The Sweet Far Thing
Page 119

“You were magnificent,” I tell her. “Your voice enchanted them.”
Ann stares out at the lawn. “They only wanted to hear me because they liked what they saw first. And don’t go lying to me and saying that we’re judged on our character, because that’s rubbish.” She laughs but there’s no mirth in it. “Beauty is power, and my life would be far easier if I were as beautiful as Nan Washbrad.”
Ann is lovely, but not in the way that matters to her. She’s not a beauty. It is the careful knowing of her over time that makes her handsome. But that’s not what she wants to hear. And even if I did say she was beautiful, even if I meant it, would she believe it?
“Yes. It’s easier if you’re beautiful,” I say. “The rest of us have to try harder.”
She smooths out the letter in her lap, and I fear that I’ve wounded her with my honesty.
I squeeze her hand. “You’ve done it, Ann. You’ve changed your life. I’ll say it to anyone who will listen: Ann Bradshaw is the bravest girl I know.”
“Gemma, how will I explain to them? Either I keep up this illusion forever or I find a way to make them believe in Ann Bradshaw.”
“We’ll sort it out. We need only enough magic to convince them they hired Ann in the first place. You’ll do the rest with your talent. That’s your magic.” But I know how she feels. It’s getting harder to imagine giving this up. I want to hold tightly to it and never let go.
“It was a good day, wasn’t it?” A small smile dispels the worry on Ann’s face.
“And better days to come.”
Ann turns the letter over in her hands. “Guess I’d best get it over with.”
I present my arm like a courtier. “It isn’t every day I’m privileged to escort a star of the stage.”
“Thank you, Lady Doyle,” she says as if entering stage right for her bow. She walks straight up to Brigid and offers the letter with a hasty “Brigid, will you post this for me tomorrow?”
“Course I will,” Brigid says, tucking it into her apron pocket.
“There, now that’s done,” I say.
“Yes. Done.”
“Come on, then. Fee wants to play cards, and I’m determined she’ll not whip us at it as she always does.”
Buoyed by Ann’s success, the three of us sit up playing hand after hand, wagering wishes like shillings—“I’ll see your dream of becoming princess of the Ottoman Empire and I’ll raise you one journey into Bombay riding on an elephant’s back!” Ann wins most rounds, and not even Fee minds. She swears it’s further proof that Ann has changed her luck at last, and that nothing is beyond us now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SEVERAL DAYS PASS, AND STILL THERE IS NO SIGN OF Kartik’s red scarf. I worry that he’s met with misadventure. I worry that when he returns, I will not be able to help him with Amar. I worry that he will not return at all but will travel on to Bristol and the Orlando.
Such worry has put me in an ill humor. Already we have suffered the ignominy of walking backward as we shall do when presented to Her Majesty at Saint James’s Palace. I stumbled twice, and I cannot imagine how I shall manage with the long train of my gown thrown over my left arm, my head bowed toward my sovereign. It makes my stomach hurt to think of it.
Mrs. Nightwing has settled us at the dining room table. At each of our places is a daunting array of silver. Soupspoons. Oyster forks. Fish knives. Fish forks. Butter knives. Dessert spoons. I half expect to see a whaling harpoon and perhaps, in case we find it all too overwhelming and wish to die with honor, the seppuku sword of Japanese legend.
Mrs. Nightwing drones on. I find it difficult to pay attention, and only catch every few sentences. “The fish course…the bones, pushed to the side of the plate…buttermilk, by the by, preserves the softness of a lady’s hands…”
The vision steals over me quickly. One moment, I am listening to Mrs. Nightwing’s voice, and the next, time stands still. Mrs. Nightwing is frozen at Elizabeth’s side. Felicity’s eyes are trained on the ceiling in an expression of utter boredom. Cecily and Martha, too, are suspended in time.
Wilhelmina Wyatt stands in the open doorway wearing a grim expression.
“Miss Wyatt?” I call. Leaving my frozen companions, I chase after her.
She stands at the top of the first flight of stairs, but when I reach the landing, she steps through the portrait of Eugenia Spence and vanishes like a ghost.
“Miss Wyatt?” I whisper. I am suddenly alone. The very bones of the school seem to murmur to me. I cover my ears but it does not stop the ghastly whispers, the muffled cackles, the hissing. The peacock paper on the walls comes alive, the eyes blinking.