The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

“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 sing along to a rousing round of novelty songs. Mrs. Jones brings us mugs of steaming chocolate, and even she is pulled to the piano to sing a chorus or two. As the evening winds down, Father lights the pipe I gave him for Christmas, and the smell conjures childhood memories that wrap themselves around me like a cocoon.

“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.