“No perfume at all? I can’t go without smelling lovely!” Felicity’s mood is dropping fast.
“Here,” I say, pulling a rose from a vase on the windowsill. The petals crush easily, leaving a sweet, sticky juice on my fingers. I dab it behind Felicity’s ears and onto her wrists.
She brings her wrist to her nose and inhales. “Perfect! Gemma, you are a genius!” She throws her arms around me, gives me a little kiss. It’s a bit disconcerting, this side of Felicity, like having a pet shark that thinks itself a goldfish.
“Where’s Pip?” Ann asks.
“Downstairs. Her parents came with Mr. Bumble. Can you imagine? Let’s hope she sends him packing today. Well,” Felicity says, breaking away. “Adieu, les filles. I shall see you anon.” With a low bow, she is gone in a haze of roses and hope.
“Come on, then,” I say to Ann, wiping the last traces of flower from my fingers. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
The front parlor is crowded with girls and their various family members when we arrive downstairs. I’ve seen better organization on India’s infamous trains. My family is nowhere to be seen.
Pippa comes over to us, head bowed. A woman in a ludicrous hat complete with feathers trails behind her. She is outfitted in a dress better suited for a younger woman and for evening wear at that. A fur stole hangs from her shoulders. There are two men with her. I recognize the bushy-whiskered Mr. Bumble straightaway. The other I take to be Pippa’s father. He has her dark coloring.
“Mother, Father, may I present Miss Gemma Doyle and Miss Ann Bradshaw?” she says, her voice almost a whisper.
“How do you do? It’s so charming to meet Pippa’s little friends.” Pip’s mother is as beautiful as her daughter, but her face is harder, a fact she’s tried to hide with plenty of jewels.
Ann and I make our polite hellos. After a silence, Mr. Bumble clears his throat.
Mrs. Cross’s mouth is a tight line of a smile. “Pippa, aren’t you forgetting someone?”
Pippa swallows hard. “May I also present Mr. Bartleby Bumble, Esquire?” The next part comes out like a quiet cry. “My fiancé.”
Ann and I are too astonished to speak.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintances.” He looks down his nose at us. “I do hope they serve tea soon,” he says, glancing at his pocket watch with impatience.
This rude old man with the fat face is going to be lovely Pippa’s husband? Pippa, whose every waking moment is consumed by thoughts of a pure, undying, romantic love, has been sold to the highest bidder, a man she does not know, does not care about. She stares at the Persian carpet as if it might open up and swallow her down whole, save her.
Ann and I extend our hands and make our subdued greetings.
“It’s good to see that my fiancée is acquainted with the right sort of girls,” Mr. Bumble sniffs. “There’s so much that can taint the young and impressionable. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Cross?”
“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Bumble.”
He deserves to have his head on a spike for all to see. Warning: If you are insufferable, do not walk here. We shall eat you down to the marrow.
“Oh, there is Mrs. Nightwing. She will need to know our news. She might even want to announce it today.” Mrs. Cross swans across the room with her husband in tow. Mr. Bumble smiles at the back of Pippa’s head as if she were the biggest prize on display at this carnival.
“Shall we?” he says, offering his arm.
“May I have a moment with my friends, please? To share my news?” Pippa asks in a sad, quiet way. The idiot thinks he’s being flattered.
“Of course, my dear. But don’t be too long about it.”
When he’s gone, I reach out for Pippa’s hands. “Please don’t,” she says. Tears pool in her violet eyes. I can’t think of anything to say.
“He seems quite distinguished,” Ann offers after a moment of silence.
Pippa gives a short, sharp laugh. “Yes. Nothing like a wealthy barrister to wipe away Father’s gambling debts and save us from ruin. I’m nothing more than a marker, really.” She doesn’t say it bitterly. That’s what hurts. She’s accepted her fate without fighting it.
Behind her, Bartleby Bumble, Esquire, is anxiously waiting for his future bride. “I’ve got to go,” Pippa says with all the enthusiasm of a woman meeting her executioner.
“Her ring is lovely,” Ann says, after a moment. Above the crowd, we can hear Mrs. Nightwing offering her loud congratulations and others chiming in.
“Yes. Very lovely,” I agree. We’re both trying to put a good face on it. Neither of us wants to admit the enraging hopelessness of the situation—or the guilt at not having drawn that short straw ourselves. Not yet, at least. I can only hope that when my time comes, I’m not foisted off on the first man who dazzles my family.
Felicity breezes by. She’s got a handkerchief in her hand that she’s twisting into a messy lump.
“What is the matter? You look as if the world has ended.”
“Pippa is engaged to Mr. Bumble,” I explain.
“What? Oh, poor Pip,” she says, shaking her head.
“Has your father come?” I ask, hoping for happier news.
“Not yet. Forgive me, but I’m far too nervous to wait around here. I’m going to stay out in the garden till he comes. Are you certain I look presentable?”
“For the last time, yes,” I say, rolling my eyes.
Felicity is so anxious she doesn’t come back with a snappy reply. Instead, she nods gratefully and, looking as if she might be unable to hold her breakfast a moment longer, dashes off toward the lawn.
“Well, if it isn’t the lady Doyle.”
With a great flourish and an exaggerated bow, Tom announces his arrival. Grandmama is beside him in her best black crepe mourning clothes.
“Is Father here? Did he come?” I’m nervously craning my neck, searching for him.
“Yes,” Tom starts. “Gemma . . .”
“Well, where is he?”
“Hello, Gemma.”
At first I don’t see Father. But there he is, hidden away behind Tom, a ghost in his ill-fitting black suit. There are deep circles under his eyes. Grandmama takes his arm in an effort to hide how badly he shakes. I’m sure she’s given him only a touch of his usual dose to get him through, with a promise of more after. It’s all I can do not to cry.
I’m ashamed for my friends to see him this way.
And I’m ashamed of being ashamed.
“Hello, Father,” I manage, kissing his hollow cheeks.
“Did anyone know we’d be seeing a queen today?” he jokes. The laugh makes him cough hard and Tom has to hold him steady. I can’t look at Ann.
“They’re serving tea in the ballroom,” I say, steering them upstairs to a quiet, out-of-the-way table, away from the crowd and the gossips. Once we’re seated, I introduce Ann.
“Charming to see you again, Miss Bradshaw,” Tom says. Ann blushes.
“And where is your family today?” my grandmother asks, looking around for someone more interesting to talk to than the two of us. She would have to ask that question, and it will have to be answered, and then we’ll all sit in awkward silence or my grandmother will say something unkind under the guise of being kind.
“They’re abroad,” I lie.
Happily, Ann doesn’t try to correct me. I think she’s grateful not to have to explain that she’s an orphan and endure everyone’s polite, silent pity. Sudden interest overtakes my grandmother, who, I’m sure, is wondering at this very moment whether Ann’s relatives are rich or titled or both.
“How very exciting. Where are they traveling?”
“Switzerland,” I say, just as Ann barks out, “Austria.”
“Austria and Switzerland,” I say. “It’s an extensive trip.”
“Austria,” my father starts. “There’s a rather funny joke about Austrians . . .” He trails off, his fingers shaking.
“Yes, Father?”
“Hmmm?”
“You were saying something about the Austrians,” I remind him.
He knits his brows together. “Was I?”