The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray
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.
“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.
“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.”
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
“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
* * *
EASTER SURPRISES US ALL WITH A GLORIOUS BLUE MORNING of 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.
“Who is that girl with Simon Middleton?” I whisper.
Miss Chatterbox is overjoyed that I have joined her in gossip. “Her name is Lucy Fairchild, and she is a distant cousin,” she relates breathlessly. “American and very well-to-do. New money, naturally, but heaps of it, and her father has sent her in hopes she’ll marry some poor second son and come home with a title to add luster to their wealth.”
So this is Lucy Fairchild. My brother would throw himself on the tracks to gain her attention. Any man would. “She’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t she absolute perfection?” Miss Chatterbox says wistfully.
I suppose I’d hoped to hear that I was mistaken—“Why, I don’t think she’s as pretty as all that. She has a funny neck and her nose is oddly shaped.” But her beauty is confirmed, and why is it that her beauty casts such a long shadow over me that every bit of my light is extinguished?
Miss Chatterbox continues. “There are rumors of a betrothal.”
“To whom?”
My companion giggles. “Oh, you! To Simon Middleton, of course. Wouldn’t they make a lovely couple?”
An engagement. At Christmas Simon made the same pledge to me. But I turned him away. Now I wonder if I might have been too hasty in refusing him.
“But the betrothal is only a rumor,” I say.
Miss Chatterbox glances about furtively, positioning her umbrella to hide us. “Well, I shouldn’t repeat this, but I happen to know that the Middletons’ fortunes have turned. They are in need of money. And Lucy Fairchild is exceedingly well off. I should expect they’ll announce the engagement any day now. Oh, there is Miss Hemphill!” Chatterbox exclaims excitedly. Having spied someone far more important than I, she is off without so much as another word, for which, I suppose, my ears should be grateful.
While Grandmama prattles away with an old woman about gardens and rheumatism and the sorts of subjects that might very well be found printed in a primer under the heading What Old Women Must Talk About, I stand along Rotten Row, watching the horses and feeling sorry for myself.
“Happy Easter to you, Miss Doyle. You’re looking well.” Simon Middleton stands beside me. He is strong and shining and dimpled—and alone.
“Thank you. How lovely to see you,” I say.
“And you.”
I clear my throat. Say something witty, Gemma. Something beyond the obvious, for heaven’s sake. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Simon smirks. “Quite. Let’s see…you look lovely. It’s lovely to see one another. And, of course, the weather is quite lovely. I do believe we have encompassed the loveliness of all things lovely.”
He has made me laugh. It is a talent of his. “How beastly a conversationalist I am.”
“Not at all. In fact, I daresay you are…a lovely conversationalist.”
Several horses streak past, and Simon greets them with a cheer.
“I hear congratulations may soon be in order.” It is bold of me to say it.
Simon arches an eyebrow. His lips press into a wicked smile that makes him ever so attractive. “For what, pray tell?”
“They say your suit of Miss Fairchild is quite serious,” I reply, looking down the dirt path to where Lucy Fairchild mounts her horse.
“It occurs to me that cricket is not the true sport in London,” Simon says. “Gossip is.”
“I shouldn’t have repeated it. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. Not on my account. I rather adore rudeness.” The wicked smile is back. It works its magic, and I find I am lighter. “Actually, I do have my heart set on a new girl.”
My stomach tightens. “Oh?”
“Yes. Her name is Bonnie. She’s right over there.” He points to a gleaming chestnut mare being led to the starting line. “Some say her teeth are too strong for her face, but I disagree.”
“And think of what you shall save on a groundskeeper, for your grass shall be kept quite tidy by Bonnie,” I say.
“Yes. Ours will be a happy union. Quite stable,” he says, drawing a laugh from me.
“There is a matter I wanted to discuss with you, if I may,” I say haltingly. “It concerns your mother.”
“Indeed.” He looks disappointed. “What has she done now?”
“It is about Miss Worthington.”
“Ah, Felicity. What has she done now?”
“Lady Markham is to present her at court
“My mother is not an admirer of Mrs. Worthington’s, and their feud wasn’t helped by your prank at Christmas with Miss Bradshaw. My mother felt her own reputation was injured by that.”
“I am sorry. But Felicity must make her debut. Is there anything I can do to help her?”
Simon turns his wicked gaze to me, and a blush rises on my neck. “Leave well enough alone.”
“I can’t,” I plead.
Simon nods, considering. “Then you shall have to secure Lady Markham’s affections. Tell Felicity to charm the old bat and her son, Horace, as well. That should win the day—and her inheritance. Yes,” he says, seeing my expression, “I know she must make her debut in order to claim her fortune. Everyone does. And there are plenty in London who’d rather see the brash Felicity Worthington under her father’s control.”
Down at the far end of Ladies’ Mile, the horsewomen are at the line. They sit tall in their saddles, the picture of restraint and elegance, while their blindered horses snort and prance. They are ready to run, to show what they can do.
“It is good to see you, Gemma.” Simon brushes my arm ever so slightly. “I have wondered how you were, if you still had the false-bottom box I gave you, and if you still kept your secrets locked inside it.”
“I still have it,” I say.
“The mysterious Gemma Doyle.”
“And does Miss Fairchild possess secrets?” I ask.
He glances down the path, where Lucy Fairchild sits tall on her mount. “She is…untroubled.”
Untroubled. Carefree. There is no dark lining to her soul.
The hand comes down. The horses are running. They kick up a dust storm along the path, but the dust cannot hide the naked ambition on the riders’ faces, the ferociousness in their eyes. They mean to win. Lucy Fairchild’s horse crosses the line first. Simon rushes to congratulate her. Fresh from battle, Lucy’s face is dusty. Her eyes blaze. It doubles her beauty. But upon seeing Simon, she quickly sheds her fierceness; her expression settles into one of sweet shyness as she strokes her horse’s neck gently. Simon offers to help her down, and though she could easily dismount on her own, she lets him. It is a pas de deux they seem to execute flawlessly.