Rebel Angels

Page 39

It is very strange to walk into the unfamiliar front hall and see the coat rack and the side table with its accompanying mirror, the burgundy paper on the walls, the tasseled velvet drapes, as if I should find comfort in these strange things, as if this were a place I should know and love when I've never set foot in it. Though it is filled with cushioned chairs, a piano, a Christmas tree festooned with popcorn and ribbon, and though every room is warmed by a blazing fire, this does not feel like home. For me that place is India. I think of our housekeeper, Sarita, and see her lined face and gap-toothed smile. I see our house with the open porch and a bowl of dates sitting on a table draped in red silk. Mostly, I think of Mother's presence and Father's booming laugh, back when he did laugh.
As Grandmama is still out paying a call, the housekeeper, Mrs. Jones, is there to greet me. She asks if I've had a pleasant journey, and I answer yes, as is expected. We've nothing more to say to each other, so she leads me up two flights of stairs to my bedroom. It is a back room that looks out onto the carriage houses and stables of the mews, the small lane behind us where the coachmen and their families live. It is a dingy little place, and I wonder what it must be like mucking about in the hay with the horses, always staring up at the lights of these grand, towering white ladies where we have everything we could ask for.
When I have changed clothes for dinner, I make my way downstairs again. At the second-floor landing, I stop. Father and Tom are having an argument behind the closed doors of the library, and I move closer to listen.
"But, Father," Tom says. "Do you think it wise to hire a foreigner to be your driver? There are plenty of good Englishmen for the job, I daresay."
I peek through the sliver of light at the door. Father and Tom stand opposite each other, a couple of coiled springs. Some part of the old Father flares to life. "We had many loyal Indian servants in Bombay, may I remind you, Thomas."
"Yes, Father, but that was India. We're here now, amongst our peers, who all use English drivers."
"Are you questioning my decision, Thomas?"
"No, sir."
"Good man."
There is a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Tom says carefully, "But you must admit that the Indians have habits that have led to trouble for you before, Father."
"That is enough, Thomas Henry!" Father barks. "There shall be no more discussion of it."
Tom barrels through the door, nearly knocking me over.
"Oh, dear," I say. When he doesn't respond, I add, "You might apologize."
"You might not want to listen at keyholes," he snaps back. I follow him to the stairs.
"You might not want to tell Father how to run his affairs," I whisper tersely.
"That's all well and fine for you to say," he growls."You're not the one who's spent the better part of a fortnight weaning him off the bottle only to see that he could easily be led astray again by some carriage driver."
Tom takes the stairs at an angry clip. I struggle to keep up.
"You don't know that. Why must you aggravate him so?"
Tom whirls around."I aggravate him? I do nothing but try to please him, but I can do no right in his eyes."
"That isn't true," I say.
He looks as if I've hit him."How would you know, Gemma? It's you he adores."
"Tom . . . ,"I start. A tall butler appears. "Dinner is served, Mr. Thomas, Miss Gemma."
"Yes, thank you, Davis," Thomas says tightly. With that, he turns smartly on his heel and walks away.
Dinner is a dismal affair. Everyone is trying so very hard to be bright and smiling, as if we are posing for an advert. We're all trying to erase the fact that we do not live here, together, and that this is our first Christmas without Mother. No one wants to be the one who brings truth to the table and spoils the evening, and so there is a lot of forced polite talk of holiday plans and doings at school and gossip about the town.
"How are things at Spence, Gemma?" Father asks.
Well, you see, my friend Pippa is dead, which is my fault, really, and I'm trying desperately to locate the Temple, the source of the magic in the realms, before Circe--the evil woman who killed Mother, who was also a member of the Order, but you wouldn't know about that--finds it and does diabolical things, and then I'm to bind the magic somehow, though I haven't the vaguest idea how. And that is how things are,
"Very good, thank you."
"Ah, splendid. Splendid."
"Did Thomas tell you he's become a clinical assistant at Bethlem Royal Hospital?" Grandmama says, taking a generous portion of peas on her fork.