The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

As they pass, Lord Denby sees me on the terrace. He stares daggers at me, and I put my fingers to my mouth and blow him a kiss.

I spend the day after the ball, Sunday, with my family before returning to Spence. The seamstress has come to fit my gown to me and make minor adjustments. I stand before the mirror in my half-finished gown whilst she takes in a pinch here, adds a ruffle there. Grandmama hovers nearby, barking instructions to the woman, fretting over every little detail. I pay her no mind, for the girl staring back at me from the mirror is starting to become her own woman. I can’t say exactly what it is; it’s not something that can be named. I only know that she’s there, emerging from me like a sculpture from marble, and I’m most anxious to meet her.

“You look like your mother. I’m sure she would have wanted to be here for this,” Grandmama says, and the moment is ruined utterly. Whatever was struggling from the marble of me is gone.

You’ll not mention my mother again, I think, closing my eyes. Tell me how beautiful I look. Tell me how happy we are. Tell me I shall be someone, and there’s nothing but blue-sky days ahead.

When I open my eyes, Grandmama smiles at my reflection. “Dear me, aren’t you a vision in that dress?”

“The picture of loveliness,” the seamstress chimes in.

There. That’s so much better.

“Grandmama tells me you’ll be the loveliest girl in London for your debut,” Father says when I join him in his study. He’s sorting through drawers as if looking for something.

“Can I be of help?” I ask.

“Hmmm? Oh. No, pet,” he answers, distracted. “Just cleaning out a few things. I must ask you something unpleasant, however.”

“What is it?” I take a seat and Father does the same.

“I heard Simon Middleton was far too familiar with you last night at the ball.” Father’s eyes flash.

“He wasn’t,” I say, attempting a laugh.

“I hear that Miss Fairchild refuses to admit him,” he adds, and I feel a twinge of remorse, which I push away.

“Perhaps Miss Fairchild wasn’t a proper match.”

“Still…” Father trails off into a coughing fit. His face is red, and he wheezes for a full minute before settling into easier breathing. “London air. Too much soot.”

“Yes,” I say, uneasily. He looks tired. Unwell. And suddenly, I’ve the urge to be with him, to sit beside him like a child and let him pat my head.

“You say Simon Middleton has nothing to answer for?” Father presses.

“No, nothing,” I say, and mean it.

“Well, then.” Father nods. He turns back to his search, and I know I’ve been dismissed.

“Father, shall we play a game of chess?”

He riffles through papers and looks behind books. “I’ve no mind for chess just now. Why don’t you see if your grandmother wants to go for a walk?”

“I could help you look for whatever it is you’ve lost. I could—”

He waves me away. “No, pet. I’m in need of my solitude.”

“But I shall leave tomorrow,” I complain. “And then it shall be my season. And then…”

“Now, let’s not have tears, shall we?” Father chides. He opens a drawer, and I see the brown bottle lying there. I know at once it’s laudanum. My heart sinks.

I take his hand, and I can feel his sadness intruding. “We’ll get rid of it, then, won’t we?” I say aloud.

Before Father can answer, I feed him happiness like an opiate, till the furrows of his brow smooth and he’s smiling.

“Ah, here’s what I was looking for. Gemma, pet, would you put this in the rubbish?” he asks.

Tears prick at my eyes. “Yes, Father. Of course. Straightaway.”

I kiss him on the cheek and he wraps his arms around me, and for the first time ever, I let go before he does.

At supper, Tom is like an expectant father whose nerves have the better of him. His leg jiggles so throughout the meal that my teeth rattle from it, and once, he kicks me quite by accident.

“Will you settle yourself, please?” I ask, rubbing my shin.

Father looks up from his supper. “Thomas, what is the matter?”

My brother moves his food about his plate, not eating any of it. “I was to have gone to my gentlemen’s club this evening, but I’ve had no word from them.”

“None at all?” I ask, savoring the victory along with my potatoes.

“It’s as if I no longer exist,” Tom grumbles.