The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 251

“Paris, then. What will you do there?”

“Really, Gemma,” she says as if I don’t know anything and never will. “It is where all the bohemians live. Now that I’ve my inheritance, I might take up painting and live in a garret. Or perhaps I shall become an artist’s model,” she says, delighting in how scandalous this sounds. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I’ve heard there are others like me there. Perhaps I will love again.”

“You’ll be the toast of Paris,” I say.

She grins widely. “Do come with us! We could have such a merry time together!”

“I think I should like to go to America,” I answer, the plan forming with my words. “To New York.”

“That’s grand!”

“Yes,” I say, brightening a bit at the prospect. “It is, isn’t it?”

Felicity holds more tightly to my arm. “I don’t know if you have heard the news, but I would tell you before anyone else does. Miss Fairchild has accepted Simon’s suit. They are betrothed.”

I nod. “That’s as it should be. I wish them happiness.”

“I wish her luck. Mark my words, Simon will lose all his hair and be fat as Fezziwig before he’s thirty.” She giggles.

A new dance is called. It brings fresh excitement to the crowd. The floor fills as a lively tune gives new life to the party. Holding hands, standing together in a crush of silk and flowers, Felicity and I watch the dancers moving as one. They spin about like the earth on its axis, enduring the dark, waiting for the sun.

Felicity squeezes my hand, and I feel the slightest hint of realms magic pulsing there. “Well, Gemma, we survived it.”

“Yes,” I say, squeezing back. “We have survived.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

ON FRIDAY, THOMAS AND I ACCOMPANY FATHER TO Bristol, where the HMS Victoria awaits, ready to take him home to India. The docks are awash in well-dressed travelers—men in fine suits, ladies in wide-brimmed hats to keep out the rare English sun, which has obliged them by shining brightly today. The boards are stacked with trunks bound with twine, stamped for other destinations. They stand as testament that life is a constant heartbeat, pulsing everywhere at once, and we are but a small part of that eternal ebb and flow. I wonder where Ann is at this moment. Perhaps she is standing center stage at the Gaiety, ready to embark on a path where nothing is certain and she can be whoever she wishes. I should like very much to see her in this new life.

Father has spoken to Grandmama about my decision. She is scandalized, of course, but it is done. I shall go to university. After that, I shall have a modest allowance upon which to live, administered by Tom, who has done his best to convince Grandmama that I shall not fall to ruin in the streets. But if I truly desire independence, I shall need to work. It is unheard of. A black mark. Yet I find that I am excited by the prospect of having my own pursuits and earning my own keep. At any rate, it is the price for my freedom, so there you have it.

Father is wearing his favorite white suit. It is not snug the way it should be; he’s far too thin. But he cuts a dashing figure anyway. We stand on the docks, making our goodbyes, as people push past in a flurry of excitement.

“Safe voyage to you, Father,” Thomas says. He and Father shake hands awkwardly.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Father says, coughing. He must wait for the spasm to subside before finding his voice again. “I shall see you at Christmas.”

Tom looks down at his feet. “Yes. Of course. Till Christmas.”

I embrace Father. He holds me a moment longer than usual, and I can feel his ribs. “Thank you for seeing me off, pet.”

“I’ll write to you,” I say, trying not to cry.

He releases me with a smile. “Then I shall eagerly await your letters.”

The ship’s horn bellows its deep warning. Stewards raise their voices, giving the final call for all passengers to board. Father mounts the plank and makes his way slowly to the edge of the ship amidst a crowd of other travelers waving goodbye. He stands tall, hands on the railing, face forward. The sun, that great magic lantern, casts its illusory light, catching my father’s face in such a way that I see no lines, no pallor, no sadness. I do not see the shadow of what is to come sitting in the hollows under his eyes, slowly thinning the planes of his cheeks. There are some illusions I’m not prepared to give up just yet.

As the ship pulls slowly away and out to the blinding sea, I see him as I wish to: healthy and strong and happy, his smile a bright, shiny promise of new days, whatever they may bring.