The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 255

Mrs. Nightwing is so very still I fear I may have stopped her heart with my outburst. Her normally commanding voice is but a squeak. “I shall lose all my girls to Miss Pennington’s.”

I sigh. “No, you shan’t. Only ninnies go to Penny’s.”

“Most ungracious, Miss Doyle.” Mrs. Nightwing tuts. She places the teacup exactly so on its saucer. “And you? You will forgo your season for a university in America. Are you truly prepared to turn your back on all of that privilege and power?”

I think of those ladies in their stiff gowns and forced smiles, drowning their hunger with weak tea, trying hard to make themselves fit into such a narrow world, desperately afraid the blinders will slip and show them what they’ve chosen to close out.

“Privilege is not always power, is it?” I say.

Mrs. Nightwing nods slowly. “I will offer you every assistance in the realms. You may rely on it. As for the other matter, that shall require more thought than I care to give it at the moment. The sun still reigns in the sky, and I’ve a school full of girls awaiting my instruction and care. I have my duties, too. Is there another matter to discuss, or is that all for today?”

“That is all. Thank you kindly, Mrs. Nightwing.”

“Lillian,” she says so softly I nearly miss it.

“Thank you…Lillian,” I say, tasting her name on my tongue like an exotic new curry.

“You’re welcome. Gemma.” She shuffles some papers on her desk and pins them beneath a silver box, only to remove it and shuffle them again. “Are you still here?”

“Right,” I say, rising quickly. In my haste for the door, I nearly topple the chair.

“What was it you said about Miss Pennington’s?” she asks.

“Only ninnies go to Penny’s?”

She nods. “Yes, that was the phrase. Well. Good day to you, then.”

“Good day.”

She does not look up or see me out. I am no more than a few steps from Mrs. Nightwing’s room when I hear her repeat to herself, “Only ninnies go to Penny’s.” It is followed by the strangest sound, one that starts low and moves high. A laugh. No, not a laugh—a giggle. It is a giggle full of high spirits and merry mischief, proof that we never lose our girlish selves, no matter what sort of women we become.

The next morning dawns pink and hopeful and sweetens into a glorious late-spring day. The rolling green fields behind Spence are alive with bursts of hyacinth and bright yellow flowers. The air is perfumed with lilac and rose. The smell is heavenly. It tickles my nose and lightens my head. Clouds roll lazily upon the blue horizon. I do not believe I have ever seen such a lovely sight, not even in the realms. Mademoiselle LeFarge shall have a splendid wedding day.

It is a good half hour before the wedding, and Felicity and I spend it in the gardens, gathering wildflowers for the last time together. She tells me of the new suit of trousers she vows to have fashioned in Paris.

“Think of it, Gemma—never to wear a petticoat and corset ever again. That is freedom,” she says, shaking a daisy by its stalk to emphasize her point.

I pull a rose from its leafy nest and tuck it gently into my sack. “You’ll be the talk of the town; that’s certain.”

She shrugs. “Let them talk. It’s my life to live, not theirs. I’ve my inheritance now. And perhaps, in time and with my influence, ladies in trousers shall be all the rage.”

I am not brave enough to give up my skirts just yet, but somehow I know that Felicity shall wear her trousers with aplomb. With a wicked grin, she reaches into her sack and tosses a handful of mixed blossoms at me. Not to be outdone, I toss several at her. She retaliates, and soon, it’s war.

“Will you behave?” I say, but I’m laughing. A true laugh.

“Only if you will.” Felicity giggles, getting in one more handful.

“Truce!” I screech.

“Truce.”

We’re coated in flowers but our sacks are nearly depleted. We try to salvage what we can. The blossoms are rumpled but they smell divine. I pull a trampled rose from the ground and hold it to my mouth. “Live,” I whisper, and it blooms a majestic pink in my hand.

Felicity smirks. “You do know that won’t last, Gemma. Flowers die. It’s what they do.”

I nod. “But not just yet.”

On the hill, the chapel bells peal, calling us to our duties. Felicity brushes the dirt smudges from her skirt with a quick whisk of both hands.

“Bloody weddings,” she mumbles.

“Oh, do be happy. How do I look?”