The Sweet Far Thing (31 page)

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IWAKE TO SEE GRANDMAMA STANDING OVER MY BED, SMILING.“Wake up, Gemma!

We’re off to the shops today!”

I rub my eyes, for I must be dreaming. But no, she’s still standing there.
Smiling.

“We shall go to Castle and Sons to have a dress made. And then we shall take ourselves to Mrs.

Dolling’s Sweet Shoppe.”

My grandmother wants to take me for an outing. It is fantastic! Mr. Fowlson’s threat seems no more substantial than the fog to me now. Try to frighten me, will he? I hold all the magic of the realms, and neither the Order nor the Rakshana shall know it until I’ve accomplished what I must. After all, I’ve already worked a miracle with my own family, haven’t I?

“Oh, I’ve not been to Mrs. Dolling’s in ages. So many cakes!” Grandmama blinks. “Why have I not been? It’s no matter. We shall go today and have whatever we wish and…Gemma! Why are you not dressed? We’ve so much to do!”

She does not need to ask again. I fly to gather my things, grabbing my dress so quickly that the whole of my cupboard is made a mess by my carelessness.

Grandmama and I pass the most marvelous day together. Rather than stern and fearful, she is jolly. She greets everyone—from the boy who wraps our cake to strangers in the street—with a smile and a nod.

She gives a pat on the head to a shoeshine boy, who doesn’t know at all what to make of such a grandmotherly touch, as he is well past the age of eight.

“Oh, do look at those hats there, Gemma! The darling feathers! Should we see the milliner and be fitted for our own?” She veers toward the door. I hold tightly to her arm.

“Perhaps another day, Grandmama.”

Already the carriage was so laden with her purchases there was barely room for us to sit. Grandmama sent our driver back with an extra few shillings, insisting we’d take a hansom cab back to Belgravia.

“Oh, this is glorious, isn’t it? I can’t think why we shouldn’t have done this sooner!” She pats my arm.

“Good day!” she calls cheerily to a milkman, who regards her warily, as if she were someone’s eccentric aunt let out of the attic. “Dear me, not terribly chatty, is he? I said, good day, sir!”

“Good day to you.” The milkman gives a careful smile and a tip of the hat but his eyes never lose their suspicion.

“Ah, much better.” Grandmama smiles. “You see? They only need a bit of encouragement to come out
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of their shells.”

Castle and Sons, dressmakers, lies in Regent Street, and this is where we have come to have a dress made for my debut. A harried assistant, whose hair threatens to escape from its pinnings at any moment, carries out bolts of white silk for Grandmama to scrutinize. My measurements are taken. As the tape is crossed round my bosom, the seamstress shakes her head and gives me a sympathetic smile. My goodwill vanishes rapidly. We cannot all be Gibson Girls. When every single bit of me has been measured and recorded, I join Grandmama on a divan. Bins of buttons and lace, ribbon and feathers are hastily displayed for her, and just as quickly, Grandmama sends them back. I fear I shall have the plainest dress in all of London.

The shopgirl shows Grandmama the most exquisite dress I have ever seen. A small sigh escapes me. It has a corsage of silk roses along one shoulder and short, high sleeves adorned with bows. The skirt is embroidered with delicate rose beads, and the train—which appears to be miles long—is trimmed with a beautiful fluted ruffle. It is the gown of a princess, and I long to have one like it.

Grandmama runs a hand over the beaded silk. “What do you think, Gemma?” Grandmama has never asked my opinion on any matter ever.

“I think it is the loveliest dress I have ever seen,” I answer.

“It is, isn’t it? Yes, we shall have this one made.”

I could kiss her.

“Thank you, Grandmama.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure it will be far too dear,” she grumbles. “But we are only girls once.”

When we step out into the London murk, it is five o’clock, and already the sky is darkening and the streets are thick with gas fog that makes me cough. I don’t care. I am a new girl who shall wear silk roses and carry a fan of ostrich feathers. And we shall buy cakes from the confectionary. Let the choking gas lamps do their worst!

At the corner, Grandmama and I cross the street, heading for Mrs. Dolling’s Sweet Shoppe, and that is when the world goes topsy-turvy. My skin warms. A sweat breaks upon my brow. And the magic flows through my veins like a swollen river. I am flooded by thoughts, wounds, desires, secrets. Every private longing invades my soul.

“…the long days without end. He loved me once…”

“…a beautiful home we’ll make with a lovely garden in the front…”

Can’t think. Breathe. Make it stop. I…

“…fancy a tumble with the likes of you…”

My head turns but I can’t tell which direction the offense comes from—there are too many to fight.

“…I shall offer my proposal this evening and be made the happiest of men…”

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“…my poor little baby laid to rest, and do they know I am dying inside, too…”

“…a new dress with a bonnet to match…”

Please stop. I can’t. I can’t breathe. I…

Everything around me slows to a crawl. Beside me, Grandmama’s foot hovers above the street midstep.

On the curb, an organ-grinder moves the bellows of his instrument with excruciating slowness. One note takes an eternity, and matched to the slow toll of Big Ben’s bells, the melody has the air of a funeral march. The wheels of wagons and carriages, the ladies and gentlemen, the liniment vendor hawking his miracle cure—they are like dreamy figures in a pantomime.

“Grandmama?” I say, but she cannot hear me.

I see quick movement from the corner of my eye. The lady in the lavender dress marches toward me; her eyes flash with anger. She grabs my wrist tightly, and my skin burns in her rough grasp.

“Wh-what do you want?” I say.

She thrusts out her arm, pulling up her sleeve to expose her flesh. Words etch themselves into her skin:
Why do you ignore me?

The cold metal taste of fear lies on my tongue. “I’m not ignoring you, but I don’t understand what—”

She pulls me hard into the street.

“Wait,” I say, struggling. “Where are you taking me?”

She places her hands over my eyes, and I am joined to her in a vision. It’s quick, too quick. The footlights of the music hall stage. The illusionist. The lady writing upon the slate:
The Tree of All Souls
lives. The key holds the truth.
A woman in a tea shop. She turns her head and smiles. Miss McCleethy.

I hear the quick gallop of horses on cobblestone. The vision lady’s head snaps up, and she looks about wildly. A black carriage drawn by four sleek horses breaks out of the London gloom and barrels swiftly down the street. Black curtains blow out its windows.

“Stop!” I scream, but the horses pick up speed. The carriage is nearly upon us. We shall be trampled.

“Let me go!” I scream, and the lady dissolves into leaves and blows away. The carriage passes through me as if I were made of air and disappears into the fog. The world snaps back into place, and I’m squarely in the road, between wagons and hansoms trying to navigate around me. A footman shouts at me to get out of the street.

Grandmama looks up, horrified. “Gemma Doyle! What are you doing?”

I stagger to her. “Did you not see it?” I gasp. “A carriage came out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly.”

Grandmama’s dismay fights with the magic inside her. “Now we shan’t have our sweets.” She pouts.

“I tell you, I saw it,” I mumble. I’m still searching the streets for signs of the carriage and the lady. They

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are nowhere to be seen, and I can’t be certain I saw them at all. But one thing I am certain of: That was Miss McCleethy in the vision. Whoever this lady was, she knew my teacher.

Father rescues me from exile in my room, asking me to join him in the small study on the second floor. It is filled with his books and papers, his maps of distant places where he has traveled on various adventures. Only three photographs sit on his desk—a small daguerreotype of Mother on their wedding day, another of Thomas and me as children, and a grainy photograph of Father and an Indian man making camp on a hunting expedition, their faces grim and determined.

Father looks up from his birding journal, in which he has made a new entry. His fingers are stained with ink. “What is this I hear about carriage drivers gone amok in the streets of London?”

“I see Grandmama could not wait to share the news,” I say, sullenly.

“She was quite concerned about you.”

Do I tell him? What would he say if I did? “I was mistaken. In the fog, it was difficult to see.”

“In the Himalayas, men have been known to lose their way when the clouds roll in. A man might find himself disoriented and see things that are not there.”

I sit at Father’s feet. I’ve not done this since I was a little girl, but I have need of comfort just now. He pats my shoulder gently as he tends to his journal.

“Was that photograph on your desk taken in the Himalayas?”

“No. It was a hunting expedition near Lucknow,” he offers without further explanation.

I gaze at the photograph of my mother, searching for some of me in her face.

“What did you know about Mother before you married her?”

Father winks. “I knew she was foolish enough to say yes to my suit.”

“Did you know her family? Or where she lived before?” I press.

“Her family died in a fire. That is what she said. She didn’t wish to discuss so unpleasant a memory, and I never insisted.”

That is the way of my family. We do not talk about the unpleasant. It does not exist. And if it pokes its ugly head out of its hole, we cover it quickly and walk away.

“She could have had secrets, then.”

“Mmmm?”

“She could have had secrets.”

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Father packs tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “All women have their secrets.”

I keep my cheek against the comfort of his leg. “So it is possible that she could have led a secret life.

Perhaps she was a circus clown. Or a pirate.” I swallow hard. “Or a sorceress.”

“Oh, I say, I rather like that one!” Father puffs on his pipe. The smoke lends the room a hazy sweetness.

“Yes,” I continue, feeling bolder. “A sorceress who could enter a secret world. She had great power—so great that she passed it on to me, her only daughter.”

Father cups my cheek. “She did, indeed.”

My heart beats faster. I could tell him. I could tell him everything. “Father…”

Father coughs and coughs. “Blasted tobacco,” he says, searching for his handkerchief.

Our housekeeper enters, bringing Father a brandy without having to be asked.

“Ah, Mrs. Jones,” Father says, taking a soothing sip. “Like an angel of mercy, you appear.”

“Would you care for your supper now, sir?” she asks.

Father did not dine with us this evening. He claimed not to be hungry. But he is so thin, I hope he’ll take something.

“A bowl of soup will do nicely, I should think.”

“Very good, sir. Miss Doyle, your grandmother asks that you keep her company in the sitting room.”

“Thank you,” I say, my heart falling. I don’t want to face her yet.

Mrs. Jones leaves the room noiselessly, as servants do, as if even her skirts should not dare to make a sound lest they bring notice to the one wearing them.

Father looks up from his journal, his face ruddy from his coughing fit. “Gemma, was there something else you wanted to tell me, pet?”

I have a power, Father—an enormous power that I do not begin to understand. It is a blessing
and a curse. And I fear if you knew it, I would never be your pet again.

“No, there was nothing,” I say.

“Ah. Well. Off you go, then. Wouldn’t want to keep your grandmama waiting tonight.”

He bends his head in concentration over his birds, his maps, his notes on the constellations—things that can be observed and recorded and understood.

And when I leave the room, he scarcely takes notice.