Rebel Angels
Page 37
Simon Middleton. I cannot wait to tell Ann and Felicity.
Outside the station, the streets are alive with noise, horses, omnibuses, and people who've come into London for a day's shopping or entertainment. It is a mad, merry scene, and I'm happy to be part of the beating heart of the city. The moment the foggy air and clanging bells of the churches greet me, I feel sophisticated and mysterious. I could be anyone here-- duchess or witch or conniving fortune hunter. Who is to say? After all, I've already had a most wonderful encounter with a viscount's son. I'm feeling very optimistic. Yes, this will be a pleasant visit with dances and gifts and perhaps even a dinner at the home of a handsome viscount's son. Father loves Christmas. The Christmas spirit will make him merry, and he will not need the laudanum so much. Together, Ann, Felicity, and I shall find the Temple and bind the magic and it will all turn out right in the end.
A man bumps me on his busy way without so much as an apology. But that is all right. I forgive you, busy man about town with the sharp elbows. Hail and farewell to you! For I, Gemma Doyle, am to have a splendid Christmas in London town. All shall be well.
God rest us merry gentlemen. And gentlewomen.
Tom's trying desperately to secure a hansom cab among the throng.
"But where is the carriage?'' I ask.
"There is no carriage."
"But you said-"
"Yes, well, I wasn't about to let on to Middleton and suffer that humiliation. We've a carriage at home, to be sure. But we've no driver. Old Potts left rather suddenly two days ago. I wanted to put in an advert but Father says he's found someone. Oh, I say . . ."
With a bit of finagling, we find a cab and set off for the London home I've never seen.
"I cannot believe you ran into Simon Middleton of all people, 'Tom says as the cab pulls away from the station."And now we are to have dinner with his family."
"Indeed. His father is a member of the House of Lords and a highly influential patron of the sciences. With his help, I could go far indeed. Pity they've no daughters to marry."
"Pity? I was just thinking it was a mercy." "So, my own sister will not promote me? Speaking of which, weren't you supposed to find me a beautiful future wife with a small fortune? Have you had any success on that front?"
"I have warned them all."
"And a merry Christmas to you, too!" Tom says, laughing. "I understand we'll be attending your friend Miss Worthington's Christmas ball. Perhaps I'll find a suitable--which is to say wealthy--wife among the ladies attending."
And perhaps they will all run screaming for the convent.
"How is Father?" I ask at last. That question, burning a hole inside me.
Tom sighs."We're making progress. I've locked away the laudanum bottle and given him one that I've diluted with water. He's getting less. I'm afraid it's made him quite disagreeable at times, plagued by horrible headaches. But I'm certain it's working." He looks at me. "You're not to give him more, do you understand? He's clever, and he'll press you for it."
"He wouldn't do that," I argue."Not to me. I know it."
"Yes, well . . ."
Tom doesn't finish his thought. We ride in silence, the noise of the streets our only chatter. Soon my worries fade as the excitement of the city takes over. Oxford Street is a fascinating place. All these grand buildings side by side. They stand so tall and proud, and at the bottom story, their awnings stretch out over the sidewalks like ladies coyly lifting their skirt hems to reveal temptation. Here is a stationer's shop, a furrier, a photographer's studio, and a theater, where several patrons have congregated at the box office to see about the day's program.
"Blast!"
"What?" I ask. "I was to pick up a cake for Grandmama, and we've just passed the shop." Tom calls to the driver, who stops by the curb."I won't be a minute," Tom says, though I suspect he says this less to reassure me and more to convince the driver not to charge him an egregious amount for this unscheduled stop.
For my part, I am happy to sit and watch the world in all its glory. A young boy weaves his way through the passersby, a large goose resting precariously on his shoulder. Amidst a chorus of French horns and oboes, a happy throng of carolers makes its way to each establishment, hoping for a handful of nuts or a bit of drink. They walk on, their song drifting behind them. In the window of the shop where Tom has gone, there are all sorts of delicious confections on display: plump currants and candied lemons; mountains of pears, apples, and oranges; colorful piles of spices. It makes my mouth water. A tall woman in a smart hat and tweed suit approaches. She seems familiar, but it is not until she passes that I recognize her.