The Sweet Far Thing (13 page)

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“Come back tomorrow alone. I’ll meet you just beyond the bramble wall.”

“If I help you cross now, Felicity will never forgive me,” I say.

“She need never know. It will be our secret.” Pip’s eyes fill with new tears. “Please, Gemma. I’m ready.

Won’t you help me?”

She takes my hands, and though hers are as cold and white as chalk, they are still Pip’s. “Yes,” I say.

“I’ll help you.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE TROUBLE WITH MORNING IS THAT IT COMES WELLbefore noon.

Oh, to luxuriate in my bed for another hour. I’ve slept no more than two, and whilst I did, a family of squirrels must have taken up residence in my mouth, for I am sure there is a coating of fur upon my tongue. My tongue tastes of squirrel, if squirrel has a taste somewhere between days-old porridge and foul cheese.

“Gemma!” Ann pushes me. She’s smartly turned out in her proper Spence uniform of white blouse, white skirt, and boots.
How did she manage that?
“You’re late!”

I lie on my back. The morning light hurts my eyes, so I close them again. “Does your mouth taste of squirrel?”

She makes a face. “Squirrel? No, of course not.”

“Woodchuck, then?”

“Will you get up?”

I rub my eyes and will my feet to the cold, unwelcoming floor. Even it is not ready to wake. I moan in protest.

“I’ve laid out your clothing for you.” And so she has, just like a clever, good little girl. My skirt and blouse are stacked neatly across the foot of my bed. “I thought you’d rather find your stockings for yourself.” She blushes as she says this. Poor Ann. How is it she can enjoy bloodthirsty tales of all manner of carnage yet nearly faint at the notion of bare shins? I step behind the dressing screen for modesty’s sake—Ann’s, that is—and dress quickly.

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“Gemma, wasn’t it so marvelous to be in the realms once again, to feel the magic?”

The night comes back to me—the discovery of the door, the joy of being there again, the magic. Yet my conversation with Gorgon about the alliance and my duties there has left a shroud upon my soul. So much is expected of me and so quickly. And I cannot shake the apprehension I feel about helping Pippa. I’ve not helped a soul, let alone a friend, cross the river before. And if I fail, I dare not guess at the outcome.

“Yes, marvelous,” I say, fastening buttons.

“You don’t seem very happy about it,” Ann says.

I steady myself. At last we’ve regained entry into the realms. I can’t allow worries about Philon and the forest folk to take this happiness from me. And as for helping Pippa, it isn’t a choice, or something to discuss or debate with Felicity or Ann. It is the only honorable thing a friend can do. And now that the magic is back…

I step from behind the screen and take Ann’s hands. “Perhaps there is a new beginning for us,” I tell her.

“Perhaps being a governess isn’t your destiny at all.”

Ann allows herself a miserly smile. “But, Gemma,” she says, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, “I’ve only a little magic left. It’s very weak. Have you…?”

I can feel it inside me, a giddy wakefulness that has me attuned to everything, as if I’ve had several cups of strong black tea. I close my eyes, feeling what Ann does. Hope with an undercurrent of envy. I see her as she would like to see herself: beautiful, admired, singing on a stage bathed in gaslight.

A subtle change comes over Ann. I cannot say what exactly; I know only that I see her differently. Her nose, which is usually red and runny, is not. Her hair is shinier, and her eyes seem somehow bluer. Ann regards herself in the mirror. She smiles at what she sees.

“It’s only the beginning,” I promise.

Outside our room, girls rush for the stairs in a stampede, and I do wonder if we are ever able to get anywhere without running like bulls. Someone bangs on our door and pushes it open without waiting for a response. It’s Martha.

“Here you are!” she trills. She tosses two frilly white nothings at Ann, who balks and throws them at me.

“What is this?” I ask, holding up a pair of what appear to be bloomers.

“For riding, of course!” Martha squeals. “Haven’t you heard?”

“No, we haven’t,” I say, hoping my irritation is evident.

“There is to be no French instruction this morning. Inspector Kent has come and brought us bicycles!

There are three of them. The inspector’s waiting out front to teach us all! Bicycles! The darling!” Then she’s off running down the hall.

“Have you ever ridden before?” Ann asks.

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“Never,” I say, eyeing the ridiculous bloomers and wondering which shall be more humiliating—the riding or the costume.

The other girls have gathered in front of Spence when Felicity and I arrive. We’re outfitted in the latest fashion for bicycling—long bloomers, a blouse with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and straw hats encircled with ribbon. The bloomers make me feel like a large duck. But at least I’m not as skittish as Elizabeth, who can barely walk for blushing.

She hides behind Cecily and Martha, shaking her head.

“Oh, I can’t! They’re immodest! Indecent!”

Felicity grabs her by the hand. “And absolutely necessary if you’re to ride a bicycle. I find them a great improvement upon the uniform, I can tell you that.”

Elizabeth shrieks and runs for cover again.
Dear God.
It is a wonder that she can even bathe herself without fainting at the immodesty of it all.

“Very well. Suit yourself,” Felicity says. She’s not shamed a bit, of course. “I cannot tell you how liberating it is to be without layers of skirts and petticoats. You are the witnesses to my solemn pledge: When I am free of these shackles and living in Paris on my inheritance, I shall never wear a dress again.”

“Oh, Fee,” Martha says, stricken. “How could you not want to wear those lovely gowns your mother has sent from France? Did I mention that my own gown is to be made by Lady Marble’s atelier?”

“You didn’t!” Cecily says.

They talk of dresses and gloves and stockings, buttons and baubles in such fevered, fawning detail I fear I shall go mad. The sounds of hammering and sawing drift out from the East Wing. The workmen glance at us, nudging each other, until Mr. Miller threatens to hold their pay.

“Ann, you look lovely this morning,” Felicity says, and Ann blooms at the compliment. Fee lowers her voice. “Wasn’t last night perfection? To see Pip again—a weight has been lifted from me.”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It was good to see her again.”

“And the magic,” Ann whispers.

“Oh, the magic.” Felicity beams. “I should like to have done everything I could think of with it, for I’ve none today.”

“None at all?” Ann can barely hide her smile.

Felicity shakes her head. “Not a bit. Have you any?”

Ann looks at me.

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“It seems to be coming to life again in me. I gifted Ann this morning, and I shall do the same for you,” I say, holding her hands until I feel the magic spark between us.

“What are you three whispering about?” Martha asks, eyeing us suspiciously.

“Employing magic to better our lives,” I answer. Felicity turns away, giggling quietly.

“You are rude and common, Gemma Doyle,” Martha sniffs. “And you are wicked to encourage her, Felicity Worthington. And as for you, Ann Bradshaw—oh, why should I bother?”

Thank goodness, the three bicycles are brought round. We shall have to take turns. I’ve never seen a bicycle up close before. It’s rather like a metal S with two wheels and a bar for steering. And the seat! It seems far too high to sit upon.

Inspector Kent greets us in his brown cotton coat and cap. He is Mademoiselle LeFarge’s betrothed, a detective with Scotland Yard and a kind man as well. We are genuinely happy they shall be married come May. Mademoiselle LeFarge looks on from her spot on the grass, where she has laid out a blanket. She wears a thick bonnet that frames her plump face, her merry eyes. Not so long ago, she pined for a lost love. But under Inspector Kent’s kind attention, she has blossomed.

“The future Mrs. Kent is a picture of loveliness today, is she not?” the inspector says, making our French teacher blush.

“Do be careful no one is hurt, Mr. Kent,” she says, dismissing his kindness.

“I shall afford your charges the utmost care, Mademoiselle LeFarge,” he answers, and her face softens.

“I know you shall, Mr. Kent,” she says, returning the compliment.

Inspector Kent’s bushy mustache hides his smile, but we catch the twinkle in his eyes. “Now, ladies,” he says, wheeling one of the bicycles toward us, “who would like to ride?”

Several of the younger girls bounce in excitement and beg to be chosen, but of course it’s Felicity who marches forward and the question is answered. “I shall go first,” she says.

“Very well. Have you ridden before?” he asks.

“Yes, at Falmore Hall,” she answers, naming her family’s estate in the country. She mounts the wobbling bicycle, and I fear she’ll land in a heap upon the ground. But she gives the pedals a solid push and then she’s off, wheeling effortlessly about the grass. We clap and cheer. Cecily is next. Inspector Kent runs beside her, keeping her aloft. When he threatens to let go, she throws her arms about his neck and screams. Martha doesn’t fare much better. She falls over, and though she has injured nothing more than her pride, she refuses to remount. The workmen snicker, apparently amused to see us fine ladies so undone by such a simple piece of machinery, one they could fashion with their bare hands.

Felicity returns from her second go on the bicycle. Inspector Kent is helping Ann with her turn.

“Oh, Gemma,” Felicity says, breathless and pink-cheeked. “You must have a ride! It’s simply marvelous! Here, I’ll help you.”

She places my hands upon the unwieldy handlebars. My arms shake as I straddle the bicycle. It is the
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most awkward thing I have ever attempted.

“Now, sit,” Felicity instructs.

I struggle to perch on the high seat and lose my balance, splaying out over the handlebars in a most unladylike fashion.

“Oh, Gemma!” Felicity laughs, doubled over.

I grab the handlebars with renewed determination. “Right. All I need is a proper push and I’ll be off,” I say with a sniff. “Steady the beast, if you please.”

“Do you speak of the bicycle or of your behind?”

“Felicity!” I hiss.

She rolls her eyes. “Get on, then.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and hoist myself onto the spectacularly uncomfortable seat. I grip the handlebars so tightly my knuckles ache. I lift one foot. The iron beast sways, and I put my foot down again quickly, my heart beating fast.

“You won’t get far that way,” Felicity scolds. “You have to let go.”

“But how…,” I say, alarmed.

“Just. Let. Go.”

With a solid push, Felicity launches me across the grass and down the slight hill, toward the dirt path.

Time seems to stand still. I am terrified and exhilarated all at once.

“Pedal, Gemma!” Felicity screams. “Just keep pedaling!”

My feet push jerkily against the pedals, propelling me forward, but the handlebars have a mind of their own. I cannot control them.

You will behave, bicycle!

A rush of power surges through my veins. Suddenly, the bicycle is very light. It’s no trouble at all to keep it moving.

“Ha!” I shout in exultation. Magic! I am saved! I descend a small hill and come round the other side, the picture of Gibson Girl grace. The crowd on the lawn cheers. Cecily stares at me, openmouthed.

“There’s a good girl!” Inspector Kent calls. “Like she was born to it!”

Felicity’s mouth hangs open too. “Gemma!” she scolds, knowing my secret.

But I don’t care. I am mad for bicycling! It is a most marvelous sport! The wind rips my hat from my head. It rolls down the hill, and three workmen run after it. Laughing, they fight amongst themselves over who will be the one to return it to me. This is freedom. I feel the turning of the wheels deep in my belly, as
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if we are one machine, and I cannot fall. It makes me bold. Picking up speed, I race up the hill and whoosh down the other side, toward the road, pushing harder and faster with each enchanted pedal stroke. The wheels leave the ground, and for one brief, glorious moment, I am airborne. My stomach tickles me from the inside. Laughing, I lift my hands from the handlebars, tempting fate and gravity.