The Sweet Far Thing (69 page)

“It is you who brings the curse,” Mother Elena says.

“No,” I say, but I’m not sure I believe it.

Immediately, the women set about cleansing the camp of the wickedness we foreigners have brought.

They pour out water from all the pitchers. I see some of the women placing small bits of bread in their pockets, which Brigid has told us wards off bad luck.

Kartik offers me his hand, and I take it. “The men you saw in the woods—now you see they were not specters but flesh and blood. They had come seeking revenge on the Gypsies.”

I want to believe him. I would do anything to have it all explained away with easy assurances, like those from a governess patting a fretting child’s head. “And the windows?”

“A vision. A most unusual one. You said yourself that things are changing.” He combs his fingers through his thick curls, which I know he does when he is thinking. I find I’ve missed that. I’ve missed him.

“Kartik…,” I start.

Lanterns appear in the trees. Inspector Kent has come with Nightwing, McCleethy and two of our stableboys. Elizabeth trails behind. They call my name and it sounds foreign, the name of a girl who played happy games with her friends inside the realms weeks ago. I no longer remember that girl. I have become someone else, and I am not quite sure she is sane.

“I’m here!” I call, because I would be found.

Nightwing’s face displays a mixture of relief and fury. Now that she has found me safe, she looks as if she would kill me for the trouble I’ve caused.

“Miss Doyle, it was most ungracious of you to run off and abandon Miss Poole,” Mrs. Nightwing reprimands. Elizabeth slinks behind her.

I open my mouth to protest but it isn’t worth it.

“We heard shots!” the inspector says, taking charge. Just now he is not the twinkly-eyed man who sips tea by our fire. He is a hardened man of the law. It’s astonishing that men can inhabit their two selves so easily.

“Miller’s men came to hurt the Gypsies,” I say, and Kartik explains what has happened.

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“I shall have a word with Mr. Miller,” Inspector Kent says gravely. “He will answer for this. And you say you saw his missing men in the woods?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Will you see if they have Ithal in their camp?” Kartik asks. “He is still missing.”

“Missing? Since when? Why wasn’t I told of this?” the inspector demands.

Kartik’s jaw tightens. “No one cares about one missing Gypsy.”

“Rubbish!” the inspector growls. “I shall see to it immediately. I’ll search the camp from top to bottom, if necessary. Mr. Miller has a great deal to answer for, indeed.”

Mrs. Nightwing and Inspector Kent lead us through the woods. It no longer feels as if this place belongs to us girls for our games and wanderings. It feels as if it is being claimed by someone else.

“Mrs. Nightwing was sick with worry. She never would have allowed you to go to the chapel had she thought there was the slightest danger,” Miss McCleethy tells me, but I’m not listening. I don’t trust either of them.

A slice of moon peeks out from behind the clouds for a moment, illuminating Spence’s roof. My steps slow. There’s something odd about it, though I cannot quite place it. I see the spires, the bricks, the jumble of angles, the gargoyles. An enormous shadowy outline of wings stretches out against the moon’s brief light. The stone beast is standing tall.

It’s
moving.

“Miss Doyle?” Miss McCleethy looks from me to the roof and back again. “Is something the matter?”

They could make you see what they wish you to see. It will be as if you are mad.
Eugenia warned me, didn’t she?

“No, nothing’s the matter,” I answer, but my hands shake, and now I hear Neela’s words in my head:
How will you fight, when you cannot even see?

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

“HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY, GEMMA?” ANN ASKS. SHE’Ssitting on the edge of her bed, an excited smile on her lips. She has on her gloves and her best dress, one of Felicity’s cast-offs let

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out on the sides by Brigid.

“Tired,” I say, rubbing my aching head. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Today’s the day,” she says. “Don’t you remember? Charlie Smalls? The Gaiety? Between noon and three o’clock?”

“Oh, no!” I say, for with all that’s happened, I’d forgotten.

“We’ll still go, won’t we?” she asks.

In truth, I’d rather not draw on the magic today, not after last night. Not with my mind so tenuous. But there is Ann. She is my friend. She means to take command of her life, and I should like to believe she will this time. But to do that, she will need my help—and I will need hers.

I throw back the covers. “Go and fetch Felicity. This will take all of us.”

We devise our plan together. We direct our efforts toward Brigid. I make her believe that both Ann and I are taken ill with the monthly curse and must not be disturbed. She will repeat this story throughout the afternoon, for I’ve put it in her head quite thoroughly. And of course, Felicity embellishes the tale, as she is wont to do, until everyone at Spence fears to venture anywhere near our door. But it takes time to accomplish this, and once we catch the train to London and secure a hansom to Piccadilly, we are a full hour late. We huff and puff on our way to the theater, but when we arrive, Charlie Smalls is just leaving.

In his company is another man.

“Oh, no,” Ann gasps. “What shall I do?”

For a second, I am tempted to influence the clock, pave the way and make it all fine, but I think better of it. This is Ann’s show. Let her run it.

“Do what you must,” I say.

“Mr. Smalls!” she calls out.

Charlie Smalls squints at us. He looks from Ann to me, and finally, there’s a glimmer of recognition.

“Miss Washbrad’s chum, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I say. “And this is my friend Miss Bradshaw.”

They tip their hats. “What ever happened to Miss Washbrad? Mr. Katz and Miss Trimble waited but she never showed.”

Ann’s cheeks redden. “She ran off.”

He nods, grinning. “Got married, then? Miss Trimble said that’s what happened. Guess she was right.”

“I read about your composition in the
Era,
” Ann says. “Miss Doyle says you are very talented.”

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His face brightens further. “Exciting, isn’t it? My first musical entertainment, bowing at the Gaiety come July.
The Merry Maidens.
”

“I am a performer,” Ann says so quietly it is hard to hear her over the rumble of the wagons and horses on the street. “I should like to sing for you.”

Charlie’s partner looks Ann over. He nudges Charlie. “Not much to look at.”

“It’s
Merry Maidens,
Tony, not
Gorgeous Girls,
” Charlie whispers back, and I fear that Ann will take offense and call it all off.

“It’s true I’m not a Gaiety Girl,” Ann says. “But I can sing whatever you like. And read, too!”

“Don’t mind him. He didn’t mean no harm, miss,” Charlie says. “Look at me, with these big ears and long snout.” He pulls at his nose.

“Call was for noon to three,” Tony says, checking his watch. “It’s after four, nearly half past.”

“I am sorry,” Ann says. “We couldn’t secure a cab and—”

“The other girls made it on time,” Tony says. “We’re off to the pub. Good day to you.”

“Sorry, miss,” Charlie says, tipping his hat. “I hope you’ll come to the show.”

“Yes, thank you,” Ann says, her head low. As they brush past, Ann’s features settle into that emotionless mask, and I know that’s it. She’s done. It’s Balmoral Spring and little Charlotte’s tantrums and Carrie’s nose picking. And I can’t help it: I’m angry.

“Mr. Smalls!” Ann shouts, startling me. She turns and runs after him. “I’ll sing for you here! Right now!”

Charlie’s eyes widen. He breaks into a grin. “On the street?”

“No time like the present, Mr. Smalls,” Ann rejoins.

He laughs. “Now you sound like Mr. Katz.”

“She’s a nutter. The pub, mate,” Tony says, pulling on Charlie’s sleeve.

But Charlie folds his arms. “All right, then, Miss…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name!”

“Bradshaw,” Ann says crisply.

“All right, Miss Bradshaw.” He gestures to the curious passersby. “Your audience awaits. Let’s hear it.”

A small crowd gathers to see the spectacle of the young lady singing for her supper for the two impresarios on a street in the West End. I feel a blush forming on my cheek, and I cannot imagine how Ann will manage to get out a single note. But sing she does, as I’ve never heard her before.

The sound that pours out of her is as pure as anything I’ve ever heard, but it has a fresh strength. There’s a bit of grit under the notes and it’s married to heart. Now the song tells a story. There’s a new Ann
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Bradshaw singing, and when she finishes, the crowd responds with whistles and cheers—honey to any budding showman.

Charlie Smalls breaks into a huge grin. “It’s funny, ’cause you sound a lot like Miss Washbrad—only better! Tony, I think we’ve found ourselves one of our merry maidens!”

Even the surly Tony nods in approval. “Rehearsals commence the end of May, the twenty-fifth, at the Gaiety, two o’clock—and that’s two o’clock sharp!”

“I won’t be late,” Ann promises.

“You won’t run off and get married on me like Miss Washbrad, will you?” Charlie teases.

“Not on your life,” Ann says, smiling, and she’s more beautiful than ten Nan Washbrads.

CHAPTER FIFTY

THE WHOLE OFSPENCE IS ENGAGED IN PREPARATIONS FORour masked ball tomorrow evening. A fleet of maids has been employed to buff the old girl as if she herself were readying for the marriage market. Carpets are dragged to the back lawn, where they are beaten of every speck of dirt.

Floors are scrubbed and waxed to a high shine. Grates are cleaned. Nooks and crannies are dusted.

Nightwing bustles about as if we were expecting Her Majesty to come rather than a small coterie of parents and patrons.

She sends us out of doors—for fear we might breathe and somehow sully the pristine rooms of Spence—which suits everyone fine, as it’s a particularly lovely day. We set up camp along the mossy bank beside the river. We are allowed to take off our boots and stockings and run barefoot over the cool grass, and that alone is heaven.

A rough-hewn maypole has been erected on a gentle slope farther on. The younger girls run giggling around it, crossing this way and that, their flower crowns perched precariously on their shining heads.

They are scolded by the older, more serious girls, who are quite keen on producing a perfect plait. They weave in and out, over and under each other, until the pole wears a colorful gown of ribbon.

Felicity, Ann, and I walk through the grass to a bluff overlooking the river, a smaller cousin of the mighty Thames. Mrs. Nightwing would do well to turn the maids loose here, for the river wears a coat of moss and new leaves. Ann and I dip our feet into the cold water whilst Felicity gathers posies. Her dress is stained with pollen.

“I’m marked, I’m afraid.” She sinks next to us. “Violet?” she says, offering a flower.

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Ann waves away the delicate bloom. “If I should wear that, they’ll think I intend not to marry. That is what it means to wear violets.”

Unbowed, Felicity places the violet in her white-blond hair, where it shines like a beacon.

“Now that Mrs. Nightwing will allow me to attend the ball, I must have a costume,” Ann says. “I rather thought I’d go as Lady Macbeth.”

“Mmmm,” I murmur, casting backward glances at the girls playing round the maypole, then beyond, toward the camp. But I’ve not seen Kartik since the night of the men in the woods.

Felicity dangles a violet over my forehead like a spider, and I scream, which pleases her beyond measure.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“Very well, Your Ladyship Brooding St. Petulant,” she says. “What are you thinking about so intently?”

“I was wondering why Wilhelmina hasn’t shown me where to find the dagger or the key that holds the truth. I’m wondering what she meant to warn me about.”

“
If
she meant to warn you,” Felicity argues. “Perhaps it was a trick, and you were wise enough to avoid it.”

“Perhaps,” I say. “But what of Eugenia?”

“Are you certain you really saw her?” Ann asks. “For none of us did, and we were there with you.”

And I wonder if I imagined that, too. If I can even discern truth from illusion anymore. But, no, I saw her—I
felt
her. She was real, and the danger she sensed was real, but for the life of me, I cannot put the pieces together.