The Sweet Far Thing

Mrs. Wharton chatters on about the nuisance of maintaining a country estate in the proper style and how her days are made a ruin by constantly keeping after the servants. Brigid gives Ann a handkerchief though she’s the one who could use one.

“No shame in service,” she says, cupping Ann’s chin tenderly. “You remember your old Brigid.”

“Goodbye, Ann,” Felicity says. “It won’t be the same without you.”

Ann turns to me. I know she’s waiting for some hint of kindness—a kiss, an embrace, even a smile. But I can’t muster any of it.

“You’ll make a fine governess.” My words are like a slap.

“I know,” she answers, a slap of her own.

The girls crowd the foyer. They sniffle and make a fuss as they never did while Ann was here and it might have mattered. I can’t bear it, so I slink off to the great hall and peek out from behind the drapes as Ann and her sudden admirers step outside.

A footman secures Ann’s case and, after tending to Mrs. Wharton, he helps Ann into the carriage. She pokes her head out the window, holding fast to her one good hat. I could rush after her, give her a kiss on the cheek, send her off with a fond farewell. I could. It would mean the world to her. But I can’t make my feet move. Just say a proper goodbye, Gemma. That’s all.

The reins are snapped. The horses kick up dust. The carriage jolts as it makes the turn around the drive and toward the road. It grows smaller and smaller till it’s nothing more than a dark speck moving away.

“Goodbye,” I whisper at last, when it no longer matters and there is no one to hear it but the window.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ABSENCE IS A CURIOUS THING. WHEN FRIENDS ARE ABSENT, they seem to loom ever larger, till the lack of them is all one can feel. Now that Ann has left, the room is too big. Try as I might, I cannot fill the space that remains. I find I miss the snoring that pestered me so; I miss her gloomy character and silly, romantic notions and macabre fascinations. A half dozen times during the day, I think of some small observation I should like to share with her—an aside about Cecily or a complaint about the porridge that might make them both more bearable—only to realize that she isn’t here to enjoy it. There’s a moment of profound sadness that can be dispelled only by summoning my anger.

She chose to leave, I remind myself as I put the needle to my embroidery, sing hymns, and practice my curtsy for the Queen. But if the fault is hers, why do I take it to heart? Why does her failure also feel like my own?

I am glad when Miss McCleethy, acting as games mistress, calls us outdoors to play at sports. Several girls amuse themselves with lawn tennis. Some intrepid souls take up fencing, with Felicity leading the charge, a fierce gleam in her eye. A small group campaigns for cricket, “just like the boys’ schools!”, but as we have no bats or balls, it’s a moot point, and grumbling, they are forced to settle for croquet.

I am for hockey. Running about the lawn, stick at the ready, cradling the ball down the field, passing it successfully to a teammate, shouting without restriction, all the while with the wind in my face and the sun on my back, is most invigorating. I should like a bit of hockey to clear my mind and sharpen my senses, to make me forget my loss. I find I should like to hit something with a stick.

Miss McCleethy calls to us from the lawn without restraint. “That will never do! Your chum needs an assist, Miss Temple—look sharp! You must work together, ladies, toward a common goal! Remember: Grace, strength, beauty!”

She may speak to the others, for I’ve done with assisting. I tried helping Ann, to no avail. When the ball is in play again, Cecily and I race for it at the same time. My blasted skirt tangles in my legs a bit—oh, what I wouldn’t do for the freedom of trousers just now—and Cecily gains the advantage. She may be closer but I don’t yield. I want it. More importantly, I don’t want her to have it, else she’ll be smug for a week.

“I’m for it!” I call.

“No, no—I have it!” she shouts.

Our sticks lock, and she gives mine a smack with hers. One of our opponents, a thick girl with ginger hair, seizes the moment. She reaches between us and steals the ball, setting up a most brilliant play.

“I told you I had it, Miss Doyle,” Cecily says with a tight smile.

“Clearly, you didn’t,” I reply with a false smile of my own.

“It was mine.”

“You’re wrong!” I insist.

Miss McCleethy strides onto the field and separates us. “Ladies! This is hardly a demonstration of proper sportsmanship. Enough, or I shall give you both poor conduct marks.”