The Sweet Far Thing (22 page)

Panicked, Cecily cups the pearls in her hands, hiding them. “What shall I do? I shall be ruined!”

“There, there.” Ann gently pats Cecily’s shoulder. “You mustn’t worry. I shall take the necklace for you.

You may tell your mother it was lost.”

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Cecily bites her lip and gazes at the pearls. “But she’ll be so angry.”

“It is better than being thought the fool—or worse—isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Cecily mumbles. “I thank you for your good advice.” Reluctantly, she passes the necklace to Ann.

“I shall dispose of it for you, and you may be confident that no one shall ever know of it,” Ann assures her.

“You are most kind, Miss Washbrad.” Cecily wipes away tears.

“There is something in you that brings out this kindness,” Ann purrs, and her smile is like the sun.

“That was a remarkable forgery,” I say when we are alone. “How could you tell they were false? I could have sworn they were real pearls.”

“They are real,” Ann says, clasping the jewels around her own neck. “I am the remarkable forgery.”

“Why, Ann Bradshaw!” Felicity exclaims. “You are brilliant!”

Ann beams. “Thank you.”

We hold hands, relishing the moment as one. At last, Ann has bested the hideous Cecily Temple. The air feels lighter, as it does after a rain, and I am certain we are on our way to a happier future.

Mademoiselle LeFarge lets us know that the carriage has arrived. We introduce “Nan” to her and hold our breath, waiting for her response. Will she see through the illusion?

“How do you do, Miss Washbrad?”

“V-v-very well, thank you,” Ann answers in a faltering voice. I hold her hand tightly, for I fear that any lack of confidence might weaken the illusion she’s created. She must believe it wholeheartedly.

“It’s odd, but I can’t help feeling we’ve met before. There is something so familiar about you, though I cannot put my finger on it,” Mademoiselle LeFarge says.

I squeeze Ann’s hand, strengthening our bond.
You are Nan Washbrad. Nan Washbrad. Nan
Washbrad.

“I am often m-mistaken for others. Once I was even taken for a poor mouse of a girl at a boarding school,” Ann answers, and Felicity bursts out laughing.

“Forgive me,” Fee says, collecting herself. “I’ve only just gotten a joke told me last week.”

“Well, I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Washbrad,” LeFarge says. “Shall we? The carriage

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awaits.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “That was a bit thick at the end, wasn’t it?” I whisper as the coachman opens the carriage door.

Ann grins. “But she believed it! She didn’t sense anything amiss. Our plan is working, Gemma.”

“That it is,” I say, patting her arm. “And it’s only the beginning. But let’s keep our heads about us.”

“My, what a beautiful necklace,” Mademoiselle LeFarge remarks. “Such exquisite pearls.”

“Thank you,” Ann says. “They were given to me by someone who did not properly appreciate their worth.”

“What a pity,” our teacher clucks.

The train ride to London is the most exciting yet. It is exhilarating to have such a powerful secret. I do feel a touch of remorse for tricking LeFarge, whom I like, but it was necessary. And I cannot deny that there is a thrill in knowing how easy it is to secure our freedom. Freedom—we’ll have more of that.

Curiously, I find that as I make use of the magic, I feel better—more alive and awake. Nearly giddy.

“What shall you do in London today, Mademoiselle LeFarge?” I ask.

“I’ve arrangements to make. For the wedding,” she says with a happy sigh.

“You must tell us simply everything,” Felicity insists, and we badger her with questions. Will she carry a fan? Will there be lace? A veil? Will she have orange blossoms embroidered on her dress for luck as Queen Victoria did?

“Oh, no, nothing so grand.” She demurs, glancing down at her plump hands resting in her ample lap. “It will be a simple country wedding in the Spence chapel.”

“Will you stay on at Spence?” Ann asks. “After you’re married?”

“That rather depends on Mr. Kent,” she answers, as if that settles it.

“Would you want to stay on?” Felicity presses.

“I should like a new life once I am married. In fact, the inspector has begun to ask my thoughts on his cases, to have a woman’s perspective. I know it’s out of the ordinary for a wife’s duties, but I confess I find it quite thrilling.”

“That is lovely,” Ann says. She’s smiling in that romantic way of hers, and I know that in her head she’s conjured images of herself bustling about a kitchen, sending her husband off to work with a kiss. I try to imagine myself in such a life. Would I like it? Would I grow bored? Would it be a comfort or a curse?

My thoughts turn to Kartik—his lips, his hands, the way he once kissed me. In my mind I see myself
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running my fingers across those lips, feeling his hands at the nape of my neck. A warm ache settles below my belly. It ignites something deep inside me that I cannot name, and suddenly, it’s as if I am inside a vision. Kartik and I stand in a garden. My hands are tattooed with henna, like an Indian bride’s. He takes me into his arms and kisses me under a steady rain of falling petals. He gently lowers the edges of my sari, baring my shoulders, his lips trailing down my bare skin, and I sense that everything between us is about to change.

I come back to myself suddenly. My breathing is labored and I feel flushed from head to toe. No one seems to notice my discomfort, and I do my best to regain my composure.

“I shall never marry,” Felicity announces with a wicked smile. “I shall live in Paris and become an artist’s model.”

She’s trying to shock, and Mademoiselle LeFarge supplies the requisite admonishment—“Really, Miss Worthington”—but then she changes course.

“Have you no desire for a husband and children, Miss Worthington?” she asks plainly, as if on this train we have ridden from girls to young ladies who might be trusted to hold a different sort of conversation. It is nearly as powerful as the magic, this trust.

“No, I don’t,” Felicity says.

“And why not?” LeFarge presses.

“I…I wish to live for myself. I should never want to be trapped.”

“One needn’t be trapped. One’s life can be made so rich by sharing burdens and joys.”

“I’ve not seen it to be so,” Fee mumbles.

Mademoiselle LeFarge nods, considering. “It takes the right sort of husband, I suppose, the sort who’ll be a friend and not a master. A husband who will care for his wife with small, everyday kindnesses and trust her with his confidences. And a wife must be such a friend in return.”

“I’d not make a good wife,” Felicity says so softly it is nearly drowned out by the clacking of the train.

“What sorts of goodies will you shop for today?” Ann asks, abandoning the sophisticated Nan for a moment with a single girlish question.

“Oh, me, this and that. Nothing so nice as your necklace, I’m afraid.”

Ann takes the pearls from her neck and holds them out. “I should like you to have this.”

Mademoiselle LeFarge pushes them away. “Oh, no, you are far too kind.”

“No,” Ann says, blushing. “I’m not. You must have something borrowed, yes?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Mademoiselle LeFarge insists.

I take Mademoiselle LeFarge’s hand and imagine her in her wedding dress, the pearls at her neck.

“Take them,” I murmur, and my wish, borne on the wings of magic, travels quickly between us and nests
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inside her.

Mademoiselle LeFarge blinks. “You’re certain?”

“Oh, yes. Nothing would make me happier.” Ann smiles.

Mademoiselle LeFarge secures the clasp around her own neck. “How do they look?”

“Beautiful,” we all say as one.

Ann, Felicity, and Mademoiselle LeFarge fall into easy conversation. I stare out the train’s windows at the hills rolling by. I want to ask them if they know what
my
future holds: Will my father’s health be restored and my family healed? Will I survive my debut? Can I prove myself within the realms and live up to expectations, especially my own?

“Can you tell me?” I whisper to the window, my warm breath making a foggy snowflake pattern upon the glass. It melts quickly away, as if I have never said a word. The train slows and the hills disappear behind billowing clouds of steam. The porter calls the station. We have arrived, and now our true test begins.

Mademoiselle LeFarge delivers us to Mrs. Worthington on the platform. With her fair hair and cool gray eyes, Mrs. Worthington is like her daughter, but finer. She lacks Felicity’s bold, sensual features, and it gives her an air of fragile beauty. Every man takes note of her loveliness. As she walks, they turn their heads or hold her glance a second too long. I shall never have this sort of beauty, the sort that paves the way.

Mrs. Worthington greets us warmly. “What a nice day we shall have. And how lovely to see you again, darling Nan. Did you have a pleasant trip?”

“Oh, yes, quite pleasant,” Ann answers. They fall into polite chatter. Felicity and I exchange glances.

“She really believes Ann is your cousin,” I gloat quietly. “She didn’t notice anything amiss!”

Felicity scoffs. “She wouldn’t.”

On the street, we pass an acquaintance of Mrs. Worthington’s and she stops to chat. We stand idly by, not seen, not heard, not noticed. A few feet away, another group of women makes a bid for attention.

The women wear sandwich board signs that announce a strike.
Beardon’s Bonnets Factory Fire. Six
Souls Murdered for Money. Justice Must Be Served—Fair Wages, Fair Treatment.
They call to passersby, imploring them to have a care for their cause. The well-heeled people on their way to the theater and the clubs turn away, their faces registering distaste.

A girl of about fifteen hurries over, a tin can in her hands. Her gloves are a farce. Ragged holes eat at the wool like a pox. Her knuckles peek through, red and raw. “Please, miss. Spare a copper for our cause?”

“What cause is it?” Ann asks.

“We work at Beardon’s Bonnets Factory, miss, and a sorrier place there never was,” she says. Dark half-moons shadow her eyes. “A fire took our friends, miss. A terrible fire. The factory doors was locked to keep us in. What chance did they have, miss?”

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“Bessie Timmons and Mae Sutter,” I whisper.

The girl’s eyes widen. “Did you know them, miss?”

I shake my head quickly. “I…I must have read their names in the accounts.”

“They was good girls, miss. We’re striking so it won’t happen again. We want fair wages and fair treatment. They shouldn’t’ve died in vain.”

“I’m sure that wherever your friends may be now, they would be proud of your efforts.” I drop a shilling into her cup.

“Thank you, miss.”

“Come along, girls.” Mrs. Worthington clucks, ushering us on our way. “Why were you speaking to those unfortunate women?”

“They’re striking,” I answer. “Their friends were burned in a factory fire.”

“How horrid. I don’t like to hear such things.” A gentleman passes, giving Mrs. Worthington a furtive glance. She responds with a satisfied smile. “They should have husbands to look after them.”

“What if they don’t?” Felicity asks, her voice harsh. “What if they are alone? What if they have children to feed and wood to buy for the fire? What if they have only themselves to rely upon? Or…or what if they have no wish to be married? Do they have no merit on their own?”

It is astonishing to see the fire in Felicity’s eyes, though somehow I doubt this display is born of a reformer’s zeal. I believe it is a way to goad her mother. Ann and I dare not enter this fray. We keep our eyes on the ground.