Rebel Angels (27 page)

On a low table sits the opium bowl. Chin stirs the thick black goo. He pulls out a sticky, tarlike bead of opium and pushes it down into the wooden pipe. With horror I see that he wears my father’s wedding ring on a string around his neck.

“Where did you get that ring?” I ask in a hoarse whisper that I hope passes as a young man’s voice.

“Luv’ly, innit? Patron gimme it. Fair trade fo’ me opyum.”

“Is he still here? That man?”

“Don’ know. Ain’t runnin’ a boardin’ouse, now, is I, guv?”

“Chin . . .” The voice, urgent but hoarse, comes from the other side of the ragged curtain. A hand pokes out. It shakes as it searches for the pipe. There’s a fine gold watch fob dangling from the thin fingers.
"Chin, take it. . . . Give me more. . . .”

Father.

I pull aside the filthy curtain. My father lies on the soiled, torn mattress in only his trousers and shirt. His jacket and coat adorn a woman who is draped across him, snoring lightly. His fine cravat and boots are gone—stolen or bartered, I do not know which. The stench of urine is overpowering, and I have to fight to keep from being ill.

“Father.”

In the dim light, he struggles to see who is speaking. His eyes are bloodshot, the pupils large and glassy.
"Hello,” he says, smiling dreamily.

My throat throbs with all I’m holding back. "Father, it’s time to go home.”

“Just one more. Right as rain. Then we’ll go. . . .”

Chin takes the watch fob and pockets it. He passes the pipe to Father.

“Don’t give him any more,” I plead.

I try to take the pipe, but Father wrests it from my hand and gives me a hard shove in the bargain. Kartik helps me to my feet.

“Chin, the light. There’s a good man. . . .”

Chin lowers the candle to the pipe. My father draws in the smoke. His eyes flutter and a tear escapes, making a slow track down his unshaven cheek.
"Leave me, pet.”

I can’t stand another moment. With every bit of strength I’ve got, I push the woman off Father and pull him to his feet. The two of us stumble backward. Chin laughs to watch us, as if it were a night of cockfighting or some other sport. Kartik takes my father’s other arm and together we maneuver him through the throngs of opium eaters. I am so ashamed that he should see my father in this state. I want to cry but am afraid if I did I would never stop.

We stumble on the stairs but somehow manage to make it to our carriage without further incident. The boys have been true to their word. The crowd has grown to about twenty children, who all clamber out of the seats and down from Ginger’s back. The cold night air, an assault earlier, is a balm after the wretched opium fumes. I breathe in greedy gulps as Kartik and I help Father into the carriage. Tom’s trousers catch in the door, tearing along the seam. And with that, I too rip apart. Everything I’ve held back—disappointment, loneliness, fear, and the crushing sadness of it all—comes rushing out in a torrent of tears.

“Gemma?”

“Don’t . . . look . . . at . . . me,” I sob, turning my face toward the cold steel of the carriage. “It is all . . . so . . . horrible . . . and it’s . . . my fault.”

“It is not your fault.”

“Yes, yes, it is! If I hadn’t been who I am, Mother wouldn’t have died. He never would have been like this! I ruined his happiness! And . . .” I stop.

“And . . . ?”

“I used the magic to try to cure him.” I’m afraid Kartik will be angry, but he doesn’t say anything. “I couldn’t bear to see him suffer so. What is the good of all this power if I can do nothing with it?”

This brings a fresh wave of tears. To my great surprise, Kartik wipes them away with his hand.
“Meraa mitra yahaan
aaiye,”
he murmurs.

I understand only a little Hindi, enough to know what he has said:
Come here, my friend.

“I’ve never known a braver girl,” he says.

He lets me lean against the carriage for a moment till my tears stop, and my body feels as it always does after a good cry—calm and clean. Across the Thames, the deep chimes of Big Ben sing two o’clock.

Kartik helps me into the seat next to my sleeping father.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle.”

When we reach home, the lamps are lit, which is an ominous sign. Tom is waiting in the parlor. There’s no way to hide what has happened.

“Gemma, where have you been at such an hour? Why are you dressed in my clothing? And what have you done to my best trousers?”

Kartik moves into the room, supporting Father as best he can.

“Father!” Tom says, taking in his semi-clothed, drugged state.
"What has happened?”

My words rush out in a terrified torrent. “We found him in an opium den. He’d been there for two days. Kartik wanted you but I didn’t want to scandalize you at the club and so I—I—I . . .”

Hearing the commotion, Mrs. Jones arrives, her night bonnet still on her head.

“Is anything the matter, sir?” she asks.

“Mr. Doyle has taken ill,” Tom says.

Mrs. Jones’s eyes say she knows it’s a lie, but she immediately springs into action.
"I’ll fetch tea at once, sir. Should I send for the doctor?”

“No! Just the tea, thank you,” Tom barks. He gives Kartik a hard look.
"I can manage from here.”

“Yes, sir,” Kartik says. For a moment, I don’t know whether to go to my brother or Kartik. In the end, I help Tom and Mrs. Jones get my father to bed. I change out of Tom’s clothes, scrub myself of the soot of East London, and dress in my own nightclothes. I find Tom sitting in the parlor, staring into the fire. He takes the twigs that are too small to be of any good, snaps them in half, and feeds them methodically into the angry flames.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t know what else to do,” I say. I wait for him to tell me how I’ve disgraced the family and that I shall never leave this house again.

Another twig lights. It screams in the fire and hisses down to cinder. I haven’t any idea what to say.

“I can’t cure him,” Tom says so softly I have to strain to hear. “A medical student is a man of science. He is supposed to have the answers. I cannot even help my own father conquer his demons.”

I lean my head against the wood of the doorframe, something solid to catch me should I slide right off this earth and keep falling. “You’ll find a way, in time.” I mean to be reassuring. I am not.

“No. Science is broken for me. It’s broken.” His head slumps forward into his hands. There’s a strangled sound. He’s trying not to cry, but he’s helpless against it. I want to run across the rug and hold him tightly, risk his disdain to do it.

Instead, I turn the knob quietly and leave, letting him save face and hating myself for it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

THE SOUND OF DISTANT CHURCH BELLS WAKES ME. It is Christmas morning. The house is quiet as a morgue. Father and Tom are still asleep after our long night, and Grandmama has chosen to stay in bed as well. Only the servants and I are awake.

I dress quickly and quietly and make my way to the carriage house. Sleep still hangs about Kartik in a sweet, charming way.

“I’ve come to apologize for last night. And to thank you for helping him,” I say.

“Everyone needs help sometimes,” he says.

“Except for you.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he hands me something illwrapped in a scrap of cloth. “Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle.”

I am astonished. "What is this?”

“Open it.”

Inside the cloth is a small blade the size of a man’s thumb. Atop the blade is a small, crude totem of a many-armed man with a buffalo head.

“Megh Sambara,” Kartik explains. “The Hindus believe that he offers protection against enemies.”

“I thought you had no loyalty to any customs other than the Rakshana’s.”

Embarrassed, Kartik sticks his hands in his pockets, rocks on the heels of his boots.
"It was Amar’s.”

“You shouldn’t part with it, then,” I say, trying to give it back.

Kartik jumps to avoid the blade. “Careful. It is small but sharp. And you may have need of it.”

I hate to be reminded of my purpose here and now. “I shall keep it with me. Thank you.”

I see there’s another small bundle beside him. I would dearly love to ask if it is for Emily, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

“Tonight is Miss Worthington’s Christmas ball, yes?” Kartik asks, running fingers through his thick tangle of curls.

“Yes,” I say.

“What do you do at these balls?” Kartik asks shyly.

“Oh,” I sigh. “There is a great deal of smiling and talking of the weather and how lovely everyone looks. There is a light supper and refreshments. And the dancing, of course.”

“I’ve never been to a ball. I don’t know how this sort of dancing is done.”

“It isn’t so difficult to master for a man. The woman has to learn to do it in reverse without stepping on his feet.”

Kartik lifts his hands into position as if holding an imaginary partner.
"Like this?” He moves around and around.

“A bit slower. That’s it,” I say.

Kartik adopts a plummy tone. "I say, Lady Whatsit, have you had many callers since arriving in London?”

“Oh, Lord Hoity-toity,” I answer, matching his tone. “Why, I’ve so many cards from the very best people that I’ve had to put out two china bowls to display them all.”

“Two bowls, you say?”

“Two bowls.”

“What an inconvenience for you and your china collection,” Kartik says, laughing. He is so very lovely when he laughs.

“I should like to see you in black jacket and white tie.” Kartik stops.
"Do you think I would look the grand gentleman?”

“Yes.”

He bows to me. "May I have this dance, Miss Doyle?”

I curtsy. "Oh, but of course, Lord Hoity-toity.”

“No,” he says softly. "May
I
have this dance?”

Kartik is asking me to dance. I look about. The house is still shuttered with sleep. Even the sun is hiding behind the gray clouds of its bedclothes. No one’s about, but they will be at any moment. My head whispers frantic warnings:
Mustn’t. Improper.
Wrong. What if someone should see us? What about Simon . . .

But my hand makes the decision for me, pushing against the Christmas morning chill till it is joined with his.

“Ah, your, um, your other hand would be at my waist,” I say, looking down at our feet.

“Here?” he says, resting his palm against my hip.

“Higher,” I croak. His hand finds my waist. “That’s it.”

“What next?”

“We, we dance,” I say, my breath coming out in shallow puffs.

He turns me round slowly and awkwardly at first. There is so much space between us that a third person could stand there. I keep my eyes on our feet stepping so close to each other, leaving patterns in the thin layer of sawdust.

“I think it would be easier if you weren’t pulling away,” he says.

“This is how it is done,” I answer.

He pulls me closer to him, far closer than is appropriate. There is but a whisper of space between his chest and mine. Instinctively, I look around, but there is no one to see us but the horses. Kartik’s hand travels from my waist to the small of my back, and I gasp. Turning round and round, his hand warm at my back, his other hand grasping mine, I am suddenly dizzy.

“Gemma,” he says, so that I must look up into those magnificent brown eyes. “There is something I need to tell you. . . .”

He mustn’t say it. It will ruin everything. I break away, my hand going to my stomach to steady myself.

“Are you all right?” Kartik says.

I smile weakly and nod. “The cold,” I say. “Perhaps I should be getting back.”

“But first, I need to tell you—”

“There’s so much to do,” I say, cutting him off.

“Well, then,” he says, sounding hurt. "Don’t forget your gift.”

He hands me the charm blade. Our hands touch, and for an instant, it is as if the world holds its breath, and then his lips, those warm, soft lips, are on mine. It is as if I’ve been caught in a sudden rain, this feeling.

There’s a sensation in my stomach like birds flapping as I break away.
"Please don’t.”

“It’s because I am Indian, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Of course not,” I say. "I don’t even think of you as an Indian.”

He looks as if he’s been punched. Then he throws his head back and laughs. I do not know what I’ve said that is so amusing. He gives me such a hard look I fear my heart shall break from it.
"So you don’t even think of me as Indian. Well, that is a tremendous relief.”

“I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You English never do.” He walks into the stables with me on his heels.

I’d never thought of how insulting that might sound. But now, too late, I realize that he is right, that in my heart I have taken for granted that I have been so frank with Kartik, so . . . myself . . . because he is Indian and so there could never be anything between us. Anything I could say now would be a lie. I’ve made such a mess of things.

Kartik is gathering his meager possessions into a rucksack.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Rakshana. It is time for me to claim my place. To begin my training and advance.”

“Please don’t go, Kartik. I don’t want you to go.” It is the truest thing I’ve said all day.

“For that I am sorry for you.”

The mews is coming awake. Servants have sprung into action like the tiny mechanized figures on a cuckoo clock.

“You’d best go in. Would you be so kind as to give this to Emily for me?” he says frostily. He hands me the other gift, which opens just enough to reveal The Odyssey. “Tell her I am sorry I cannot continue teaching her to read. She’ll have to get someone else.”

“Kartik,” I start. I notice he’s left my gift to him from months ago leaning against the wall. “Don’t you want to take the cricket bat?”

“Cricket. Such an English game,” he says. “Goodbye, Miss Doyle.” He hoists the rucksack upon his back and walks away, heading into the weak first light of morning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

BY NOON, THE STREETS OF LONDON ARE A CONCERT of bells calling one and all to church. Grandmama, Tom, and I sit on hard wooden pews, letting the reverend’s words wash over us.

“Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, inquired of them diligently what time the star appeared. And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, ‘Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also . . .’ ”

I glance about the church. All around me, heads are bowed in prayer. People seem content. Happy. After all, it is Christmas.

A light-dappled stained-glass window shows an angel delivering the annunciation. At his feet, Mary kneels, trembling as she receives this fearful message from her celestial visitor. Her face shows the awe and fear of that news, of the gift she has not asked for but will carry nonetheless. And I wonder why there is no passage to describe her terrible doubt.

“Then Herod, when he saw that he was mocked of the wise men, was exceeding wroth, and sent forth his men, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof . . .”

Why is there no panel showing women saying,
No, I’m sorry,
I don’t want this gift. You may have it back. I’ve sheep to look after and
bread to bake, and I’ve no desire to be a holy messenger.

That is the window I long to see.

A ray of light breaks through the glass, and for a moment, the angel seems to flare like the sun.

I am allowed to spend the afternoon with Felicity and Ann, so that Grandmama and Tom may tend to Father. Mrs. Worthington is seeing to the outfitting of little Polly, which has put Felicity into a hateful mood to match my own. Only Ann is enjoying the day. It is the first Christmas she can remember in a real home with a ball to attend, and she’s positively giddy about it, badgering us with questions.

“Should I wear flowers and pearls in my hair? Or is it too gauche?” she asks.

“Gauche,” Felicity responds. “I don’t see why we have to take her in. There are plenty of relatives more suited, I should think.”

I sit at Felicity’s dressing table running a brush through my hair, counting the strokes, seeing the hurt in Kartik’s eyes with each swipe of the brush. “Sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six . . .”

“They fawn and fret over her as if she’s a visiting princess,” Felicity grumbles.

“She’s a very pretty little girl,” Ann says thoughtlessly. “I was thinking of wearing perfume. Gemma, does Tom find girls who wear scent too bold?”

“He is attracted to the smell of manure,” Felicity says. “You might wallow in the stables to bring out the full flower of his love.”

“You
are
in quite a mood,” Ann grumbles.

I shouldn’t have danced with him. I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. But I wanted him to kiss me. And then I insulted him.

“Oh, it’s all such a bother,” Felicity harrumphs as she makes her way to the bed, which is awash in discarded stockings, silk, and petticoats. The whole of Felicity’s cupboards, it seems, are splayed out for the world to see. And yet she can’t seem to find anything that suits.

“I’m not going,” Felicity blurts out. She’s sprawled petulantly on a chaise in her dressing gown, woolen stockings pooled about her ankles. All pretense of modesty has been abandoned.

“It’s your mother’s ball,” I say. “You must go. Sixty-seven, sixty-eight . . .”

“I’ve nothing to wear!”

I gesture grandly to the bed and resume my counting.

“Won’t you be wearing one of the gowns your mother had made for you in Paris?” Ann asks. She’s holding one of the dresses against her body, turning this way and that. She gives a slight curtsy to an imaginary escort.

“They’re so bourgeois,” Felicity snorts.

Ann runs her fingers over the water blue silk, the beadwork along the delicate neckline.
"I think this one is lovely.”

“Then you wear it.”

Ann pulls her fingers back as if they burn. “I couldn’t begin to fit into it.”

Felicity smirks. “You could have if you’d given up those morning scones.”

“It wouldn’t make any d-d-difference. I would only insult the dress.”

Felicity springs up with a sigh that borders on a growl. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” Ann asks.

“Belittle yourself at every opportunity.”

“I was only making light of things.”

“No, you weren’t. Was she, Gemma?”

“Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine . . . ,” I answer loudly.

“Ann, if you keep saying how unworthy you are, people will come to believe it.”

Ann shrugs, returning the dress to the heap on the bed. “They believe what they see.”

“Then change what they see.”

“How?”

“Wear the dress. We could let it out on the sides.”

“One hundred.” I turn to face them. "Yes, but then it wouldn’t fit you any longer.”

Felicity’s grin is feral. "Exactly.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I say. The dress is quite expensive, made in Paris to fit Felicity.

“Won’t your mother be cross?” Ann asks.

“She’ll be far too involved with her guests to notice what we’re wearing. She’ll only be concerned with what she’s wearing, and whether it makes her look young.”

It seems a bad idea, but Ann’s already touching the silk again as if it were a treasured kitten, and I’m not going to be the one to spoil it for her.

Felicity jumps up. “I shall call Franny. For all her tiresomeness, she is a most excellent seamstress.”

Franny is summoned. When Felicity explains what she wants done, the girl’s eyes go wide with disbelief.

“Should I ask Mrs. Worthington first, miss?”

“No, Franny. It is to be a surprise for my mother. She will be so very happy to see Miss Bradshaw well turned out.”

“Very well, miss.”

Franny measures Ann. "It will be difficult, miss. I cannot say if there will be enough fabric.”

Ann blushes. “Oh, please don’t bother. I’ll wear what I wore to the opera.”

“Franny,” Felicity says, making her name into a sweet lullaby, “you are such a skilled seamstress. I am sure that if anyone can do it, you can.”

“But once I alter it, miss, I can’t change it back again,” Franny says.

“Leave that to me,” Felicity says, pushing her out the door with the dress in her arms.

“Now, let’s see to giving you a waist,” Felicity barks.

Ann braces herself against the wall with both arms. She starts to turn back to say something to me, but Felicity pushes her head forward again.

“You’re not going to pinch me too terribly, are you?”

“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly. "Now hold still.” I give a sharp tug on her corset laces, cinching in Ann’s waist as much as I possibly can.

“H-h-heavens,” she gasps.

“Again,” Felicity says.

I pull hard, and Ann straightens, panting for breath, tears pricking at her eyes.

“Too tight,” she croaks.

“Do you want to wear the dress?” Felicity taunts.

“Yes . . . but I don’t want to die.”

“All right, no use having you faint on us.” I loosen the laces a bit and color floods Ann’s face.

“Here, sit,” I say, guiding her to the chaise. She has no choice but to sit straight as a church steeple. She breathes as heavily as a worked horse.

“It isn’t quite so bad once you’re accustomed to it,” Ann whispers, giving a weak smile.

Felicity throws herself on the chaise again. "Liar.”

“What did you make of Nell Hawkins’s performance? It was pure gibberish to me,” Ann says, struggling for breath. “Tom looked very handsome, I think. He’s so kind.”

“I’ve not been able to make sense of it myself,” I answer.
“Offer hope to the Untouchables; do not let the song die. Be careful with
beauty; beauty must pass.”

“
Do not leave the path.
What did that mean?” Ann wonders aloud.

“How about
the slippery, nippery nymphs
?” Felicity says, giggling. “Or Beware the Poppy Warriors! They will gobble you up. Gobble, gobble!”

Ann starts to giggle, but the corset cuts her merriment short. She can only smile and pant.

“She was trying to tell us something. I’m sure of it.” I’m feeling quite defensive on this matter.

“Come now, Gemma! It was a nonsense poem. Poor Nell Hawkins is as mad as a hatter.”

“Then how did she know about the gorgon or the Forest of Lights? Or the golden mist?”

“Perhaps you told her.”

“I didn’t!”

“She read it somewhere, then.”

“No,” I protest. “I believe she was speaking to us in a code, and if we can decipher it, we shall unlock the mystery of the Temple’s location.”

“Gemma, I know you wish to believe that Nell holds the key to all of this, but I must say, having seen her, that you are mistaken.”

“You sound like Kartik.” I instantly regret mentioning his name.

“What is it, Gemma? You’re frowning,” Ann inquires.

“Kartik. He’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?” Felicity asks, pulling on a stocking and examining it against the curve of her calf.

“Back to the Rakshana. I insulted him, and he left.”

“What did you say?” Felicity asks.

“I told him I didn’t even think of him as Indian.”

“What is insulting about that?” Felicity says, not understanding. She removes the stocking and drops it on the floor. “Gemma, are we to go into the realms tonight? I want to show Pip my new gown and wish her a merry Christmas.”

“It will be difficult to get away,” I say.

“Nonsense. There are always opportunities to escape from the chaperones. I’ve done it before.”

“I wish to enjoy the ball,” I say.

Felicity fixes me with a mocking smile. “You wish to enjoy Simon Middleton.”

“I was rather hoping to dance with Tom,” Ann admits.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” I say, throwing Felicity a bone.

“I hate it when you’re this way. Someday, I shall have my own power, and then I will enter the realms any time I please,” Felicity huffs.

“Felicity, don’t be mad,” Ann pleads. “It’s just one night. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll go into the realms again.”

She walks away, dismissing us. “I miss Pip. She was always game.”

After Felicity’s rude departure, Ann and I make small talk and spend time playing with ribbons. Then, as if nothing’s happened at all, Felicity bursts through the doors along with Franny, who carries the blue silk dress gently across her arms.

“Oh, let’s have a look, shall we?” Felicity exclaims.

Ann steps into the pooled fabric, snakes her arms through. Franny loops the small pearl buttons at the back. It’s lovely. Ann twirls in it as if she can’t believe the girl in the mirror could be her own reflection.

“What do you think?” I say, holding Ann’s hair off her neck for a grand effect.

She nods. “Yes. I like it. Thank you, Felicity.”

“Don’t thank me. It will be pleasure enough to watch my mother’s face fall.”

“What do you mean?” Ann asks. “I thought you said she wouldn’t care.”

“Did I?” Felicity says, feigning surprise.

I flash Felicity a warning look. She ignores me and pulls out a burgundy velvet gown from the pile on the bed. “Franny? You’re such a brilliant seamstress, I’m sure it would be no trouble at all for you to make a tiny adjustment to this gown. Why, I’m certain you could do it within the hour.”

Franny blushes. “Yes, miss?”

“It’s just that the bodice on this dress is far too prim for a young lady going to such a grand party. Don’t you agree?”

Franny examines the bodice. “I suppose I could lower it just a bit, miss.”

“Oh, yes, please! Straightaway,” Felicity says, pushing Franny out the door. She takes over my spot at the dressing table and breaks into a wicked grin. “This should be quite amusing.”

“Why do you hate her so?” I say.

“I’m growing rather fond of Franny, actually.”

“I meant your mother.”

Felicity holds up a pair of garnet earbobs for inspection. “I don’t care for her taste in gowns.”

“If you don’t wish to discuss it . . .”

“No, I don’t,” Felicity says.

Sometimes Felicity is as much a mystery to me as the location of the Temple. She is spiteful and childish one minute, lively and spirited in the next; a girl kind enough to bring Ann home for Christmas and small enough to think Kartik is her inferior.

“She seems quite nice to me,” Ann says.

Felicity stares at the ceiling. “She has a lot invested in seeming nice—light and amusing. That’s what’s important to her. But don’t make the mistake of going to her with anything that matters.”

Something dark and hard flits across the surface of Felicity’s face.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she mutters. And the mystery that is Felicity Worthington deepens.

For fun, I slip into one of Felicity’s frocks, a deep green satin. Ann fastens the hooks and a shapely waist comes into view. It is startling to see myself this way—the half-moons of my pale breasts peeking above the crush of silk and flowers. Is this the girl everyone else sees?

To Felicity and Ann, I’m a means into the realms.

To Grandmama, I am something to be molded into shape.

To Tom, I am a sister to be endured.

To Father, I am a good girl, always one step away from disappointing him.

To Simon, I’m a mystery.

To Kartik, I am a task he must master.

My reflection stares back at me, waiting for an introduction.
Hello, girl in the mirror. You are Gemma Doyle. And I’ve no idea who
you really are.