The Sweet Far Thing (29 page)

“Who is that girl with Simon Middleton?” I whisper.

Miss Chatterbox is overjoyed that I have joined her in gossip. “Her name is Lucy Fairchild, and she is a distant cousin,” she relates breathlessly. “American and very well-to-do. New money, naturally, but heaps of it, and her father has sent her in hopes she’ll marry some poor second son and come home with a title to add luster to their wealth.”

So this is Lucy Fairchild. My brother would throw himself on the tracks to gain her attention. Any man would. “She’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t she absolute perfection?” Miss Chatterbox says wistfully.

I suppose I’d hoped to hear that I was mistaken—
“Why, I don’t think she’s as pretty as all that. She
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

has a funny neck and her nose is oddly shaped.”
But her beauty is confirmed, and why is it that her beauty casts such a long shadow over me that every bit of my light is extinguished?

Miss Chatterbox continues. “There are rumors of a betrothal.”

“To whom?”

My companion giggles. “Oh, you! To Simon Middleton, of course. Wouldn’t they make a lovely couple?”

An engagement. At Christmas Simon made the same pledge to me. But I turned him away. Now I wonder if I might have been too hasty in refusing him.

“But the betrothal is only a rumor,” I say.

Miss Chatterbox glances about furtively, positioning her umbrella to hide us. “Well, I shouldn’t repeat this, but I happen to know that the Middletons’ fortunes have turned. They are in need of money. And Lucy Fairchild is exceedingly well off. I should expect they’ll announce the engagement any day now. Oh, there is Miss Hemphill!” Chatterbox exclaims excitedly. Having spied someone far more important than I, she is off without so much as another word, for which, I suppose, my ears should be grateful.

While Grandmama prattles away with an old woman about gardens and rheumatism and the sorts of subjects that might very well be found printed in a primer under the heading What Old Women Must Talk About, I stand along Rotten Row, watching the horses and feeling sorry for myself.

“Happy Easter to you, Miss Doyle. You’re looking well.” Simon Middleton stands beside me. He is strong and shining and dimpled—and alone.

“Thank you. How lovely to see you,” I say.

“And you.”

I clear my throat.
Say something witty, Gemma. Something beyond the obvious, for heaven’s sake.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

Simon smirks. “Quite. Let’s see…you look lovely. It’s lovely to see one another. And, of course, the weather is quite lovely. I do believe we have encompassed the loveliness of all things lovely.”

He has made me laugh. It is a talent of his. “How beastly a conversationalist I am.”

“Not at all. In fact, I daresay you are…a lovely conversationalist.”

Several horses streak past, and Simon greets them with a cheer.

“I hear congratulations may soon be in order.” It is bold of me to say it.

Simon arches an eyebrow. His lips press into a wicked smile that makes him ever so attractive. “For what, pray tell?”

“They say your suit of Miss Fairchild is quite serious,” I reply, looking down the dirt path to where Lucy Fairchild mounts her horse.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“It occurs to me that cricket is not the true sport in London,” Simon says. “Gossip is.”

“I shouldn’t have repeated it. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not on my account. I rather adore rudeness.” The wicked smile is back. It works its magic, and I find I am lighter. “Actually, I do have my heart set on a new girl.”

My stomach tightens. “Oh?”

“Yes. Her name is Bonnie. She’s right over there.” He points to a gleaming chestnut mare being led to the starting line. “Some say her teeth are too strong for her face, but I disagree.”

“And think of what you shall save on a groundskeeper, for your grass shall be kept quite tidy by Bonnie,” I say.

“Yes. Ours will be a happy union. Quite stable,” he says, drawing a laugh from me.

“There is a matter I wanted to discuss with you, if I may,” I say haltingly. “It concerns your mother.”

“Indeed.” He looks disappointed. “What has she done now?”

“It is about Miss Worthington.”

“Ah, Felicity. What has
she
done now?”

“Lady Markham is to present her at court,” I say, ignoring his jibe. “But your mother seems to object.”

“My mother is not an admirer of Mrs. Worthington’s, and their feud wasn’t helped by your prank at Christmas with Miss Bradshaw. My mother felt her own reputation was injured by that.”

“I am sorry. But Felicity must make her debut. Is there anything I can do to help her?”

Simon turns his wicked gaze to me, and a blush rises on my neck. “Leave well enough alone.”

“I can’t,” I plead.

Simon nods, considering. “Then you shall have to secure Lady Markham’s affections. Tell Felicity to charm the old bat and her son, Horace, as well. That should win the day—and her inheritance. Yes,” he says, seeing my expression, “I know she must make her debut in order to claim her fortune. Everyone does. And there are plenty in London who’d rather see the brash Felicity Worthington under her father’s control.”

Down at the far end of Ladies’ Mile, the horsewomen are at the line. They sit tall in their saddles, the picture of restraint and elegance, while their blindered horses snort and prance. They are ready to run, to show what they can do.

“It is good to see you, Gemma.” Simon brushes my arm ever so slightly. “I have wondered how you were, if you still had the false-bottom box I gave you, and if you still kept your secrets locked inside it.”

“I still have it,” I say.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“The mysterious Gemma Doyle.”

“And does Miss Fairchild possess secrets?” I ask.

He glances down the path, where Lucy Fairchild sits tall on her mount. “She is…untroubled.”

Untroubled. Carefree. There is no dark lining to her soul.

The hand comes down. The horses are running. They kick up a dust storm along the path, but the dust cannot hide the naked ambition on the riders’ faces, the ferociousness in their eyes. They mean to win.

Lucy Fairchild’s horse crosses the line first. Simon rushes to congratulate her. Fresh from battle, Lucy’s face is dusty. Her eyes blaze. It doubles her beauty. But upon seeing Simon, she quickly sheds her fierceness; her expression settles into one of sweet shyness as she strokes her horse’s neck gently. Simon offers to help her down, and though she could easily dismount on her own, she lets him. It is a pas de deux they seem to execute flawlessly.

“Congratulations,” I say, offering my hand.

“Miss Doyle, may I present Miss Lucy Fairchild of Chicago, Illinois.”

“How do you do?” I manage to say. I search her face for faults but find none. She’s a true rose.

“Miss Doyle,” she says sweetly. “How very nice it is to meet a friend of Simon’s.”

Simon. His Christian name. “You ride beautifully,” I offer.

She bows her head. “You’re too kind. I am only passable.”

“Gemma!” I’m relieved to see Felicity coming our way. She’s wearing a small velvet bonnet decorated with a cluster of silk flowers. It frames her face most agreeably.

“Here comes trouble,” Simon mutters through his smile.

Felicity greets me warmly. “Happy Easter! Wasn’t it an interminable sermon? Honestly, I can’t see why we have to bother with church at all. Hello, Simon,” she says, deliberately abandoning proper etiquette.

“Jaunty hat. Did you take it from a bandstand?”

“Happy Easter, Miss Worthington. Tell me, when is Lady Markham to host a party in your honor, for I don’t believe I’ve heard my mother mention it?”

Felicity’s eyes blaze. “Soon, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Simon says, smiling in triumph.

“Simon, I don’t believe you’ve introduced me to your dear companion,” Felicity purrs, turning the full glory of her charm on Lucy Fairchild.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Simon,” Lucy whispers, mortified.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

I step in. “Felicity, this is Miss Lucy Fairchild. Miss Fairchild, may I present Miss Felicity Worthington.”

“How do you do?” Lucy offers her hand, and Felicity grasps it firmly.

“Miss Fairchild, how lovely to make your acquaintance. You simply must allow Miss Doyle and me to take proper care of you while you are in London. I’m sure Simon—Mr. Middleton—would want us to be true friends to you, wouldn’t you, Simon?”

“That is very kind,” Lucy Fairchild answers.

Felicity beams with her victory, and Simon gives a small nod in recognition of his defeat.

“Do be careful, Miss Fairchild. Accepting Miss Worthington’s ‘proper care’ is not unlike lying down with lions.”

Felicity laughs. “Oh, our Simon is such a wit, isn’t he, Miss Fairchild?”

“We would love to stay and chat, but I’m afraid Mother is expecting us.” Simon raises an eyebrow.

“Best of luck with your efforts, Miss Doyle.”

“What did he mean by that?” Felicity asks as we stroll in the park a clever distance behind our families.

It’s a beautiful day. Several children run after a wooden hoop they’ve set to rolling. Bright spring flowers waggle their petal finery at us.

“If you must know, I was soliciting Simon’s help with his mother and Lady Markham. It doesn’t help our cause to have you taunt him so.”

Felicity looks as if I’ve said she should dine on maggots and chutney. “Court the Middletons’ favor? I shan’t. She’s hateful, and he’s a rake you’ve done well to be rid of.”

“You want your inheritance, don’t you? Your freedom?”

“My mother is the one who begs favor.
I
shan’t bow to anyone but the Queen,” Felicity says, twirling her parasol. She glares in Lady Denby’s direction. “Really, Gemma, can’t we cast a spell so that she wakes with a full mustache?”

“No. We can’t.”

“You don’t still care for Simon. Tell me you don’t.”

“I don’t,” I say.

“You do still care! Oh, Gemma.” Felicity shakes her head.

“What’s done is done. I made my choice.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“You could have him back if you wished it.”

I glance at Simon. He and Lucy make their rounds, smiling at all they greet. They seem content.

Untroubled.

“I don’t know what I wish,” I say.

“Do you know what I wish?” Felicity asks, stopping to pick a daisy.

“What?”

“I wish Pip could be here.” She plucks the daisy’s petals one by one. “We were to see Paris in the summer. She would have loved it so.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Her face darkens. “Some things can’t be changed about us, then, no matter how much we wish it.”

I don’t know what she means, but Fee doesn’t give me time to ponder it. She pulls the last petal from the daisy with a cryptic smile.

“He loves me,” she says.

A shadow falls over Felicity and me. Her father, Admiral Worthington, stands on the path, blocking the sun. He’s a handsome man with a genial manner. If I didn’t know better, I’d be as charmed by him as everyone else is. He holds the hand of his ward, Polly, who is only seven.

“Felicity, will you look after our Polly for a spell? Her governess is undone by the heat and your mother is occupied at present.”

“Yes, of course, Papa,” Felicity says.

“That’s my good girl. Careful of the sun,” the admiral warns, and, dutifully, we raise our parasols.

“Come on, then,” Felicity says to the child once her father is gone.

Polly walks two paces behind us, dragging her doll in the dirt. It was a Christmas gift, and already, it is bedraggled.

“What is your doll’s name?” I ask, pretending for a moment that I am not completely useless with small children.

“She hasn’t got one,” Polly answers sullenly.

“No name?” I say. “Why not?”

Polly pulls the doll roughly over a rock. “Because she’s a wicked girl.”

“She doesn’t seem so bad. What makes her wicked?”

“She tells lies about Uncle.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Felicity pales. She crouches low, covering the two of them with her umbrella. “Did you remember to do what I told you, Polly? To lock your door at night to keep the monsters out?”

“Yes. But the monsters still come in.” Polly throws the doll to the ground and kicks it. “It’s because she’s so wicked.”

Felicity lifts the doll and smooths the dirt from its face. “I had a doll like this once. And they said she was wicked, too. But she wasn’t. She was a good and true doll. And so is yours, Polly.”