The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 215

On the third day, I am nearly out of my mind with worry when Grandmama announces that we are to attend a garden party in honor of Lucy Fairchild. I insist that I’m not well and should stay home—for perhaps I can sneak away to Victoria and a train back to Spence whilst she is gone—but Grandmama won’t hear of it, and we arrive at a garden in Mayfair that is blooming with every sort of beauty imaginable.

I spy Lucy sitting alone on a bench under a willow tree. Heart in my mouth, I sit beside her. She ignores me.

“Miss Fairchild, I—I wanted to explain about Simon’s behavior at the ball,” I say.

She has the good breeding to sit very still. She holds her temper as tightly as she does the reins of her horse. “Go on.”

“It might have seemed that Mr. Middleton was too familiar with me that evening, but that was not the case. In truth, when my chaperone was momentarily away, a gentleman whom I did not know, and who had had far too much to drink, pressed his suit to the point of being improper.”

Believe me…please believe…

“I was quite frightened, naturally, being all alone,” I lie. “Fortunately, Mr. Middleton saw my dilemma, and as our families are old friends, he took immediate action without thinking of the consequences. That is the sort of man he is. I thought you should know the true circumstances before passing judgment upon him.”

Slowly, her face loses its misery. A shy hope presses her lips into a smile. “He sent the most beautiful flowers round yesterday. And a clever silk box with a hidden compartment.”

“For all your secrets,” I say, suppressing a smile.

Her eyes light up. “That is what Simon said! He told me he’s nothing without me.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you so private a sentiment.”

It stings to hear that and yet I find it does not sting quite as much as it might have. Simon and Lucy are the same sort of people. They like things pleasant and untroubled. I could not abide such an arrangement, but it suits them.

“It was quite all right to do so,” I assure her.

Lucy fiddles with the brooch Simon gave her, the one he once gave to me. “I understand that the two of you were quite…close.”

“I was not the right sort of girl for him,” I say. I am surprised when I realize that it is not a lie. “I daresay that I have never seen him merrier than he is when he’s in your company. I hope you will find every happiness together.”

“If I should forgive him.” Her pride is back.

“Yes. That is solely within your power,” I say, and it is truer than she can know. For I can’t change what has happened. That is the path behind us and there is now only the course ahead.

Lucy rises. Our visit is at an end.

“Thank you, Miss Doyle. It was good of you to speak to me.” She does not extend her hand, nor would I expect her to.

“It was good of you to hear me out.”

In the evening, Tom leaves once again for his club. I try to dissuade him from it, but he refuses to speak to me. Grandmama has met with her friends for a game of baccarat. So I sit alone in my room, trying to devise a plan to return to Spence and the realms.

“Gemma.”

I nearly shout as a man steps out from behind my drapes, and when I see it’s Kartik, I’m overcome with joy.

“How did you get here?”

“I borrowed a horse from Spence,” he explains. “Well, I stole it, actually. When you didn’t return…” I cover his mouth with mine and silence him with a kiss.

We lie beside each other on my bed, my head resting on his chest. I can hear his heart thrumming, strong and sure. His fingers trace patterns on my back. His other hand is linked to mine.

“I don’t understand,” I say, enjoying the warmth of his fingers traveling the length of my spine and back again. “Why hasn’t she shown me how to save Eugenia?”

“Could Wilhelmina have been aiding Circe? You said yourself they were close.” Kartik kisses the top of my head.

“Why would she betray the Order and Eugenia?” I say. “It doesn’t make sense. None of it does,” I sigh. “The key holds the truth. It’s a phrase that recurs in my dreams, my visions, Wilhelmina’s book. But what does it mean?”

“There was no key inside the leather pouch along with the dagger?” Kartik asks.

“No. And I thought perhaps the book was the key.” I shake my head. “But I’m not certain of that. I think…”

I’m remembering the pictures Wilhelmina drew for A History of Secret Societies. The Hidden Object. Guardians of the Night. The tower. I’ve deciphered them all save one—the room with the painting of boats.