The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

Felicity laughs. “Oh, our Simon is such a wit, isn’t he, Miss Fairchild?”

“We would love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid Mother is expecting us.” Simon raises an eyebrow. “Best of luck with your efforts, Miss Doyle.”

“What did he mean by that?” Felicity asks as we stroll in the park a clever distance behind our families. It’s a beautiful day. Several children run after a wooden hoop they’ve set to rolling. Bright spring flowers waggle their petal finery at us.

“If you must know, I was soliciting Simon’s help with his mother and Lady Markham. It doesn’t help our cause to have you taunt him so.”

Felicity looks as if I’ve said she should dine on maggots and chutney. “Court the Middletons’ favor? I shan’t. She’s hateful, and he’s a rake you’ve done well to be rid of.”

“You want your inheritance, don’t you? Your freedom?”

“My mother is the one who begs favor. I shan’t bow to anyone but the Queen,” Felicity says, twirling her parasol. She glares in Lady Denby’s direction. “Really, Gemma, can’t we cast a spell so that she wakes with a full mustache?”

“No. We can’t.”

“You don’t still care for Simon. Tell me you don’t.”

“I don’t,” I say.

“You do still care! Oh, Gemma.” Felicity shakes her head.

“What’s done is done. I made my choice.”

“You could have him back if you wished it.”

I glance at Simon. He and Lucy make their rounds, smiling at all they greet. They seem content. Untroubled.

“I don’t know what I wish,” I say.

“Do you know what I wish?” Felicity asks, stopping to pick a daisy.

“What?”

“I wish Pip could be here.” She plucks the daisy’s petals one by one. “We were to see Paris in the summer. She would have loved it so.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Her face darkens. “Some things can’t be changed about us, then, no matter how much we wish it.”

I don’t know what she means, but Fee doesn’t give me time to ponder it. She pulls the last petal from the daisy with a cryptic smile.

“He loves me,” she says.

A shadow falls over Felicity and me. Her father, Admiral Worthington, stands on the path, blocking the sun. He’s a handsome man with a genial manner. If I didn’t know better, I’d be as charmed by him as everyone else is. He holds the hand of his ward, Polly, who is only seven.

“Felicity, will you look after our Polly for a spell? Her governess is undone by the heat and your mother is occupied at present.”

“Yes, of course, Papa,” Felicity says.

“That’s my good girl. Careful of the sun,” the admiral warns, and, dutifully, we raise our parasols.

“Come on, then,” Felicity says to the child once her father is gone.

Polly walks two paces behind us, dragging her doll in the dirt. It was a Christmas gift, and already, it is bedraggled.

“What is your doll’s name?” I ask, pretending for a moment that I am not completely useless with small children.

“She hasn’t got one,” Polly answers sullenly.

“No name?” I say. “Why not?”

Polly pulls the doll roughly over a rock. “Because she’s a wicked girl.”

“She doesn’t seem so bad. What makes her wicked?”

“She tells lies about Uncle.”

Felicity pales. She crouches low, covering the two of them with her umbrella. “Did you remember to do what I told you, Polly? To lock your door at night to keep the monsters out?”

“Yes. But the monsters still come in.” Polly throws the doll to the ground and kicks it. “It’s because she’s so wicked.”

Felicity lifts the doll and smooths the dirt from its face. “I had a doll like this once. And they said she was wicked, too. But she wasn’t. She was a good and true doll. And so is yours, Polly.”

The little girl’s lips tremble. “But she lies.”

“The world is a lie,” Felicity whispers. “Not you and me.”

She hands the child the doll, and Polly cradles it to her chest.

“Someday, I shall be a rich woman, Polly. I’ll live in Paris without Papa and Mama, and you could come to live with me. Would you like that?”

The child nods and takes Felicity’s hand, and they head up the path together, greeting people with defiant faces and fresh wounds.