The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
“Thank you,” Ann says. “They were given to me by someone who did not properly appreciate their worth.”
“What a pity,” our teacher clucks.
The train ride to London is the most exciting yet. It is exhilarating to have such a powerful secret. I do feel a touch of remorse for tricking LeFarge, whom I like, but it was necessary. And I cannot deny that there is a thrill in knowing how easy it is to secure our freedom. Freedom—we’ll have more of that. Curiously, I find that as I make use of the magic, I feel better—more alive and awake. Nearly giddy.
“What shall you do in London today, Mademoiselle LeFarge?” I ask.
“I’ve arrangements to make. For the wedding,” she says with a happy sigh.
“You must tell us simply everything,” Felicity insists, and we badger her with questions. Will she carry a fan? Will there be lace? A veil? Will she have orange blossoms embroidered on her dress for luck as Queen Victoria did?
“Oh, no, nothing so grand.” She demurs, glancing down at her plump hands resting in her ample lap. “It will be a simple country wedding in the Spence chapel.”
“Will you stay on at Spence?” Ann asks. “After you’re married?”
“That rather depends on Mr. Kent,” she answers, as if that settles it.
“Would you want to stay on?” Felicity presses.
“I should like a new life once I am married. In fact, the inspector has begun to ask my thoughts on his cases, to have a woman’s perspective. I know it’s out of the ordinary for a wife’s duties, but I confess I find it quite thrilling.”
“That is lovely,” Ann says. She’s smiling in that romantic way of hers, and I know that in her head she’s conjured images of herself bustling about a kitchen, sending her husband off to work with a kiss. I try to imagine myself in such a life. Would I like it? Would I grow bored? Would it be a comfort or a curse?
My thoughts turn to Kartik—his lips, his hands, the way he once kissed me. In my mind I see myself running my fingers across those lips, feeling his hands at the nape of my neck. A warm ache settles below my belly. It ignites something deep inside me that I cannot name, and suddenly, it’s as if I am inside a vision. Kartik and I stand in a garden. My hands are tattooed with henna, like an Indian bride’s. He takes me into his arms and kisses me under a steady rain of falling petals. He gently lowers the edges of my sari, baring my shoulders, his lips trailing down my bare skin, and I sense that everything between us is about to change.
I come back to myself suddenly. My breathing is labored and I feel flushed from head to toe. No one seems to notice my discomfort, and I do my best to regain my composure.
“I shall never marry,” Felicity announces with a wicked smile. “I shall live in Paris and become an artist’s model.”
She’s trying to shock, and Mademoiselle LeFarge supplies the requisite admonishment—“Really, Miss Worthington”—but then she changes course.
“Have you no desire for a husband and children, Miss Worthington?” she asks plainly, as if on this train we have ridden from girls to young ladies who might be trusted to hold a different sort of conversation. It is nearly as powerful as the magic, this trust.
“No, I don’t,” Felicity says.
“And why not?” LeFarge presses.
“I…I wish to live for myself. I should never want to be trapped.”
“One needn’t be trapped. One’s life can be made so rich by sharing burdens and joys.”
“I’ve not seen it to be so,” Fee mumbles.
Mademoiselle LeFarge nods, considering. “It takes the right sort of husband, I suppose, the sort who’ll be a friend and not a master. A husband who will care for his wife with small, everyday kindnesses and trust her with his confidences. And a wife must be such a friend in return.”
“I’d not make a good wife,” Felicity says so softly it is nearly drowned out by the clacking of the train.
“What sorts of goodies will you shop for today?” Ann asks, abandoning the sophisticated Nan for a moment with a single girlish question.
“Oh, me, this and that. Nothing so nice as your necklace, I’m afraid.”
Ann takes the pearls from her neck and holds them out. “I should like you to have this.”
Mademoiselle LeFarge pushes them away. “Oh, no, you are far too kind.”
“No,” Ann says, blushing. “I’m not. You must have something borrowed, yes?”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Mademoiselle LeFarge insists.
I take Mademoiselle LeFarge’s hand and imagine her in her wedding dress, the pearls at her neck. “Take them,” I murmur, and my wish, borne on the wings of magic, travels quickly between us and nests inside her.
Mademoiselle LeFarge blinks. “You’re certain?”
“Oh, yes. Nothing would make me happier.” Ann smiles.
Mademoiselle LeFarge secures the clasp around her own neck. “How do they look?”
“Beautiful,” we all say as one.
Ann, Felicity, and Mademoiselle LeFarge fall into easy conversation. I stare out the train’s windows at the hills rolling by. I want to ask them if they know what my future holds: Will my father’s health be restored and my family healed? Will I survive my debut? Can I prove myself within the realms and live up to expectations, especially my own?
“Can you tell me?” I whisper to the window, my warm breath making a foggy snowflake pattern upon the glass. It melts quickly away, as if I have never said a word. The train slows and the hills disappear behind billowing clouds of steam. The porter calls the station. We have arrived, and now our true test begins.
Mademoiselle LeFarge delivers us to Mrs. Worthington on the platform. With her fair hair and cool gray eyes, Mrs. Worthington is like her daughter, but finer. She lacks Felicity’s bold, sensual features, and it gives her an air of fragile beauty. Every man takes note of her loveliness. As she walks, they turn their heads or hold her glance a second too long. I shall never have this sort of beauty, the sort that paves the way.
Mrs. Worthington greets us warmly. “What a nice day we shall have. And how lovely to see you again, darling Nan. Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“Oh, yes, quite pleasant,” Ann answers. They fall into polite chatter. Felicity and I exchange glances.
“She really believes Ann is your cousin,” I gloat quietly. “She didn’t notice anything amiss!”
Felicity scoffs. “She wouldn’t.”
On the street, we pass an acquaintance of Mrs. Worthington’s and she stops to chat. We stand idly by, not seen, not heard, not noticed. A few feet away, another group of women makes a bid for attention. The women wear sandwich board signs that announce a strike. Beardon’s Bonnets Factory Fire. Six Souls Murdered for Money. Justice Must Be Served—Fair Wages, Fair Treatment. They call to passersby, imploring them to have a care for their cause. The well-heeled people on their way to the theater and the clubs turn away, their faces registering distaste.
A girl of about fifteen hurries over, a tin can in her hands. Her gloves are a farce. Ragged holes eat at the wool like a pox. Her knuckles peek through, red and raw. “Please, miss. Spare a copper for our cause?”
“What cause is it?” Ann asks.
“We work at Beardon’s Bonnets Factory, miss, and a sorrier place there never was,” she says. Dark half-moons shadow her eyes. “A fire took our friends, miss. A terrible fire. The factory doors was locked to keep us in. What chance did they have, miss?”
“Bessie Timmons and Mae Sutter,” I whisper.
The girl’s eyes widen. “Did you know them, miss?”
I shake my head quickly. “I…I must have read their names in the accounts.”
“They was good girls, miss. We’re striking so it won’t happen again. We want fair wages and fair treatment. They shouldn’t’ve died in vain.”
“I’m sure that wherever your friends may be now, they would be proud of your efforts.” I drop a shilling into her cup.
“Thank you, miss.”
“Come al
“They’re striking,” I answer. “Their friends were burned in a factory fire.”
“How horrid. I don’t like to hear such things.” A gentleman passes, giving Mrs. Worthington a furtive glance. She responds with a satisfied smile. “They should have husbands to look after them.”
“What if they don’t?” Felicity asks, her voice harsh. “What if they are alone? What if they have children to feed and wood to buy for the fire? What if they have only themselves to rely upon? Or…or what if they have no wish to be married? Do they have no merit on their own?”
It is astonishing to see the fire in Felicity’s eyes, though somehow I doubt this display is born of a reformer’s zeal. I believe it is a way to goad her mother. Ann and I dare not enter this fray. We keep our eyes on the ground.
“Darling, there shall always be the poor. I don’t very well see what I can do about it. I’ve my own obligations.” Mrs. Worthington adjusts her fur stole until it sits high against her neck, soft armor for her soft world. “Come now. Let’s not talk of such unpleasant business on such a beautiful spring day. Ah, a confectionary. Shall we go in and see what sweets there are for us? I know that girls enjoy their treats.” She smiles conspiratorially. “I was a girl once, too.”
Mrs. Worthington steps inside, and Felicity stares hard after her.
“You will always be a girl,” she whispers bitterly.
* * *
CHAPTER NINETEEN
* * *
MRS. WORTHINGTON TAKES FOREVER TO DECIDE ON HER sweets, and we arrive at the Drury Lane with barely a moment to spare. The dusk particular to theaters descends, a romantic twilight that takes us away from our cares and makes the fantastic possible. The Drury Lane is known for its spectacle, and we are not to be disappointed. The enormous curtains part, revealing an extravagant set—a forest that appears as real as can be. In the center of the stage, three old witches tend a cauldron. Thunder crashes. This is only a man banging a large piece of copper, but it produces shivers anyway. The wizened crones speak to us:
“When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”
“When the hurly-burly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.”
“That will be ere the set of sun.”
“Where the place?”
“Upon the heath.”
“There to meet with Macbeth.”
“I come, Graymalkin!”
“Paddock calls: Anon!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Hover through the fog and filthy air.”
“Isn’t this marvelous?” Ann whispers, delighted, and I’m glad for what we’ve done.
When Lily Trimble makes her entrance, the audience sits taller. Miss Trimble is a compelling creature with thick waves of auburn hair that cascade down the back of her purple cloak. Her voice is deep and honeyed. She struts and preens, plots and laments with such a fervor that it is almost impossible to believe she is not truly Lady Macbeth herself. When she walks in her sleep, crying with remorse for her evil deeds, she is riveting, and all the while, Ann sits on the edge of her seat, watching with keen attention. When the play comes to its end, and Lily Trimble takes her bow, Ann applauds more loudly than any other in attendance. I have never seen her quite so moved, so alive.
The lamps are brought to their full, dazzling light.
“Wasn’t it marvelous?” Ann asks, beaming. “Her talent is extraordinary, for I actually believed her to be Lady Macbeth!”
Mrs. Worthington looks bored. “It isn’t a pleasant play, is it? I so much preferred The Importance of Being Earnest. That was jolly.”
“I’m sure the performances could not have been nearly so fine as the one we’ve just seen by Miss Trimble,” Ann opines. “Oh, it was splendid! It was more than splendid. They shall have to invent the word to describe Lily Trimble, for none presently do her justice. I’d give anything to meet her. Anything.”
As we fold into the crowd, Ann looks back longingly toward the stage, where a young man pushes a broom, erasing all traces of the performance that held her so in thrall.
I allow a man and his wife to separate us from Mrs. Worthington. “Ann, do you truly want to meet her?” I whisper.
She nods. “Desperately!”
“Then you shall.”
Felicity pushes in, annoying a matron, who decries her rudeness with an “I say!”
“Gemma,” Fee says, curiosity piqued. “What are you about?”
“We’re taking Ann to meet Lily Trimble.”
Mrs. Worthington cranes her neck over the exiting crowd, looking for us. She reminds me of a lost bird.
“Right, and how shall we rid ourselves of my mother?”
We need only a few moments of freedom. A distraction of sorts. I have to concentrate, but it is so difficult with the crowd bustling about me. Their thoughts invade mine till I can scarcely see.
“Gemma!” Fee whispers. She and Ann link their arms through mine.
I struggle to hold fast to my original intent. I repeat it silently as we near Mrs. Worthington: You see a friend in the crowd. You must go to her. We shall be fine here alone. I repeat it till even I believe it.
“Oh!” Mrs. Worthington suddenly exclaims. “Why, there is my dear friend Madame LaCroix from Paris! How could she come without writing me! Oh, she’s getting away! Excuse me, I won’t be but a moment.”
Like a woman possessed, Mrs. Worthington presses into the crowd in search of her dear friend who is, no doubt, still in Paris as we stand there.
“What did you do?” Felicity asks with glee.
“I gave her a wee suggestion. Now, let’s see about meeting Lily Trimble, shall we?”
Behind the stage, it is another world entirely. A swarm of workers busy themselves with props and machinery. Burly men move long painted canvases to and fro. Several others hoist ropes whilst a man with a porkpie hat and a cigar clenched between his lips barks orders to them. We slip down a narrow corridor in search of Lily Trimble. The actor playing Banquo passes us in his dressing gown without the slightest bit of shame.
“Hello, my dears,” he says, eyeing us up and down.
“We very much enjoyed your performance,” Ann says earnestly.
“My next performance shall be in my dressing room. Perhaps you would like to attend? You are quite lovely.”
“We are looking for Miss Trimble,” Felicity says, narrowing her eyes.
The man’s smile fades to a thin shadow. “To your left. Should you change your mind, I am on the right.”
“The very cheek of some people,” Felicity fumes, pulling us on.
“What do you mean?” Ann asks. Felicity is in full stride and we struggle to keep pace.
“He made an improper advance toward you, Ann.”
“Toward me?” Ann asks, wide-eyed. A lightning-quick grin splits her face. “How wonderful!”
At last, we find Lily Trimble’s door. We knock and await a response. A maid answers, her hands filled with costumes. I present my card. It is only a plain card from a shop, but that is no matter, for her eyes widen as she reads the illusion there.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she says, giving a slight curtsy. “I’ll be just a minute.”
“What did you put on that card?” Felicity asks.
“Something that would gain us entrance.”
The maid returns. “This way, if you please.”
She ushers us into Lily Trimble’s dressing room, which we take in at a glance: the damask chaise; the lamp with a red silk scarf thrown over the top; the dressing screen covered with a collection of silk robes and gowns and stockings sprawled in a shameless display; the vanity, where an array of creams and lotions sit next to a silver hairbrush and hand mirror.
“Miss Trimble, Misses Doyle, Worthington, and Washbrad to meet you,” the maid says.
A familiar smok
“Yes, miss,” Tillie says, leaving us.
Lily Trimble emerges from behind the dressing screen in a deep blue velvet robe she secures about her waist with a gold tasseled tie. The long, flowing hair was only a wig; her true hair—a muted auburn—she wears in a simple braid. Ann is slack-jawed, awed to be in the presence of such a star. When Miss Trimble takes her hand, Ann curtsies as if greeting the Queen.
The actress’s laugh is as thick as cigar smoke and just as intoxicating. “Well, this is a fancy reception, isn’t it?” she quips with an American accent. “I must confess, I haven’t met too many duchesses in my time. Which one of you is the Duchess of Doyle?”
Felicity offers me a naughty smile for my duplicity but there is something so very straightforward about Lily Trimble, I find it impossible to lie to her.
“I have a confession to make. None of us is a duchess, I’m afraid.”
She arches a brow. “You don’t say?”
“We are from the Spence Academy for Young Ladies.”
She takes in our unchaperoned state. “My. A lady’s education has changed rather dramatically since my time. Not that my time was so long ago.”
“We think you are the most marvelous actress in the whole world, and we simply had to meet you!” Ann blurts out.
“And how many actresses have you seen?” Miss Trimble asks. She notes Ann’s blush. “Mmmm, thought so.” She sits before her dressing mirror and rubs cream over her face in practiced strokes.
“Our Ann, er, Nan is quite talented,” I say in a rush.
“Is she?” Miss Trimble does not turn around.
“Oh, yes, she can sing beautifully,” Felicity adds.
Ann looks at us in horror, and for a moment, the illusion flickers. I shake my head and smile at her. I see her close her eyes for a moment, and everything is as it was. Lily Trimble opens a silver case and pulls out a cigarette. The shock registers on our faces. We’ve never seen a woman smoke. It is terribly scandalous. She places the cigarette between her lips and lights it.