The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 187

“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 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 OF SPENCE IS ENGAGED IN PREPARATIONS FOR our 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.