The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 8

Ann shows us a program for a production of Macbeth at the Drury Lane Theatre, starring the great American actress Lily Trimble. Ann gazes longingly at the dramatic drawing of Miss Trimble as Lady Macbeth.

“Did you attend?” I ask.

Ann shakes her head. “My cousins went.”

Without her. Everyone who knows Ann at all knows how much she adores plays.

“But they let you keep the program,” Felicity says. “That’s quite nice.”

Yes, just as a cat that lets a mouse keep its tail is nice. Felicity can be so beastly at times.

“Did you have a fine birthday?” Ann says.

“Yes, ever so enjoyable,” Felicity purrs. “Eighteen. What a glorious age. Now I shall come into my inheritance. Well, not straightaway, mind. My grandmother did insist I make my debut as a condition of her will. The moment I curtsy before the Queen and back away again, I shall be a rich woman, and I may do as I please.”

“Once you make your debut,” Ann repeats, swallowing the last of her chocolate.

Felicity takes a chocolate for herself. “Lady Markham has already announced her intention to sponsor me. So it’s as good as done. Felicity Worthington, heiress.” Fee’s good spirits vanish. “I only wish Pippa were here to share it.”

Ann and I exchange glances at the mention of Pip. Once, she was one of us. Now she is somewhere in the realms, most likely lost to the Winterlands. Who knows what she has become? But Fee still clings to the hope that she might be found, might yet be saved.

The tent opens. Cecily, Elizabeth, and Martha crowd inside. It is far too close with all of us here. Elizabeth falls into Felicity while Martha and Cecily take a seat next to me. Ann is pushed to the very back of the tent.

“I’ve just had an invitation to a ball hosted by the Duchess of Crewesbury,” Cecily says. She settles herself on the floor like a spoiled Persian cat.

“And I as well,” Elizabeth adds.

Felicity does her best to look bored. “My mother received ours ages ago.”

I haven’t received such an invitation, and I hope no one will ask me if I have.

Martha fans herself, grimacing. “Oh, dear. It is rather close in here, isn’t it? I’m afraid we cannot all fit.” She glances at Ann. Cecily and her lot have never treated Ann as more than a servant, but since our unfortunate attempt to pass her off in society as a duke’s daughter of Russian blood last Christmas, Ann has become a complete pariah. The gossip has spread in letters and whispers and now there isn’t a girl at Spence who doesn’t know the story.

“We shall miss you dearly, Cecily,” I say, smiling brightly. I should like to kick her squarely in the teeth.

Cecily makes it quite clear she won’t be the one to leave. She spreads out her skirts, taking up even more space. Martha whispers in Elizabeth’s ear and they break into tittering. I could ask what they are laughing about, but they won’t tell me, so there’s no point.

“What is that smell?” Martha asks, making a face.

Cecily sniffs dramatically. “Caviar, perhaps? All the way from Russia! Why, it must be from the czar himself!”

The venal little trolls. Ann’s cheeks blaze and her lips quiver. She stands so quickly she nearly topples over as she rushes for the tent’s flaps. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve needlework to finish.”

“Please do give my best to your uncle, the duke,” Cecily calls after her, and the others snicker.

“Why must you taunt her so?” I ask.

“She doesn’t deserve to be here,” Cecily says with easy certainty.

“That isn’t true,” I say.

“Isn’t it? Some people simply don’t belong.” Cecily fixes me with a haughty stare. “I’ve recently heard your father is unwell and resting at Oldham. How worried you must be. Pray, what is his affliction?”

All Cecily lacks is a forked tongue, for she is certainly a snake beneath that beautiful dress.

“Influenza,” I say, the lie tasting sharp in my mouth.

“Influenza,” she repeats, glancing slyly at the others.

“But he is much improved, and I shall pay him a visit tomorrow.”

Cecily doesn’t yield just yet. “I am glad to know it, for one hears such unsavory stories at times—gentlemen being found in opium dens and forced into sanitariums for it. Scandalous.”

“Cecily Temple, I shall not hear slander this evening,” Felicity warns.

“It is influenza,” I repeat, but my voice has lost its steadiness.

Cecily’s smile is triumphant. “Yes, of course it is.”