The Sweet Far Thing (32 page)

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Grandmama sits in her chair, her fingers busy with her needlework, while I try to make a house of cards.

“I was very upset with your behavior this afternoon, Gemma. What if you had been seen by someone we know? There is your reputation—and ours—to think of.”

I drop a card onto the square I’ve built. “Isn’t there more to be concerned about than what others think of us?”

“A woman’s reputation is her worth,” Grandmama explains.

“It’s a small way to live.” I drop a queen of hearts on top. The card walls shiver and collapse under the new weight.

“I don’t know why I bother,” she sniffs. Her stitching picks up new, furious speed. When she can’t bring me to heel with scolding, she bends me into shape with guilt.

I try arranging the cards again, perfecting my balancing act.

“Stay,” I whisper. I place the last card on top and wait.

“Is that all you have to occupy your time? Card houses?” Grandmama sneers.

I sigh, and the tiny gust of breath tears down my work. The cards flutter into a messy pile. I’m in no humor for this. The afternoon’s events were upsetting enough, and if I cannot have comfort, I should like some peace. A little magic can remove her disappointment and my own.

“You’ll forget everything that happened today after we left the dressmaker’s shop, Grandmama. I am your beloved granddaughter, and we are happy, all of us…,” I intone.

Grandmama looks helplessly at the needlework in her lap. “I…I’ve forgotten my stitch.”

“Here, I’ll help you,” I say, guiding her hands till she picks it up again.

“Ah, me. Thank you, Gemma. You are such a comfort to me. What would I do without you?”

Grandmama smiles, and I do my best to return it, though somewhere deep inside I wonder if I have traded one life of lies for another.

A terrible knocking has me awake and not at all happy about it. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I creep downstairs. It’s Tom who is making such a racket. He’s returned in a lively mood; in fact, he enters the drawing room singing. It is an unnatural occurrence, like watching a dog ride a bicycle.

“Gemma!” he says happily. “You’re awake!”

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“Yes, well, it would prove difficult to sleep through this cacophony.”

“I am sorry.” He bows and comes up too quickly, stumbling into a small table and knocking over a vase of flowers. The water spills onto Grandmama’s precious Persian carpet. Tom tries to rescue the vase but it only spins away from him.

“Tom, what are you doing?”

“This poor vessel is not well. It requires my care.”

“It is not a patient,” I say, taking it from him.

He shrugs. “It’s still not well.”

Tom flops into a chair and tries to muster what dignity he has left by arranging and rearranging his disheveled tie. The smell of spirits is quite strong on his breath.

“You’re drunk,” I whisper.

Tom holds up his finger like a solicitor addressing a witness. “That is a scur—shcurous—schurress…terrible thing to say.”

“Scurrilous,” I say, correcting him.

He nods. “Precisely.”

I’ve been awakened by an idiot. I shall go back to bed and leave him to torment the servants and wither under their judging eyes come morning. Clearly, whatever magic I’ve given Tom has gone and he is back to his impossible self.

“Go on, ask me about my evening,” he says, far too loudly.

“Tom, mind your voice,” I whisper.

Tom wags his head. “Exactly so, exactly so. Quiet as a church mouse, that’s me. Now. Ask.” He folds his arms, nearly clocking himself in the face.

“Very well,” I say. “How was your evening?”

“I’ve done it, Gem. Proved myself. For I have been asked to join a very exclusive club.”
Exclusive
comes out sounding more like “ex-cuusif.” Seeing my puzzled face, he frowns. “You could offer congratulations, you know.”

“Is it the Athenaeum, then? I thought…”

His face darkens. “Oh. That.” He waves it away with his hand. “They don’t take chaps like me. Haven’t you heard? Not good enough.” The liquor has only added to his bitterness. “No. This is different. Like the Knights Templar. Men of crusades! Men of action!” He gestures broadly, nearly taking out the vase again. I rescue it quickly.

“Men of clumsiness is more like it,” I grumble. “Very well, you’ve intrigued me. What is this saintly

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club?”

“No. I can’t tell. Not yet. For now, it will remain a private matter,” Tom says, putting his finger to his lips and scraping his nose. “A secret.”

“That is why you are discussing it openly with me, no doubt.”

“You mock me!”

“Yes, and I shouldn’t, for it is far too easy.”

“You don’t believe a club would choose me?” His eyelids waver and his head nods a bit. He’ll be out in a moment. “Why, just this evening…”

“Just this evening,” I prompt.

“…gave me a token. A mark of dish…dishtinction…They said it would protect me from…unwanted…influence…”

“From what?” I ask, but it’s no use. Tom snores in the chair. Sighing, I take the blanket from the settee and place it over his legs. I pull it up to his chin, and my blood goes cold. There on his lapel is a familiar pin—the skull-and-sword insignia of the Rakshana.

“Tom,” I say, shaking him. “Tom, where did you get this?”

He turns slightly in the chair, his eyes still closed. “I told you, I’ve been called to membership in a gentlemen’s club. At last, I shall make Father proud and prove…myself…a man…”

“Tom, you mustn’t trust them,” I whisper, holding fast to his hand. I try to join our thoughts with my power, but the spirits he has drunk begin to work on me. I pull away, light-headed and reeling.

Fowlson has made good on his promise. Bile rises in my throat, and a new fear washes over me. I’ve been caught in his endgame: If I tell Tom my secret, he’ll think me mad. If I employ the magic, the Rakshana will know I still have it, and they’ll come for me before I’ve had a chance to do what I must.

For the time being, I can’t trust my brother. He is one of them.

The next morning, Tom delivers me to the railway station, where I am to meet a Mrs. Chaunce, an elderly acquaintance of Grandmama’s, who will travel as far as Spence for a small fee. Tom’s the worse for wear this morning. He’s not a drinker, and the pallor of his face shows it. He’s in a foul humor and it serves him right.

Tom continues to check his pocket watch, complaining bitterly. “Where is she? Women. Never on time.”

“Tom, this club you’ve pledged to…,” I start, but just then Mrs. Chaunce arrives, and Tom cannot hand me over fast enough.

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“Cheerio, Gemma. Pleasant trip.”

After a brief round of pleasantries, Mrs. Chaunce, who, thank goodness, has as little interest in me as I have in her, sees to the luggage. She offers the porter one penny for his trouble. He looks at it with disdain, and I rummage in my purse to find two more. Mrs. Chaunce is not a very good chaperone, for I’ve lost her already, but I spy her boarding the train and hurry to catch up.

“Did you drop this, miss?”

I turn to see Mr. Fowlson behind me holding a lady’s handkerchief. It isn’t mine but it’s no matter; it is merely a means for talking to me.

“Stay away from my brother or—”

“Or what, luv?”

“I shall go to the authorities.”

He laughs. “And say what? That yer brother ’as joined a gentlemen’s club and you don’t approve?

Why, I’ll be in Newgate before mornin’!”

I lower my voice to a hiss. “Leave him alone or I…I…”

His smile is replaced by a flinty stare. “You’ll what? Use your power on me? But you don’t have it anymore, right, luv?”

The magic rears up inside me like horses ready to run, and it takes every bit of my strength to tether it. I mustn’t let it loose; not now.

Mrs. Chaunce calls to me from an open window, coughing through the steam. “Miss Doyle! Miss Doyle!

Do hurry!”

“Nice bloke, your brother. Wants to be respected in the worst way. And that’s a lot to work wif.

Ambition’s a good match against magic. Safe journeys, Miss Doyle. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

I settle into my compartment with Mrs. Chaunce, and the train is under way. Fowlson’s threat is fresh in my mind, and I wish I had someone with whom to share it. The train is filled with people eager to reach their destinations or happy to be leaving others. They chatter with one another; mothers offer children small bits of food to keep them content; fathers look on admiringly; ladies traveling together watch the scenery roll by with excited smiles. I can’t hold back the magic anymore, and I feel the constant press of their thoughts till I fear I shall go mad. I try to stop it, but it proves too difficult with so much going on around me, so I do the only thing I know how to: I make a wish that I could hear nothing. Soon, though life pulses on around me, I’m alone in a cocoon of quiet.

And I wonder, what good is this power if it only makes me feel more alone?

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Two days later

SPENCEACADEMY

THE RAIN HAS BEEN AT US AGAIN. FOR TWO DAYS IT HASkept us captive, soaking the woods and turning the lawn to a muddy mess. It lashes my bedroom window as I finally remove the soggy red bandana I posted there upon my return from London, and hide it under my pillow again, out of sight. Kartik has always come before, but not this time. At first, I’d feared he’d gone on to Bristol and the
Orlando
without bothering to say goodbye. But just yesterday, I saw him from my window. He noted the red cloth and left it behind without a second glance.

Since then, I’ve begun three different letters to him.

My Dear Kartik,

I am afraid I must end our acquaintance. I am enclosing the bandana. Please use it to dry your
tears—that is, if you have any to shed, for I have begun to wonder.

Fondly,

Gemma

Dear Kartik,

I am terribly upset to hear that you have gone blind. You must have, for surely if you had sight
you would have seen the red bandana I affixed to my bedroom window, and understood it to be
an urgent correspondence. I wish you to know that, though you are sightless as Mr. Rochester, I
remain your friend and shall make every effort to visit you in your hermitage.

With greatest sympathies,

Gemma Doyle

Mr. Kartik.

You are a wretched excuse for a friend. When I have become a great lady, I will pass you on the
street without so much as a nod. If you are half so kind to the
Orlando,
it shall surely sink.

Regretfully,

Miss Doyle