"Yes," I say, not because I agree but because I want to give him something, anything. I say it because I want him to forgive me. And perhaps then I could begin to forgive myself. Perhaps.
"Did you know that"his jaw clenches on the word--" man they found murdered with her?"
"No," I whisper.
"Sarita said you were hysterical when she and the police found you. Going on about some Indian boy and a vision of a a thing of some sort." He pauses, rubs his palms over the knees of his pants. He's still not looking at me.
My hands shake in my lap. I could tell him. I could tell him what I've kept locked tight inside . Right now, with that lock of hair falling in his eyes, he's the brother I've missed, the one who once brought me stones from the sea, told me they were rajah's jewels. I want to tell him that I'm afraid I'm going mad by degrees and that nothing seems entirely real to me anymore. I want to tell him about the vision, have him pat me on the head in that irritating way and dismiss it with a perfectly logical doctor's explanation. I want to ask him if it's possible that a girl can be born unlovable, or does she just become that way? I want to tell him everything and have him understand.
Tom clears his throat. "What I mean to say is, did something happen to you? Did he are you quite all right?"
My words pull each other back down into a deep, dark silence. "You want to know if I'm still chaste." "If you want to put it so plainly, yes."
Now I see that it was ridiculous of me to think he wanted to know what really happened. He's only concerned that I haven't shamed the family somehow. "Yes, I am, as you put it, quite all right." I could laugh, it's such a lieI am most certainly not all right. But it works as I know it will. That's what living in their world isa big lie. An illusion where everyone looks the other way and pretends that nothing unpleasant exists at all, no goblins of the dark, no ghosts of the soul.
Tom straightens his shoulders, relieved. "Right. Well, then." The human moment has passed and he is all control again. "Gemma, Mother's murder is a blight on this family. It would be scandalous if the true facts were known." He stares at me. "Mother died of cholera," he says emphatically, as if even he believes the lie now. "I know you disagree, but as your brother, I'm telling you that the less said, the better. It's for your own protection."
He's all fact and no feeling. It will serve him well as a doctor someday. I know that what he's telling me is true, but I can't help hating him for it. "Are you sure it's my protection you're worried about?"
His jaw tightens again. "I'll overlook that last comment. If you won't think of me, of yourself, then think of Father. He's not well, Gemma. You can see that. The circumstances of Mother's death have undone him." He fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt. "You may as well know that Father got into some very bad habits in India. Sharing the hookah with the Indians might have made him a popular businessman, one of them in their eyes, but it didn't help his constitution much. He's always been fond of his pleasures. His escapes."
Father sometimes came home late and spent from his day. I remembered Mother and the servants helping him to bed on more than one occasion. Still, it hurts to hear this. I hate Tom for telling me. "Then why do you keep getting him the laudanum?"
"There's nothing wrong with laudanum. It's medicinal," he sniffs.
"In moderation"
"Father's no addict. Not Father," he says, as if he means to convince a jury. "He'll be fine now that he's back in England. Just remember what I've told you. Can you at least promise me that much? Please?"
"Yes, fine," I say, feeling dead inside. They don't know what they're in for at Spence, getting me, a ghost of a girl who'll nod and smile and take her tea but who isn't really here.
The driver calls down to us. "Sir, we'll be needin' to pass through the East, if you want to draw the curtains."
"What does he mean?" I ask.
"We have to go through the East End. Whitechapel? Oh, for heaven's sake, the slums , Gemma," he says, loosening the curtains on the sides of his windows to block out the poverty and filth. "I've seen slums in India," I say, leaving my curtains in place. The carriage bumps its way along the cobblestones through grimy, narrow streets. Dozens of dirty, thin children clamber about, staring at us in our fine carriage. My heart sinks to see their bony, soot-smeared faces. Several women huddle together under a gaslight, sewing. It makes sense for them to use the city's light and not waste their own precious candles for this thankless work. The smell in the streetsa mix of refuse, horse droppings, urine, and despairis truly awful, and I'm afraid I might gag. Loud music and yelling spill out onto the street from a tavern. A drunken couple tumbles out after. The woman has hair the color of a sunset and a harsh, painted face. They're arguing with our driver, holding us here.