by Libba Bray
“Miss Moore!” I shout from the window, forgetting my manners entirely.
Miss Moore stops, no doubt wondering who could be calling to her on the street in such a rude fashion. When she sees me, she comes over to the carriage. “Why, Miss Doyle! You’re looking well. Merry Christmas to you.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Are you in London long?” she asks.
“Until after the new year,” I say.
“What a happy coincidence! You must come to call.”
“I should like that very much,” I say. She looks quite radiant.
She hands me her card. “I have taken lodgings in Baker Street. I am at home all day tomorrow. Do say you’ll come.”
“Oh, yes, of course! That would be grand. Oh . . .” I stop.
“What is it?”
“I’m afraid I have a previous engagement tomorrow, with Miss Worthington and Miss Bradshaw.”
“I see.” She doesn’t need to say anything else. We both know that we girls were responsible for her dismissal.
“We’re all terribly sorry for what happened, Miss Moore.”
“What’s done is done. We can only move forward.”
“Yes. You are right, of course.”
“Though, given the chance, I should enjoy torturing Miss Worthington,” Miss Moore says with a gleam in her eye. “She has more cheek than should be reasonably tolerated.”
“She is quite saucy,” I say, smiling. Oh, I have missed Miss Moore!
“And Miss Cross? Will you not be seeing my accuser over the holidays?” Miss Moore’s smile falters when she sees my shocked expression. “Oh, dear. I’ve upset you. I am sorry. Despite my feelings toward Miss Cross, I know you are friends. That was rude of me.”
“No, it isn’t that. It’s . . . Pippa’s dead.”
Miss Moore covers her mouth with her hand. "Dead? When?”
“Two months now.”
“Oh, Miss Doyle, forgive me,” Miss Moore says, placing her hands on mine. “I had no idea. I’ve been away these two months. I only just returned last week.”
“It was her epilepsy,” I lie. “You remember her difficulty.” Something in me wants to tell Miss Moore the truth about that night, but not yet.
“Yes, I remember,” Miss Moore says. “I am sorry. Here it is the season of forgiveness and I’ve shown nothing but a hard heart. Please do invite Miss Bradshaw and Miss Worthington. They are welcome.”
“That is very generous of you, Miss Moore. I’m sure we should all like to hear of your travels,” I say.
“Then I shall tell you. Shall we say tomorrow at three o’clock? I shall prepare a very strong tea and Turkish delight.”
Blast. There is the difficulty of getting my grandmother to allow me to pay a call without her. “I should like that very much, if my grandmother will agree to it.”
“I understand,” she says, stepping away from the carriage. A beggar boy with one leg limps to her side.
“Please, miss? A ha’penny for the crippled?” he says, lip trembling.
“Nonsense,” she says. “You’ve tucked your leg up inside your trousers there, haven’t you? Don’t lie to me.”
“No’m,” he says, but now I can see the outline of the other leg clearly.
“Run along with you before I call the constable.”
Quick as a flash, the leg comes down and he’s off running on two able feet. I laugh at this. “Oh, Miss Moore, I am happy to see you.”
“And I you, Miss Doyle. I am home most afternoons from three until five o’clock. You have an open invitation to call anytime.”
She heads off blending back into the throng of Oxford Street. Miss Moore was the one who first told us about the Order, and I wonder what more she could tell us—if we dare ask her. She’d probably send us packing if we did, and rightfully so. Still, there must be something on which she can shed a bit of light, if we are very careful in our inquiries. And if not, at the very least it is a way out of my grandmother’s house. Miss Moore just may be my best hope for sanity this holiday.
Tom’s back from the shop. He drops the box, wrapped artfully in brown paper and string, into my lap. “One hideous fruitcake. Who was that woman?”
“Oh,” I say, “no one. A teacher.” As the carriage jostles to life, I add, “A friend.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
GRANDMAMA HAS LET AN ELEGANT HOUSE IN FASHIONABLE Belgrave Square bordering Hyde Park. She usually stays at Sheep’s Meadow, her country home, coming into London only for the season, May through mid-August, and for Christmas. That is to say, she comes only when she wants to see and be seen by London society.
It is very strange to walk into the unfamiliar front hall and see the coat rack and the side table with its accompanying mirror, the burgundy paper on the walls, the tasseled velvet drapes, as if I should find comfort in these strange things, as if this were a place I should know and love when I’ve never set foot in it. Though it is filled with cushioned chairs, a piano, a Christmas tree festooned with popcorn and ribbon, and though every room is warmed by a blazing fire, this does not feel like home. For me that place is India. I think of our housekeeper, Sarita, and see her lined face and gap-toothed smile. I see our house with the open porch and a bowl of dates sitting on a table draped in red silk. Mostly, I think of Mother’s presence and Father’s booming laugh, back when he did laugh.
As Grandmama is still out paying a call, the housekeeper, Mrs. Jones, is there to greet me. She asks if I’ve had a pleasant journey, and I answer yes, as is expected. We’ve nothing more to say to each other, so she leads me up two flights of stairs to my bedroom. It is a back room that looks out onto the carriage houses and stables of the mews, the small lane behind us where the coachmen and their families live. It is a dingy little place, and I wonder what it must be like mucking about in the hay with the horses, always staring up at the lights of these grand, towering white ladies where we have everything we could ask for.
When I have changed clothes for dinner, I make my way downstairs again. At the second-floor landing, I stop. Father and Tom are having an argument behind the closed doors of the library, and I move closer to listen.
“But, Father,” Tom says. “Do you think it wise to hire a foreigner to be your driver? There are plenty of good Englishmen for the job, I daresay.”
I peek through the sliver of light at the door. Father and Tom stand opposite each other, a couple of coiled springs.
Some part of the old Father flares to life. “We had many loyal Indian servants in Bombay, may I remind you, Thomas.”
“Yes, Father, but that was India. We’re here now, amongst our peers, who all use English drivers.”
“Are you questioning my decision, Thomas?”
“No, sir.”
“Good man.”
There is a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Tom says carefully, “But you must admit that the Indians have habits that have led to trouble for you before, Father.”
“That is enough, Thomas Henry!” Father barks. “There shall be no more discussion of it.”
Tom barrels through the door, nearly knocking me over.
“Oh, dear,” I say. When he doesn’t respond, I add, “You might apologize.”
“You might not want to listen at keyholes,” he snaps back. I follow him to the stairs.
“You might not want to tell Father how to run his affairs,” I whisper tersely.
“That’s all well and fine for you to say,” he growls. "You’re not the one who’s spent the better part of a fortnight weaning him off the bottle only to see that he could easily be led astray again by some carriage driver.”
Tom takes the stairs at an angry clip. I struggle to keep up.
“You don’t know that. Why must you aggravate him so?”
Tom whirls around. "I aggravate him? I do nothing but try to please him, but I can do no right in his eyes.”
“That isn’t true,” I say.
He looks as if I’ve hit him. "How would you know
, Gemma? It’s you he adores.”
“ Tom . . . ,” I start.
A tall butler appears. “Dinner is served, Mr. Thomas, Miss Gemma.”
“Yes, thank you, Davis,” Thomas says tightly. With that, he turns smartly on his heel and walks away.
Dinner is a dismal affair. Everyone is trying so very hard to be bright and smiling, as if we are posing for an advert. We’re all trying to erase the fact that we do not live here, together, and that this is our first Christmas without Mother. No one wants to be the one who brings truth to the table and spoils the evening, and so there is a lot of forced polite talk of holiday plans and doings at school and gossip about the town.
“How are things at Spence, Gemma?” Father asks.
Well, you see, my friend Pippa is dead, which is my fault, really, and I’m trying desperately to locate the Temple, the source of the magic in the realms, before Circe—the evil woman who killed Mother, who was also a member of the Order, but you wouldn’t know about that—finds it and does diabolical things, and then I’m to bind the magic somehow, though I haven’t the vaguest idea how. And that is how things are.
“Very good, thank you.”
“Ah, splendid. Splendid.”
“Did Thomas tell you he’s become a clinical assistant at Bethlem Royal Hospital?” Grandmama says, taking a generous portion of peas on her fork.
“No, I don’t believe he did.”
Tom gives me a smirk. “I’ve become a clinical assistant at Bethlem Royal Hospital,” he parrots smartly.
“Really, Thomas,” Grandmama chides without enthusiasm.
“Do you mean Bedlam, the lunatic asylum?” I ask.
Tom’s knife scrapes his plate. "We do not call it that.”
“Do eat your peas, Gemma,” Grandmama says. “We’ve been invited to a ball hosted by Lady George Worthington, the admiral’s wife. It is the most coveted invitation of the Christmas season. What sort of girl is Miss Worthington?”
Ah, an excellent question. Let’s see. . . . She kisses Gypsies in the woods and once locked me in the chapel after asking me to steal the communion wine. By the light of a pale moon, I saw her kill a deer and climb from a ravine naked and splattered with blood. She is also, strangely, one of my best friends. Do not ask me to explain why.
“Spirited,” I say.
“I thought tomorrow we would call upon my friend Mrs. Rogers. She is to have a program of music in the afternoon.”
I take a deep breath. "I’ve been invited to pay a call tomorrow.”
Grandmama’s fork stops midway to her mouth. “To whom? Why was no card left here for me? Absolutely not. Out of the question.”
This is going well. Perhaps next I could hang myself with the table linens.
“It is Miss Moore, an art teacher at Spence.” There is no need to mention her dismissal from that same institution. “She is tremendously popular and beloved, and of all her students, she has invited only Miss Bradshaw, Miss Worthington, and me to visit her at home. It is quite an honor.”
“Miss Bradshaw . . . Didn’t we meet her at Spence? She’s the scholarship student, is she not?” Grandmama says, scowling. “The orphan?”
“Did I not tell you?” My newly discovered penchant for lying is fast becoming a skill.
“Tell me what?”
“It was discovered that Miss Bradshaw has a great-uncle, a duke, who lives in Kent, and she is actually descended from Russian royalty. A distant cousin to the czarina.”
“You don’t say!” Tom exclaims. “That is lucky indeed.”
“Yes,” Grandmama says. “It’s rather like those stories they print in the halfpenny papers.”
Exactly. And please dig no further or you’re likely to see the startling similarities.
“Perhaps I shall have to take another look at Miss Bradshaw now that she is in possession of a fortune,” Tom jokes, though I suspect he may be in earnest.
“She is wise to fortune hunters,” I warn Tom.
“Do you suppose she’d find me so disagreeable?” Tom sniffs.
“As she has both ears and eyes, yes,” I snap back.
“Ha! You’ve been called down, my good man,” Father says, laughing.
“John, don’t encourage her. Gemma, it is not becoming to be so unkind,” Grandmama chides. “I do not know this Miss Moore. I don’t know that I can allow this visit.”
“She gives excellent instruction in drawing and painting,” I offer.
“And charges handsomely for it, no doubt. That sort always does,” Grandmama says, taking a bite of potatoes. “Your drawing will not suffer during these few weeks. Your time is better spent at home or accompanying me on calls so that you may become better acquainted with people who matter.”
I could kick her for that comment. Miss Moore is worth ten of her “people who matter.” I clear my throat. “Of course, we will be making ornaments to brighten the hospitals this time of year. Miss Moore stresses that one cannot perform enough charitable acts.”
“That is quite admirable,” Grandmama says, cutting her pork loin into tiny pieces. "Perhaps I shall go with you and see this Miss Moore for myself.”
“No!” I practically shout. “What I mean is . . .” What do I mean? “Miss Moore would be terribly embarrassed to have her good works so publicly known. She advises discretion in all matters. As the Bible says . . .” I pause. Having never read much of the Bible, I haven’t the vaguest idea what it says. “Let thine ornaments be only for God’s ears—fingers. God’s fingers.”
Hurriedly, I take a sip of tea. Grandmama seems perplexed. “The Bible says that? Where?”
Too much hot tea fills my mouth. I choke it down. "Psalms,” I rasp out, coughing.
Father gives me a curious look. He knows I’m lying.
“Psalms, you say? Which psalm?” Grandmama asks.
Father’s wry smile seems to say, Aha, now you’re caught in a trap, my girl.
The tea burns its way to my stomach in instant penance. “The Christmas psalm.”
Grandmama resumes her noisy chewing. “I think it best if we visit Mrs. Rogers.”
“Mother,” Father says, “our Gemma is a young lady with interests of her own.”
“Interests of her own? Nonsense! She’s not yet out of the schoolroom,” Grandmama harrumphs.
“A bit of freedom will do her good,” Father says.
“Freedom can lead to misfortune,” my grandmother says. She hasn’t said my mother’s name out loud, but she’s stabbed Father with the threat of it.
“Did I mention that Gemma had the most extraordinary luck of meeting Simon Middleton at the train station today?” The moment it’s out of his mouth, Tom realizes he’s made a mistake.
“And how did that happen?” Father demands.
Tom blanches. "Well, I couldn’t secure a hansom, and you see, there was the most horrendous congestion of wagons at—”
“My boy,” Father blasts, “do you mean to tell me that my daughter was alone at Victoria?”
“Only for a moment,” Tom says.
Father’s fist comes down on the table, rattling our plates and making Grandmama’s hands flutter. “You’ve disappointed me today.” And with that, he leaves the room.
“I’m always a disappointment,” Tom says.
“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Thomas,” Grandmama whispers. "His mood blackens by the day.”
“At least I am willing to do something,”Tom says bitterly.
Mrs. Jones appears. "Is everything all right, madam?”
“Yes, quite,” Grandmama says. "Mr. Doyle shall have his cake later,” she says, as if nothing in the world is the matter.
After our thoroughly unpleasant dinner, Father and I sit at the gaming table to play chess. His hands tremble, but he’s still surprisingly good. In only six moves, he’s got me solidly in checkmate.
“That was terribly clever of you. How did you do that?” I ask.
He taps the side of his head with one finger. "You have to understa
nd your opponent, how she thinks.”
“How do I think?”
“You see what seems to be the obvious move, assume it’s the only move, and rush in without thinking it through, without looking to see if there is another way. And that leaves you vulnerable.”
“But that was the only move,” I protest.
Father holds up a finger to shush me. He places the pieces as they were on the board two moves prior. "Now, look.”
I see the same predicament. "Your queen is open.”
“Hasty, hasty . . . Think a few moves ahead.”
I see only the queen. "I’m sorry, Father. I don’t see it.”
He shows me the progression, the bishop lying in wait, luring me into a tight spot from which there’s no retreat. “It’s all in the thinking,” he says. “That’s what your mother would say.”
Mother. He’s said it aloud, the word that could not be said.
“You look very much like her.” He buries his face in his hands and cries. "I miss her so much.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen my father cry. “I miss her too.”
He takes out a handkerchief and blows his nose. “I’m so sorry, my pet.” His face brightens. “I’ve an early Christmas gift for you. Do you suppose I’ll spoil you by giving it early?”
“Yes, horribly!” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Where is it?”
Father goes to the curio cabinet and rattles the doors. “Ah. Locked. I believe the keys are in Grandmama’s room. Could you go for them, darling?”
I race to Grandmama’s room, find the keys on her night-stand, and return with them. Father’s hands shake so he can barely open the curio.
“Is it jewelry?” I ask.
“That would be telling, I believe.” With effort, he opens the glass doors and moves things aside, looking for something. “Now where did I leave it? . . . Wait a minute.”
He opens the unlocked drawer below and retrieves a package wrapped in red paper with a sprig of holly nestled into the ribbon. "It was in the drawer the entire time.”