The Sweet Far Thing

Page 18

Felicity’s eyes widen in horror. “Are you ill, Gemma? Have you a fever? Honestly, I won’t shed a single tear when it is time to say goodbye. I cannot wait to make my debut.”
Annabelle’s hateful gossip weighs heavily on my soul. “And Lady Markham is to present you, is she not?”
“Yes, as I must have a sponsor to put me forth,” Fee says brusquely. “My father may be a naval hero, but my family hasn’t the standing yours enjoys.”
I ignore the swipe. The sun has blessed us with the first taste of the warm weather to come, and we turn our faces toward it like flowers.
“What sort of woman is Lady Markham?”
“She’s one of Lady Denby’s followers,” Felicity scoffs.
I wince at the mention of Simon’s mother. Lady Denby has no love for Felicity or for Mrs. Worthington.
“You know how that sort is, Gemma. They like to be flattered and led to believe that you revere their every word as if it has dropped from Zeus’s tongue. ‘Why, Lady Markham, I thank you for your good advice.’ ‘How clever you are, Lady Markham.’ ‘I shall take it to heart. How fortunate am I to have your counsel, Lady Markham.’ They want to own you.” Felicity stretches her arms overhead, reaching for the sky. “I shall leave that to my mother.”
“And if Lady Markham were not to present you…what then?” I ask, my heart in my mouth.
Felicity’s arms drop to her sides again. “I’d be done for. If I do not make my debut, my inheritance shall go to the Foundling Hospital, and I shall be at Father’s mercy. But that won’t happen.” She frowns. “I say, you are quite keen on this subject. Have you heard something?”
“No,” I say, hesitating.
“You’re lying.”
There’s no getting around it. She’ll badger me until I tell her the truth. “Very well. Yes. I heard a bit of gossip in London that Lady Markham was having second thoughts about presenting you to court…because of…because of your reputation. And I only thought, with so much at stake, perhaps it would be best if you were to…to…behave.” The word is no more than a faint imprint.
Felicity narrows her eyes, but there is hurt in them. “Behave?”
“Just till after your season…”
Felicity sneers. “Shall I tremble at every scrap of nasty gossip? I’ve survived worse. Honestly, Gemma, since you’ve stopped taking us into the realms you’ve become a dull mouse of a girl. I hardly know you anymore.”
“I only meant to warn you,” I protest.
“I don’t need warnings; I need a friend,” she says. “If you wish to scold me like a schoolmarm, you might as well sit with Nightwing.”
She flounces away, joining arms with Elizabeth, and the sun, which felt so warm, is no longer a comfort.
I eschew Nightwing for Ann. The morning sun illuminates the musty chapel’s stained-glass windows. It shows the coating of grime on the angels and lends a fierce brightness to the bizarre panel of a lone warrior angel beside a severed gorgon’s head.
We bow our heads for prayer. We sing a hymn. And in the end, our French teacher, Mademoiselle LeFarge, reads a poem from William Blake.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?
Will this be my life forevermore? Careful tea parties and the quiet fear that I don’t belong, that I’m a fraud? I held magic in my hands! I tasted freedom in a land where summer doesn’t end. I outsmarted the Rakshana with a boy whose kiss I still feel somehow. Was it all for naught? I’d rather not have known any of it than have it snatched away after a taste.
With tears threatening, I fix my attention upon the stained glass and the odd mixture of dangerous angels and uncertain warriors to keep my composure. Mademoiselle LeFarge fills the chapel with Mr. Blake’s lofty words.
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Several of the younger girls titter at desire and LeFarge must wait for silence before continuing.
Bring me my spear! O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
LeFarge leaves the pulpit and Mrs. Nightwing takes her place there. “Thank you, Miss LeFarge, for that. Most stirring. The poem reminds us that greatness lies even in the smallest of moments, in the humblest of hearts, and we shall, each of us, be called to greatness. Whether we shall rise to meet it or let it slip away is the challenge put before us all.”