves in order to tend to her hair.

“The crescent eye is some sort of compass. That’s what Nell Hawkins was trying to tell me. I think it may lead us to the Temple.”

Felicity’s eyes gleam. "A compass! We must try it tonight.”

“Tonight?” I squeak. “Here? With all these people about?” With Simon, I almost say.
"We couldn’t possibly.”

“Of course we can,” Felicity whispers. “Just before intermission, tell your grandmother that you must be excused for the dressing room. Ann and I shall do the same. We’ll meet in the hall and find a place where we can enter the realms from there.”

“It isn’t that simple,” I say. "She won’t let me go, not alone.”

“Find a way,” Felicity insists.

“But it wouldn’t be proper!”

“Afraid of what Simon will think? It isn’t as if you’re betrothed!” Felicity tut-tuts.

The comment lands like a blow. “I never said anything of the sort.”

Felicity smiles. She knows she’s won. “So we are agreed. Just before intermission. Do not delay.”

The plan in place, we turn our attention to the mirrors, positioning combs and smoothing dresses.

“Has he tried to kiss you?” Felicity asks in an offhand manner.

“No, of course not,” I say, embarrassed. I hope no one has overheard her.

“I should be careful,” Felicity says. “Simon has a reputation as a ladies’ man.”

“He’s been the perfect gentleman with me,” I protest.

“Hmmm,” Felicity says, her eyes on her reflection, which is fetching, as always.

Ann’s pinching her cheeks in vain, hoping to raise color there. “I hope I shall meet someone tonight. Someone kind and noble. The sort who likes to help others. Someone like Tom.”

Two angry red welts crisscross near her wrist bone. The marks are new, perhaps a few hours old. She’s cut herself again. Ann sees me looking and her freshly pinched cheeks pale. Quickly, she pulls her gloves on, covering the scars.

Felicity leads the way out, greeting a friend of her mother’s near the door. I grab Ann’s wrist and she winces.

“You promised me you’d stop doing that,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean,” I warn.

Her eyes find mine. She wears a sad little smile. "Better that I hurt myself than be hurt by them. It stings less.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s different for you and Fee,” Ann says, nearly crying. “Don’t you see? I have no future. There’s nothing for me. I’ll never be a great lady or marry someone like Tom. I can only pretend. It’s horrible, Gemma.”

“You don’t know what will be,” I say, trying to soothe. “No one knows.”

Felicity’s noticed we’re not beside her and comes back for us. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” I say brightly. “We’re coming.” I take Ann’s hand. “Things can change. Repeat it.”

“Things can change,” she parrots quietly.

“Do you believe that?”

She shakes her head. Silent tears trickle down her round cheeks.

“We’ll find a way. I promise. But first,
you
must promise me you’ll stop. Please?”

“I’ll try,” she says, brushing a gloved hand against her damp face and forcing a smile.

“Here is trouble,” Felicity says as we rejoin the throng in the lobby. I see what she means. It’s Cecily Temple. She stands beside her mother, craning her neck, looking this way and that in hopes that she will see someone of interest.

Ann’s in a panic. "I’ll be found out! Ruined! It will be the end for me.”

“Stop it,” Felicity snaps. But she’s right, of course. Cecily can bring Ann’s story of Russian nobility and distant peerage down like a house of cards.

“We’ll avoid her,” Felicity says. “Come with me. We shall take the opposite stairs. Gemma, just before intermission. Don’t forget.”

“For the third time, I shan’t,” I say testily.

The house lights flicker in warning that the opera is to begin.

“There you are!” Simon says. He has waited for me. My stomach quivers.
"Did you find Miss Bradshaw’s bracelet?”

“No. She remembered that she’d left it in her jewelry box after all,” I lie.

Simon’s family has a private box quite high up that makes me feel as if I am the Queen herself, lording over all my subjects. We take our seats and pretend to read our programs, though no one’s really paying any attention to
The Mikado
. Opera glasses are used to spy covertly on lovers and friends, to see who is wearing what, who has arrived with whom. There is more potential scandal and drama in the audience than there could possibly be onstage. At last, the lights are dimmed, and the curtain rises on a small Japanese village. A trio of sopranos in Oriental dress and black lacquered wigs sings of being three little maids at school. It is my first opera, and I find it delightful. At one point, I catch Simon watching me. Rather than look away, he gives me the most radiant smile, and I can scarcely imagine how I will tear myself away to enter the realms, for this too is magic, and I cannot help feeling resentful that my duty calls me.

Just before intermission, I spy Felicity through my opera glasses. She’s looking at me impatiently. I whisper in Grandmama’s ear that I must excuse myself to the dressing room. Before she can protest, I slip out the curtains that lead to the hall, where I greet Felicity and Ann.

“There is an unused box upstairs,” Felicity says, taking my hand. A wistful aria floats through the opera house as we make our way silently upstairs. Ducking low, we push aside the heavy curtains and sit on the floor just inside. I reach for their hands. Eyes shut, we concentrate, and the door of light appears.