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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
WHEN I COME THROUGH THE DOOR, MRS. JONES IS beside herself."Your grandmother is expecting you in the parlor, miss. She said for you to come the moment you arrived. "'
Mrs. Jones sounds so dire that I am afraid something terrible has happened to Father or Tom. I burst into the parlor to see Grandmama sitting with Lady Denby and Simon. I have just come in from the cold. My nose is on the verge of dripping from the sudden warmth of the room. I will it to stop.
"Lady Denby and Mr. Middleton have come to pay us a call, Gemma,'' Grandmama says with a panicked smile as she takes in my rough appearance."We shall wait for you to dress so that you can receive them."
It is not a request.
Once I am presentable, we take a stroll in Hyde Park. Lady Denby and Grandmama trail behind us, allowing Simon and me a chance to talk while also being chaperoned.
"Such a lovely day for a walk," I say, even as a few wayward snowflakes land on my coat sleeve.
"Yes," Simon agrees, taking pity on me."Brisk. But lovely."
Silence stretches between us like an elastic garter near to snapping.
"Have you--"
"Was-"
"Forgive me," I say.
"The fault is mine. Please, do go on," Simon says, making my heart skip a beat.
"I was simply wondering..." What? I'd nothing to say. I was only desperate to make conversation and prove myself a witty, amusing, and thoughtful girl, the sort one cannot imagine living without. The difficulty, of course, is that I am in command of none of these qualities at present. It should prove a miracle if I can make some commentary on the state of the cobblestones. ". . . if . . . what I mean is . . . I . . . Aren't the trees so lovely this time of year?" The trees, stripped of all leaves and ugly as gnomes, grimace in response.
"There is a certain elegance to them, I suppose," he answers.
This is not going well at all.
"I do hate to trouble you, Mr. Middleton . . . ," Grandmama says."I'm afraid it's the damp in my bones." She limps for effect.
Simon takes the bait, offering her his arm. "Not at all, Mrs. Doyle."
I have never been more grateful for an interruption in my life. Grandmama is in heaven, walking arm in arm with a viscount's son through Hyde Park, where all can watch from their windows, feeling envious. As Grandmama prattles on about her health, the trouble with servants today, and other matters that make me feel as if I shall lose my mind, Simon gives me a sly sideways glance, and I'm smiling broadly. He has a way of making even a walk with Grandmama into an adventure.
"Do you like the opera, Mrs. Doyle?" Lady Denby asks.
"Not the Italians. I do like our Gilbert and Sullivan, though. Delightful."
I am embarrassed by her lack of taste.
"What a happy coincidence. The Mikado is to be performed Saturday evening at the Royal Opera House. We have a box. Would you care to join us?"
Grandmama falls silent, and at first, I am afraid she's on the verge of becoming catatonic. But then I realize that she is actually excited. Happy. It is such a rare occurrence she is undone by it.
"Why, we'd be delighted!" she answers at last.
The opera! I've never been. Hello, beautifully ugly trees! Have you heard? I am to attend the opera with Simon Middleton. The wind rustles through their empty branches, making it sound like the distant din of applause. Dried husks of leaves skitter across our path and stick to the wet cobblestones, where they are trod underfoot.
A shiny black carriage approaches slowly, drawn by two powerful steeds that gleam as if polished. The coachman wears his tall hat low on his brow. When the carriage pulls even with us, its occupant peers out from the shadows within, giving me a cruel smile. A scar marks his left cheek. It is the man I saw at the train station my first day in London, the one who followed me. There can be no mistake. As the coach passes, he tips his hat to me with a wicked smile. The carriage takes a bump in the road and wobbles on its giant wheels. A woman's gloved hand emerges, gripping the side of the door. I cannot see her face. The sleeve of her cloak catches the wind. It flutters there like a warning--a rich, dark green.
"Miss Doyle?" It's Simon.
"Yes?" I say, when I find my voice again.
"Are you quite all right? You seemed ill for a moment."
