The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 155

“I’ll not be frightened away,” I tell him.

“The birth of May, mortal girl. That is what you should fear,” he answers, and rides away in a cloud of dust.

Crows alight in the willows. I move by them like a queen passing her subjects, and they flutter their dark wings and caw at me. Their cries swell, shaking the trees like the cries of the damned.

CHAPTER FORTY

IN MAY, THE ANNUAL EXHIBITION AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY of Arts will signal the traditional start of the London season. Parliament will commence, and hordes of families will begin their assault on our fair city for parties and teas, concerts, derbies, and entertainments of all sorts. But the unofficial start of these festivities is Lady Markham’s ball in honor of Felicity’s debut. For the occasion, Lady Markham has let a magnificent hall in the West End, which has been outfitted lavishly in a style that would do justice to a sultan. It is an unspoken sport, holding these parties, and each hostess is in fierce competition with the others to host the most gilded, lavish affair of all. Lady Markham means to set the bar quite high.

Enormous palm trees line the sides of the hall’s ballroom. Tables have been set with white linens and silver that glitters like a pirate’s treasure. An orchestra plays discreetly behind a tall, red screen painted with Chinese dragons. And all sorts of entertainments are provided: A turbaned fire-breather with a face painted as blue as Krishna’s blows a fat orange plume of flame from his pursed lips, and the guests gasp in delight. Three entwined ladies of Siam in beaded gowns and slippered feet perform a slow, elaborate dance. They seem to be one body with many slithering arms. Gentlemen gather around the dancers, mesmerized by their sinewy charms.

“How vulgar,” my chaperone, Mrs. Tuttle, says. Grandmama has paid a pretty price for her services this evening, and I am finding Mrs. Tuttle to be the worst sort of chaperone one could hope for—punctual, sharp, and overly attentive.

“I rather like them,” I say. “In fact, I think I shall learn to dance just like that. Perhaps tonight.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Miss Doyle,” she says as if that settles the matter, when it settles nothing.

“I shall do as I like, Mrs. Tuttle,” I say sweetly. Discreetly, I wave my hand at her skirts and they whoosh up, exposing her petticoats and pantalets.

With a gasp, she pushes down the front of her dress, and the back rises. “Oh, dear!” She reaches behind her and the front billows again. “Gracious! It…I…Will you excuse me, please?”

Mrs. Tuttle rushes for the ladies’ dressing room, holding fast to her mischievous skirts.

“I eagerly await your return,” I murmur after her.

“Gemma!”

Felicity’s here with a chaperone, a tall reed of a lady with a beak of a nose. “Isn’t it marvelous? Have you seen the fire-breather? I’m so glad my party shall be the talk of the season. I don’t possibly see how anyone can compete with this!”

“It’s wonderful, Fee. Truly, it is.”

“At least my inheritance is secure now,” she whispers. “Father and Lady Markham have become fast friends this evening. She’s even been civil to my mother.”

She takes my arm and we promenade, her chaperone—a Frenchwoman named Madame Lumière—three paces behind us.

“Mother insisted on paying for a chaperone tonight,” Felicity whispers. “She believes it will make us look more important.”

As we walk, the men survey us as if we’re lands that might be won, either by agreement or in battle. The room buzzes with talk of the hunt and Parliament, horses and estates, but their eyes never stray too far from us. There are bargains to be struck, seeds to be planted. And I wonder, if women were not daughters and wives, mothers and young ladies, prospects or spinsters, if we were not seen through the eyes of others, would we exist at all?

“We might pass the time with cake,” Madame Lumière suggests.

I do not want to pass the time. I want to grab hold of it and leave my mark upon the world.

“Oh, poor Madame Lumière. Do have some. Miss Doyle and I shall wait here for your return,” Felicity says, giving one of her brightest smiles. Madame Lumière promises to return tout de suite. The moment she is out of our sight, we walk quickly away so that we might explore the wonders of the ball unfettered.

“Have you anyone lovely to dance with?” I ask, noting Felicity’s dance card.

“They’re all horrors! Old Mr. Carrington, who smells of whiskey. An American who actually asked if my family owned any land. And several more suitors, not a one of whom I would save from drowning, much less consent to marry. And there’s Horace, of course.” Felicity growls low. “He follows me about like a mournful puppy.”