The Sweet Far Thing
Page 13

“Good day to you, Mr. Doyle. It’s time for the waters, sir.”
Father smiles in relief. “Miss Finster, like a ray of sunshine on a gloomy morning, you arrive and all is well.”
Miss Finster grins as if her face will break. “A charmer, your father is.”
“Well, off you go, then,” Father says to us. “Wouldn’t want to miss your train to London.”
“True, true.” Tom’s already backing away. We’ve been here less than an hour. “We’ll see you home in two weeks’ time, Father.”
“Quite right,” Miss Finster says. “Though we’ll be sorry to see him go.”
“Yes, well,” Tom says. He pushes an errant lock from his forehead but it only falls into his eyes again. There is no handshake or embrace. We smile and nod and leave each other as quickly as possible, relieved to be free of one another and the awkward silences. Yet I also feel ashamed at that sense of relief. I wonder if other families are the same. They seem so content to be together. They fit, like the parts of a puzzle already finished, the image clearly evident. But we are like those odd remaining pieces, the ones that can’t be joined securely with a satisfying “Ah, that’s it, then.”
Father takes Miss Finster’s arm like a proper gentleman. “Miss Finster, will you do me the honor?”
Miss Finster offers a schoolgirl laugh, though she is surely as old as Mrs. Nightwing. “Oh, Mr. Doyle. Go on!”
Arm in arm, they stroll toward the large white building. Father turns his head ever so slightly toward us. “I’ll see you for Easter.”
Yes, in two weeks, we’ll be together again.
But I doubt he will really see me at all.
I take Tom to task on the carriage ride to London. “Thomas, really, why must you bait Father as you do?”
“That’s it. Defend him as you always do. The favorite.”
“I’m not his favorite. He loves us equally.” Saying it gives me a queer feeling in my stomach, though, like telling a lie.
“That’s what they say, isn’t it? Pity it isn’t true,” he says, bitterly. Suddenly, he brightens. “As it happens, he was wrong about the Athenaeum Club. I’ve been invited to dine there with Simon Middleton and Lord Denby.”
At the mention of Simon’s name, all breath leaves me. “How is Simon?” I ask.
“Handsome. Charming. Rich. In short, quite well.” Tom gives me a little smile, and I can’t help feeling he’s rather enjoying himself at my expense.
Simon Middleton, one of England’s most sought-after bachelors, is indeed all those things. He courted me quite fervently over Christmas and meant to marry me, but I refused him. And suddenly, I cannot remember why.
“It is premature to say,” Tom continues, “but I believe old Denby will put me forth for membership. Despite your rather shoddy treatment of Simon, Gemma, I do know that his father remains a champion of mine. More so than Father.”
“Did…Simon say that I had treated him shabbily?”
“No. He didn’t mention you at all.”
“How lovely it will be to see the Middletons again,” I say, pretending his words haven’t hurt me in the least. “I’m sure Simon must be happily squiring young ladies about town?” I give a little laugh meant to sound cavalier.
“Mmmm,” Tom says. “I don’t know.”
“But they are in London currently?” My smile falters. Come on, Thomas. Throw me a bone, you miserable cur of a brother.
“They will be soon. They’ve a distant cousin from America who shall come to visit for the season, a Miss Lucy Fairchild. Worth a fortune, as I understand it.” Tom smiles smugly. “Perhaps you could arrange an introduction for me. Or perhaps once I am a member in good standing of the Athenaeum, she shall ask to be introduced to me.”
No. It is impossible to maintain a smile in my brother’s presence. Monks haven’t the sort of patience required.
“I don’t see why you should care so much about the Athenaeum,” I say irritably.
Tom chuckles in a most condescending way and I cannot help imagining him immersed in a large cauldron surrounded by hungry, fire-wielding cannibals. “You wouldn’t, would you, Gemma? You don’t wish to belong to anyone or anything at all.”
“At least the members of the Hippocrates Society are men of science and medicine,” I say, ignoring his slight. “They share your interests.”
“They do not garner the respect that the Athenaeum Club does. That is where the real power lies. And I hear the men of Hippocrates may vote to allow women to join them in a lesser capacity.” My brother snorts. “Women! In a gentlemen’s club!”