Rebel Angels (29 page)

He frowns. “A dance with the carnivorous Felicity? Why? Has she eaten all the other available gentlemen?”

I’m so relieved by this that I laugh in spite of my friendship with Felicity.
"I shouldn’t laugh. You’re being horrible.”

“Yes,” Simon says, raising an eyebrow. "I’m very good at being horrible. Would you like to find out?”

“What do you mean?”

“Shall we take a walk?”

“Oh,” I say, my fear mixed with a sliver of excitement. “I’ll just inform Mrs. Bowles then.”

Simon smiles. “It is only a walk. And look how she’s enjoying a dance. Why should we disrupt her happiness?”

I don’t wish to upset Simon, to make him think I’m such a bore. But it is improper for me to leave with him alone. I don’t know what to do. “I really should inform Mrs. Bowles. . . .”

“Very well,” Simon says. Smiling, he excuses himself. Now I’ve done it. I’ve pushed him away. But moments later, he returns with Felicity and Ann. “Now we are safe. Or at least,
your
reputations are secure. I don’t know about mine.”

“What is this about?” Felicity demands.

“If you ladies would care to join me in the billiards room, you shall find out soon enough,” Simon says, taking his leave.

We wait a respectable length of time before making our way upstairs to the Worthingtons’ billiards room. If I felt ill at ease about being alone with Simon, I feel doubly so about having Felicity with us.

“What have you in mind, Simon?” she asks. Hearing her use Simon’s name so freely gives me a sick feeling in my stomach.

Simon walks to the bookcase and pulls a volume from the shelf.

“You intend to read to us?” Felicity wrinkles her nose. She pushes a white ball across the wide green felt of the table. It smashes into the neat triangle in the center, sending the other balls careening against the bumpers.

He reaches into the space behind the book and brings out a bottle of thick emerald green liquid. It is like no liquor I have ever seen before.

“What is that?” I ask, my mouth gone dry.

His lips curve into a roguish smile. “A bit of the green fairy. She’s a most congenial mistress, I think you’ll find.”

I’m still confused.

“Absinthe. The drink of artists and madmen. Some say the green fairy lives in a glass of absinthe, and she spirits you away to her lair where all manner of strange and beautiful things can be seen. Would you like to try living in two worlds at once?”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this.

“Oh,” Ann says, worried. “I think perhaps we should get back. Surely we have been missed.”

“Then we shall say we were in the cloakroom having a tear in your dress mended,” Felicity says.
"I wish to try absinthe.”

I
don’t
wish to try absinthe. Well, perhaps a little bit—if I could be certain how it would affect me. I’m afraid to stay, but I don’t want to leave the room now or let Felicity share this experience with Simon alone.

“I’d like to try it too,” I croak.

“An adventurous spirit,” Simon says, smiling at me. “That’s what I love.”

Reaching in again, Simon brings out a flat, slotted spoon. He pours himself half a glass of water from a decanter. He sets the glass on the table and places the strange spoon over the glass’s opening. With graceful fingers, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a cube of sugar, which he perches atop the spoon.

“What is that for?” I ask.

“To take away the bitterness of the wormwood.”

Thick as tree sap, green as summer grass, the absinthe flows over the sugar, dissolving it on its relentless way. Inside the glass, a beautiful alchemy is taking place. The green swirls into a milky white. It is extraordinary.

“How does it do that?” I ask.

Simon takes a coin from his pocket, palms it, and shows me his empty hand. The coin has disappeared.
"Magic.”

“Let’s see if it is,” Felicity says, reaching for the glass. Simon holds it away, hands it to me.

“Ladies first,” he says.

Felicity looks as if she could spit in his eye. It is a cruel thing to do, to goad her so, but I must be cruel myself because I can’t help being satisfied that I’m the one chosen first. My hand shakes as I take the glass. I half expect this strange drink to turn me into a frog. Even the smell is intoxicating, like licorice spiced with nutmeg. I swallow, feel it burn my throat. The moment I finish, Felicity grabs it from me and drinks her share. She offers it to Ann, who takes the tiniest of sips. At last it goes to Simon, who takes his turn and passes it to me again. The glass makes its rounds thrice more, till it has been drained.

Simon uses his handkerchief to wipe the last of the absinthe from the glass and places everything behind the book to be retrieved at a later date. He moves closer to me. Felicity comes between us, taking hold of my wrist.

“Thank you, Simon. And now I suppose we’d best make that visit to the cloakroom to add truth to our story,” she says, a satisfied gleam in her eye.

Simon isn’t happy, that much I can see. But he bows and lets us get on our way.

“I don’t feel much different,” Ann says as we stand in the cloakroom, fanning ourselves, letting the maids search for imaginary tears in our gowns.

“That is because you didn’t take more than a sip,” Felicity whispers.
"I feel quite fine.”

There’s a sweet warmth in my head, a lightness that makes it seem as if all is well and no harm can come to me. I smile at Felicity, no longer upset, just enjoying our indiscretion together. Why is it that some secrets can drown you while some pull you close to others in a way you never want to lose?

“You look beautiful,” Felicity says. Her pupils are large as moons.

“So do you,” I say. I can’t stop smiling.

“What about me?” Ann asks.

“Yes,” I say, feeling lighter by the second. “Tom will not be able to resist you. You are a princess, Ann.” This makes the maid tending my dress raise her eyes to me for a moment but then she is back to it.

When we enter the ballroom again, it seems transformed, the colors deeper, the lights hazier. The green fairy melts to liquid fire that races through my veins like gossip, like the wings of a thousand angels, like a whisper of the most delicious secret I have ever held. Around me the room has slowed into a beautiful blur of color, sound, and motion; the
whisk-whisk
of the ladies’ stiff skirts melting into the greens and blues, silvers and burgundies of their bejeweled bodies. They bend and sway into the gentlemen like mirror images that kiss and fly apart, kiss and fly apart.

My eyes feel wet and beautiful. My mouth is swollen as summer fruit, and all I can do is smile as if I know all there is to know but I cannot hold on to any of it. Simon finds me. I hear myself accepting a dance with him. We join the swirling throng. I am floating. Simon Middleton is the most beguiling man I have ever known. I want to tell him this, but no words will come. Through my blurry eyes, the ballroom has transformed into a sacred spiral dance of Whirling Dervishes, their white cassocks flying out like the first snow of winter, tall purple hats defying gravity atop their delicately spinning heads. But I know I cannot be seeing this.

With effort, I close my eyes to clear the scene, and when I open them again, there are the ladies and gentlemen, hands joined tentatively in the waltz. Over their downy white shoulders, the ladies communicate to each other with subtle nods and silent looks—“The Thetford girl and Roberts boy, a most suitable match, don’t you agree?”—fates sealed, futures decided in three-quarter time under the glittering illusion maker of the chandelier throwing off diamond-hard prisms of light that bathe everything in a reflection of cold beauty.

The dance over, Simon guides me from the floor. Dizzy, I stumble slightly. My hand reaches for purchase in something solid and finds the broad expanse of Simon’s chest. My fingers curl around the white petals of the rose on his lapel.

“Steady there. I say, Miss Doyle, are you quite all right?”

I smile.
Oh, yes, quite. I cannot speak or feel my body, but I am
so absolutely lovely—please leave me here.
I smile. Petals fall away, twirling softly to the floor in their own spiral dance. The palm of my glove is stained with the sticky residue of the rose. I cannot seem to figure out how it got there or what to do about it. This strikes me as unbearably humorous, and I find I am laughing.

“Steady there . . . ,” Simon says, applying a bit of pressure at my wrist. The pain brings me back to my senses slightly. He walks me past the large potted ferns near the doorway and behind an ornate folding screen. In its creases, I can see fractions of the ballroom whirling past. We are hidden but could be discovered here. I should be alarmed, but I am not. I don’t care.

“Gemma,” Simon says. His lips graze me just below my earlobe. They trace a moist arc down the hollow of my neck. My head is warm and heavy. Everything in me feels swollen and ripe. The room is still doing its swirling dance of lights, but the sounds of the party are muffled and far away. It’s Simon’s voice that floats inside me.

“Gemma, Gemma, you are an elixir.”

He presses against me. I don’t know if it’s the absinthe or something deeper, something I can’t describe, but I am sinking inside myself with no wish to stop.

“Come with me,” he whispers. It echoes in my head. He’s got my arm, leading me as if we were ready to dance. Instead, he walks me out of the ballroom and upstairs, away from the party. He brings me into a small attic room, the maid’s room, I think. It is mostly dark, lit only by a candle. It’s as if I have no will of my own. I sink onto the bed, marveling at how my hands look in the candlelight, as if they are not my own somehow. Simon sees me staring at my hands. He begins to unbutton my glove. At the opening, he kisses the tiny blue veins pulsing there.

I want to tell him to stop. The haze of the absinthe clears a bit. I am alone with Simon. He is kissing my bare wrist. We shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t.

“I . . . I want to go back.”

“Shhh, Gemma.” He removes my glove. My naked skin feels so strange. “My mother likes you. We’d make a fine match, don’t you think?”

Think? I can’t think. He begins to remove the other glove. My body arches, goes tight. Oh, God, it’s happening. It’s happening. Over the rounded bow of Simon’s back, I see the room shimmering, feel my body tensing with the vision I can’t keep out. The last thing I hear is Simon’s concerned voice saying “Gemma, Gemma!” and then I’m falling, falling into that black hole.

The three girls in white. They float just beyond Simon.
“We’ve found it. We’ve found the Temple. Look and see. . . .”

I’m following them quickly through the realms, to the top of a hill. I can hear cries. Fast, we’re going fast. The hill falls away, and there is the most magnificent cathedral I’ve ever seen. It shimmers like a mirage. The Temple.

“Hurry . . . ,” the girls whisper. "Before they find it.”

Behind them, dark clouds gather. Wind blows their hair about their pale, shadowed faces. Something’s coming. Something’s coming up behind them. It rises up and over them like a dark phoenix. A great black winged creature. The girls don’t look, they don’t see. But I do. It opens its wings till they fill the sky, revealing the thing inside, a churning horror of faces crying out.

And then I’m screaming.

“Gemma! Gemma!” It’s Simon’s voice I hear calling me back. His hand is over my mouth to stop my screams. “I am sorry. I meant no harm.”

Hurriedly, he hands me back my gloves. It takes me a moment to come back into the room, to realize that Simon was kissing my bare shoulders and that he thinks the screams are over this. I am still woozy from the drink but now I feel as if I shall be ill. I vomit into the maid’s washbasin. Simon rushes to bring me a towel.

I am mortified, and my head aches. I am also shaking all over, both from the vision and from what has happened between us.

“Should I send for someone?” Simon asks. He stands in the doorway, coming no closer.

I shake my head. "No, thank you. I wish to return to the ball.”

“Yes, at once,” Simon says, sounding afraid and relieved at the same time.

I want to explain to him, but how can I? And so we walk down the stairs in silence. At the first floor, he leaves me. The bell is rung for supper, and I simply fall in with the other ladies.

Supper is a long affair, and gradually, with food and time, I feel more like myself. Simon has not come to supper, and as my head clears, my embarrassment rises. I was foolish to have drunk the absinthe, to have gone with him alone. And then that horrific vision! But for an instant, I saw the Temple. I saw it. It’s within our grasp. It is not the greatest comfort on this night, but it is some comfort, and I shall hold fast to it.

Mr. Worthington makes a toast to Christmas. Ann is introduced and asked to sing. She does, and the assembly applauds for her, none more loudly than Tom, who shouts, “Bravo!” The governess comes forth with a sleepy Polly, who clutches her doll.

Admiral Worthington beckons to the girl. “Sit upon my knee, child. And am I your own good uncle, then?”

Polly climbs up into his lap and gives a shy smile. Felicity looks on, a grim set to her mouth. I cannot believe she would be so childish as to be jealous of a little girl. Why does she do such things?

“What? Is that all the payment due unto uncles these days? Let’s have a true and proper kiss for your uncle.”

The child squirms a bit, her eyes darting from person to person. Each one gives her the same eager expression:
Go
on, then. Give him a kiss.
Resigned, Polly leans in, eyes closed, and gives Admiral Worthington’s handsome cheek a kiss. Murmurs of approval and affection float about the room: “Ah, well done.” “There we are.” “You see, Lord Worthington, the child does love you like her own father.” “Such a good man.”

“Papa,” Felicity says, rising. “Polly should be getting to bed now. It is late.”

“Sir?” The governess looks to Admiral Worthington for his orders.

“Yes, very well. Go on then, Polly dear. I’ll be up to sprinkle fairy dust on you later, darling, to make sure you have beautiful dreams.”