The Sweet Far Thing (28 page)

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fingers shake in my lap. Without a word, Felicity places her hands over mine, silencing my fear.

It is said that Paris in springtime is a glory to behold, that it makes a man feel as if he shall never die. I should not know, for I have never been to Paris. But spring in London is a wholly different affair. The rain pitters and patters against the carriage’s roof. The streets are choked equally with traffic and gas fog.

Two young boys, crossing sweepers, have barely swept the muck and filth from the cobblestones so that a fashionable lady might pass when they are nearly run over by an omnibus whose driver curses them quite heatedly. The driver’s curses are nothing compared to what the horses leave for them to clean away, and despite my misgivings about what I shall find in Belgravia, I am eternally grateful I am not a crossing sweeper.

By the time we reach the house, I’m bruised from the carriage’s incessant bumping and my skirts wear mud an inch thick. A parlor maid takes my boots at the door, saying nothing about the large hole in the toe of my right stocking.

Grandmama emerges from the parlor. “Good heavens! What on earth?” she exclaims at the sight of me.

“Spring in London,” I explain, pushing a limp lock behind my ear.

She closes the parlor doors behind her and leads me to a quiet spot beside an enormous painting. Three Grecian goddesses dance in a grove by a hermitage whilst Pan plays his flute nearby, his little goat feet stepping merrily over clover. It is so ghastly as to take one’s breath away and I cannot imagine what possessed her to purchase it, let alone display it proudly. “What is that?”

“The Three Graces,” she tuts. “I am quite fond of it.”

It is possibly the most appalling painting I’ve ever seen. “There is a goat-man dancing a jig.”

Grandmama appraises it proudly. “He represents nature.”

“He’s wearing pantaloons.”

“Really, Gemma,” Grandmama growls. “I did not pull you aside to discuss art, of which it is apparent you know little. I wished to discuss your father.”

“How is he?” I ask, the painting forgotten.

“Delicate. This is to be a peaceful trip. I’ll have no outbursts, none of your peculiar habits, nothing to upset him. Do you understand?”

My peculiar habits. If she only knew. “Yes, of course.”

After I’ve exchanged my muddy dress for a clean one, I join the others in the drawing room.

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“Ah, here is our Gemma now,” Grandmama says.

Father rises from his chair by the fireplace. “Dear me, could this beautiful and elegant young lady be my daughter?” His voice is weaker, his eyes do not quite twinkle as they once did, and he is still very thin, but his mustache bends with a broad smile. When he holds out his arms, I run to him, his little girl again.

Sudden tears threaten and I blink them back.

“Welcome home, Father.”

His embrace is not as strong as it once was, but it is warm, and we shall fatten him up as soon as possible. Father’s eyes soften. “You look more like her every day.”

Tom sits sulking in a chair, taking tea and biscuits. “The tea has most likely gone cold by now, Gemma.”

“You shouldn’t have waited for me,” I say, still holding on to my father.

“That is what I said,” Tom complains.

Father offers me a chair. “You used to sit at my feet when you were a child. But as you are a child no more but a young lady, you shall have to sit properly.”

Grandmama pours tea for us all, and despite Tom’s grumbling, it is still hot. “We’ve been issued an invitation to dine at the Hippocrates Society in Chelsea this week, and Thomas has accepted.”

Scowling, Tom drops two fat lumps of sugar into his tea.

“How nice,” I say.

Father allows Grandmama to pour milk into his cup, turning it cloudy. “They’re a fine bunch of fellows, Thomas—mark my words. Why, Dr. Hamilton himself is a member.”

Tom bites into a biscuit. “Yes, old Dr. Hamilton.”

“It’s far more suited to your station than the Athenaeum,” Father says. “It’s for the best that nonsense is done with.”

“It wasn’t nonsense,” Tom says sullenly.

“It was and you know it.” Father coughs. It rattles in his chest.

“Is the tea too cold? Shall I see about more? Oh, where has that girl gone to?” Grandmama stands, then sits, then stands again until Father waves her off, and she takes her seat again. Her nervous fingers fold her napkin into neat tiny squares.

“You do look so like her,” Father says again. His eyes are moist. “How did we get here? Where did it go wrong?”

“John, you’re not yourself just now,” Grandmama says. Her lips tremble.

Tom stares at the floor miserably.

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“I would give my soul to forget,” Father whispers through his tears.

He is broken, and the fault line runs through us all. I feel that my heart will break. It would take only a little magic to change the situation.

No, put that thought out of your mind, Gemma.

But why not? Why should I allow him his suffering when I might take it away? I cannot spend another wretched week in their company. I close my eyes and my body shakes with its secrets. Far away, I hear my grandmother call my name, confused, and then, time slows till they are a strange, frozen tableau: Father, his head in his hands; Grandmama stirring her worry into her tea; Tom with a scowl on his face that speaks to his discontent with us. I say my wishes aloud, touching them each in turn.

“Father, you shall forget your pain.”

“Thomas, it is time for you to be less the boy and more the man.”

“And, Grandmama, oh, do let’s have a bit of fun, shall we?”

But the magic isn’t finished with me yet. It finds my own fierce longing for a family I once had but lost to tempests I could not control. For a moment, I see myself happy and carefree, running under blue Indian skies. My laugh echoes in my head. Oh, if I could, I would have that happiness back again. The power of that desire pulls me to my knees. It forces tears to my eyes. Yes, I should like to have that back again. I should like to feel safe. Protected. Loved. If magic can buy me that, then I will have it.

I take a deep breath and let it out shakily. “Now, let’s begin again.”

Time rushes forward. They raise their heads as if waking from a dream they are glad to be rid of.

“I say, what were we discussing?” Father asks.

Grandmama blinks her large eyes. “It is the strangest thing, for I can’t remember. Ha! Ha, ha, ha! Dotty old me!”

Tom takes another biscuit. “Fantastic biscuits!”

“Thomas, how do you think our men will fare against Scotland today in the championship?”

“England shall be victorious, of course! Best cricket in the world.”

“That’s a good lad!”

“Father, I’m hardly a lad anymore.”

“Right you are! You’ve been in long trousers some time now.” Father laughs, and Tom joins him.

“The Gentlemen shall make Lord’s proud,” Tom adds. “Gregory’s a good man.”

Father strokes his mustache. “Gregory? A fine cricketer. Mind, he’s no W. G. Grace. Seeing the Doctor play was thrilling. Nothing like it.”

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Father eats two biscuits, only stopping to cough once. Grandmama fills our cups to the brim.

“Oh, this room wants light! We must have light!” She does not call the housekeeper but ambles to the windows herself and throws open the heavy drapes. The rain has cleared. There’s a hint of sun peeking through London’s gray shroud like hope itself.

“Gemma?” Grandmama says. “My dear, what on earth is the matter? Why are you crying?”

“No reason.” I smile through tears. “No reason at all.”

It is one of the happiest evenings together I can remember. Father challenges us to a game of whist, and we play well into the evening. We place our wagers using walnuts, but as they are so delicious, we eat them sneakily, and soon, there is nothing left with which to make a bet, and we are forced to abandon our game. Grandmama settles herself at the piano and bids us sing along to a rousing round of novelty songs. Mrs. Jones brings us mugs of steaming chocolate, and even she is pulled to the piano to sing a chorus or two. As the evening winds down, Father lights the pipe I gave him for Christmas, and the smell conjures childhood memories that wrap themselves around me like a cocoon.

“If only your mother were here to share this fire with us,” Father says, and I hold my breath, afraid this house of cards I’ve constructed shall fall in on itself. I’m not ready to let go of this happiness. I give him just a touch more.

“How odd,” he says, his face brightening. “I had a remembrance of your mother, but it’s left me now, and I can’t get it back.”

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” I say.

“Yes. Forgotten,” he says. “Now, who would like a story?”

We all want one of Father’s stories, for they are the most entertaining ever.

“I say, have I ever told you the one about the tiger…,” he begins, and we grin. We know it well; he has told it hundreds of times, but it hardly matters. We sit and listen and are enthralled anew, for good stories, it seems, never lose their magic.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

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EASTER SURPRISES US ALL WITH A GLORIOUS BLUE MORNINGof such purity it makes the eyes ache. After a morning at church, we stroll amiably toward Ladies’ Mile in Hyde Park. The streets become a sea of frilly white as parasols are opened to block the dim British sun. Weak as it is, it may still freckle, and our skins are to be as unblemished as our reputations. My skin is already covered in small brown spots, much to my grandmother’s eternal dismay.

The ladies in their Easter finery strut like peacocks. Under cover of their parasols, they examine Lady Spendthrift’s new fur-trimmed coat or Mrs. Fading Beauty’s attempt at looking younger than her days, her corset pulled to straining. They pass sentence with no more than a glance or a pursing of the lips. The nannies and nurses follow the mothers and fathers, pushing prams, correcting children who get away from them.

Even in early bloom, the park is magnificent. Many ladies have placed their chairs on the grass so that they might chat and watch the horses. The path belongs to those eager to prove their skill in the saddle.

Here and there, the horsewomen break free, showing a fierce competitive spirit. But then it is as if they remember themselves. They slow to a polite trot. That is a shame, for I should like to see them blazing a path through Hyde Park, their eyes alive with will, their mouths set in joyful, determined smiles.

I have the misfortune of walking with a wealthy merchant’s daughter who must be mortally afraid of silence, for she never ceases talking. I give her the secret name Miss Chatterbox. “And then she danced with him for four dances! Can you imagine?”

“How scandalous,” I answer without enthusiasm.

“Exactly so! Everyone knows that three is the limit,” she answers, missing my point entirely.

“Steady. Here come the dowager soldiers,” I warn.

We adopt a pose of demure innocence. A team of old ladies, powdered and puffed to the stiffness of meringue tarts, passes us with barely a nod. The crowd thins just a bit, and my heart nearly stops. Simon Middleton, resplendent in his white suit and boater hat, walks in our direction. I’d forgotten how handsome he is—tall, well formed, with brown hair and eyes the blue of clear seas. But it is the naughty twinkle in those eyes that makes a girl feel as if she has been undressed and has not cared to object.

Strolling beside Simon is a lovely brunette. She is as small and dainty as the figurine on a music box. Her chaperone marches in time with her, the picture of respectability.