The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 247

There is an ancient tribal proverb I once heard in India. It says that before we can see properly we must first shed our tears to clear the way.

I cry for days.

Mrs. Nightwing does not force me to go downstairs, and she doesn’t allow anyone, not even Fee and Ann, in to see me. She brings my meals on a tray, placing them on my table in the darkened room and leaving without a word. I hear only the rustling of her bustle as she treads the old wood floors, back and forth. Sometimes when I wake in the early hours, I feel as if I am emerging from a long, strange dream. The velvety light softens every edge in the room, bathing it in possibility. In that blissful moment, I expect a day like any other: I shall study French, laugh with friends. I shall see Kartik coming across the lawn, his smile filling me with warmth. And just as I begin to believe that all is well, there is some subtle change in the light. The room takes its true shape. I fight to go back to that blissful ignorance, but it is too late. The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

THE MORNING WE ARE TO LEAVE IS AS BEAUTIFUL A SPRING day as I’ve seen.

When the time for goodbyes comes at last, Felicity, Ann, and I stand uncertainly on the front lawn, our eyes searching for the dust on the path that signals the coach’s arrival. Mrs. Nightwing flips down the collar of Ann’s coat, checks to be certain that my hat is pinned securely and Felicity’s case is latched properly.

I feel none of it. I am numb.

“Well,” Mrs. Nightwing says for about the eighteenth time in a half hour. “Have you enough handkerchiefs? A lady can never have too many handkerchiefs.”

She will be Nightwing, regardless of what horrors occur, and just now, I am glad of her strength, from wherever it springs.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Nightwing,” Ann says.

“Ah, good, good.”

Felicity has given Ann her garnet earbobs. I’ve given her the ivory elephant I brought with me from India.

“We shall read of your admirers in the papers,” Felicity says.

“I’m only one of the merry maidens,” Ann reminds us. “There are other girls.”

“Yes, well. Each of us must start somewhere.” Mrs. Nightwing tuts.

“I’ve written to my cousins and told them not to expect me back,” Ann says. “They were awfully angry.”

“As soon as you’ve become a sensation on the London stage, they’ll be clamoring for tickets and telling everyone they know you,” Felicity assures her, and Ann smiles. Felicity turns to me. “I suppose the next time we meet, we shall be proper ladies.”

“I suppose so,” I reply.

And there’s nothing more to say.

A cry goes up from the younger girls crowded on the lawn. The carriage is coming. They nearly trample each other to be the first in with the news.

“Enough,” Felicity grouses, and slides into the carriage away from the throng.

Ann’s trunk is secured with ropes. We embrace and do not let go for the longest time. At last, she climbs the steps into the carriage for the trip to the train and London and then the Gaiety Theatre. “Goodbye,” she calls, waving from the carriage’s open window. “Till tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow!”

I raise my hand in a half wave, and she nods, and we let that be enough goodbye for now.

Within a few hours, I’ll be back in London at my grandmother’s house, preparing for the dizzying whirl of balls and parties that comprise the social season. Come Saturday, I shall curtsy before my Queen and make my debut in society while my family and friends look on. There will be supper and dancing. I shall wear a beautiful white dress and ostrich plumes in my hair.

And I couldn’t care less.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

THE CARRIAGE COMES TO CARRY US TO SAINT JAMES’S Palace. Even our housekeeper cannot hide her excitement this evening. For once, she looks at me instead of around me. “You look quite beautiful, miss.”

“Thank you,” I say.

The seamstress is just putting the finishing touches on my dress. My hair is piled high upon my head and crowned with a tiara and three ostrich feathers. I have long white gloves that reach the tops of my arms. And Father has presented me with my first real diamonds—in a delicate necklace that shimmers against my skin like dewdrops. “Lovely, lovely,” Grandmama pronounces until she is presented with the bill. Then her eyes grow large. “Why on earth did I agree to those roses and beads? I must have been out of my mind.”

Tom gives me a peck on the cheek. “You look wonderful, Gem. Are you ready to take that long walk?”