The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 166

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

TRUE TO HER WORD, THE NEXT MORNING MRS. Nightwing has us traveling the five miles to Balmoral Spring. As the carriage bounces over muddy roads, I find I’m eager to see Ann again, and I’m hopeful that she will accept an apology for my beastly behavior at her departure.

At last we arrive. Balmoral Spring is a nightmare of a country estate purchased by the sort who have new fortunes, old ambitions, and an appalling lack of taste in all regards. I wonder whether there is a servant left in the whole of England, for footmen stand at the ready for our carriages, and butlers and maids of all stripes line the walk and bustle about the grounds, tending to every need.

I whisper to Fee, “Do you see Ann?”

“Not yet,” she answers, searching the throngs. “What on earth is that?”

She nods toward an enormous marble fountain that features Mr. Wharton as Zeus and Mrs. Wharton as Hera. The rays of a bronzed sun shine behind them. Water trickles from Mr. Wharton’s mouth in a rather unfortunate stream, as if he were spitting.

“How absolutely appalling!” Felicity says, clapping in delight. “What other wonders await us?”

Mrs. Nightwing takes in the spectacle of the fountain, the lawns, the ceramic cherubim posed near groomed shrubbery, the newly constructed bandstand. “Merciful heavens,” she mutters.

Mrs. Wharton’s laugh can be heard above the din. We have come in simple summer-weight dresses, straw hats perched upon our heads, but she wears an elaborately beaded blue gown more appropriate for a ball. Diamonds drip from her neck, though it is afternoon. And her hat is a continent unto itself. One quick turn of her head and she nearly takes out a contingent of servants.

“How wonderful you could come,” she says, welcoming us. “Do try the caviar—it has come all the way from France!”

I do not recognize Ann at first. In her stiff gown, her hair pulled back severely, she does not resemble the girl who left us several weeks ago. She is one of those gray phantoms haunting the edges of every party, not quite family, not quite servant, not a guest—something in between acknowledged by none. And when our eyes meet, she does not hold the gaze. Little Charlotte tugs hard on Ann’s dress.

“Annie, I want to play in the rose garden,” she whines.

“You broke the roses last time, Lottie, and I was called to account for it,” Ann says quietly.

“Oh, Miss Bradshaw,” Ann’s cousin calls to her, “let her play in the roses. She loves them so.”

“She does not handle them with care,” Ann answers.

“It is your duty to see that she does,” Mrs. Wharton tells her.

“Yes, Mrs. Wharton,” Ann answers dully, and Charlotte smiles in triumph. I can only imagine what other horrors Ann endures.

Felicity and I follow them at a safe distance. Ann tries desperately to keep up with the abominable children. Carrie, who is all of four, has her fingers in her nose nearly every moment, only taking them out to examine her disgusting finds. But Charlotte is far worse. When no one looks, she yanks the roses off their stalks so that their full blooms dangle sadly on broken necks. Ann’s admonishments fall on deaf ears. The moment her back is turned, Charlotte continues her carnage.

“Ann!” we call. Ann sees us but pretends she hasn’t.

“Ann, please don’t ignore us,” I beg.

“I hoped you wouldn’t come,” she says.

“Ann—” I begin.

“I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I?” she whispers. “Carrie!” she calls. “You mustn’t eat what is in your nose. It isn’t done.”

Felicity scowls. “Ugh. I shall never have children.” Carrie offers her the hideous pearl on her finger. “No, thank you. What a horrid little beast. How do you stand it?”

Ann wipes away a quick tear. “I’ve made my bed…,” she starts, but doesn’t finish.

“Unmake it,” Felicity urges.

“How?” Ann dabs at her other eye.

“You could run away,” Felicity suggests. “Or pretend to have some ghastly disease—or you could make yourself so odious that not even the most terrible children would want you for governess.”

“Gemma?” Ann looks to me, beseeching.

I’ve not given up my wounds so easily. “I offered you my help before,” I remind her. “Do you really want it this time?”

“Yes,” she says, and I can see from the set of her jaw that she means it.

“What are you discussing?” Charlotte demands, trying to break into our tidy cluster.