The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 34

She hides behind Cecily and Martha, shaking her head.

“Oh, I can’t! They’re immodest! Indecent!”

Felicity grabs her by the hand. “And absolutely necessary if you’re to ride a bicycle. I find them a great improvement upon the uniform, I can tell you that.”

Elizabeth shrieks and runs for cover again. Dear God. It is a wonder that she can even bathe herself without fainting at the immodesty of it all.

“Very well. Suit yourself,” Felicity says. She’s not shamed a bit, of course. “I cannot tell you how liberating it is to be without layers of skirts and petticoats. You are the witnesses to my solemn pledge: When I am free of these shackles and living in Paris on my inheritance, I shall never wear a dress again.”

“Oh, Fee,” Martha says, stricken. “How could you not want to wear those lovely gowns your mother has sent from France? Did I mention that my own gown is to be made by Lady Marble’s atelier?”

“You didn’t!” Cecily says.

They talk of dresses and gloves and stockings, buttons and baubles in such fevered, fawning detail I fear I shall go mad. The sounds of hammering and sawing drift out from the East Wing. The workmen glance at us, nudging each other, until Mr. Miller threatens to hold their pay.

“Ann, you look lovely this morning,” Felicity says, and Ann blooms at the compliment. Fee lowers her voice. “Wasn’t last night perfection? To see Pip again—a weight has been lifted from me.”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It was good to see her again.”

“And the magic,” Ann whispers.

“Oh, the magic.” Felicity beams. “I should like to have done everything I could think of with it, for I’ve none today.”

“None at all?” Ann can barely hide her smile.

Felicity shakes her head. “Not a bit. Have you any?”

Ann looks at me.

“It seems to be coming to life again in me. I gifted Ann this morning, and I shall do the same for you,” I say, holding her hands until I feel the magic spark between us.

“What are you three whispering about?” Martha asks, eyeing us suspiciously.

“Employing magic to better our lives,” I answer. Felicity turns away, giggling quietly.

“You are rude and common, Gemma Doyle,” Martha sniffs. “And you are wicked to encourage her, Felicity Worthington. And as for you, Ann Bradshaw—oh, why should I bother?”

Thank goodness, the three bicycles are brought round. We shall have to take turns. I’ve never seen a bicycle up close before. It’s rather like a metal S with two wheels and a bar for steering. And the seat! It seems far too high to sit upon.

Inspector Kent greets us in his brown cotton coat and cap. He is Mademoiselle LeFarge’s betrothed, a detective with Scotland Yard and a kind man as well. We are genuinely happy they shall be married come May. Mademoiselle LeFarge looks on from her spot on the grass, where she has laid out a blanket. She wears a thick bonnet that frames her plump face, her merry eyes. Not so long ago, she pined for a lost love. But under Inspector Kent’s kind attention, she has blossomed.

“The future Mrs. Kent is a picture of loveliness today, is she not?” the inspector says, making our French teacher blush.

“Do be careful no one is hurt, Mr. Kent,” she says, dismissing his kindness.

“I shall afford your charges the utmost care, Mademoiselle LeFarge,” he answers, and her face softens.

“I know you shall, Mr. Kent,” she says, returning the compliment.

Inspector Kent’s bushy mustache hides his smile, but we catch the twinkle in his eyes. “Now, ladies,” he says, wheeling one of the bicycles toward us, “who would like to ride?”

Several of the younger girls bounce in excitement and beg to be chosen, but of course it’s Felicity who marches forward and the question is answered. “I shall go first,” she says.

“Very well. Have you ridden before?” he asks.

“Yes, at Falmore Hall,” she answers, naming her family’s estate in the country. She mounts the wobbling bicycle, and I fear she’ll land in a heap upon the ground. But she gives the pedals a solid push and then she’s off, wheeling effortlessly about the grass. We clap and cheer. Cecily is next. Inspector Kent runs beside her, keeping her aloft. When he threatens to let go, she throws her arms about his neck and screams. Martha doesn’t fare much better. She falls over, and though she has injured nothing more than her pride, she refuses to remount. The workmen snicker, apparently amused to see us fine ladies so undone by such a simple piece of machinery, one they could fashion with their bare hands.