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It is said that Paris in springtime is a glory to behold, that it makes a man feel as if he shall never die. I should not know, for I have never been to Paris. But spring in London is a wholly different affair. The rain pitters and patters against the carriage’s roof. The streets are choked equally with traffic and gas fog. Two young boys, crossing sweepers, have barely swept the muck and filth from the cobblestones so that a fashionable lady might pass when they are nearly run over by an omnibus whose driver curses them quite heatedly. The driver’s curses are nothing compared to what the horses leave for them to clean away, and despite my misgivings about what I shall find in Belgravia, I am eternally grateful I am not a crossing sweeper.
By the time we reach the house, I’m bruised from the carriage’s incessant bumping and my skirts wear mud an inch thick. A parlor maid takes my boots at the door, saying nothing about the large hole in the toe of my right stocking.
Grandmama emerges from the parlor. “Good heavens! What on earth?” she exclaims at the sight of me.
“Spring in London,” I explain, pushing a limp lock behind my ear.
She closes the parlor doors behind her and leads me to a quiet spot beside an enormous painting. Three Grecian goddesses dance in a grove by a hermitage whilst Pan plays his flute nearby, his little goat feet stepping merrily over clover. It is so ghastly as to take one’s breath away and I cannot imagine what possessed her to purchase it, let alone display it proudly. “What is that?”
“The Three Graces,” she tuts. “I am quite fond of it.”
It is possibly the most appalling painting I’ve ever seen. “There is a goat-man dancing a jig.”
Grandmama appraises it proudly. “He represents nature.”
“He’s wearing pantaloons.”
“Really, Gemma,” Grandmama growls. “I did not pull you aside to discuss art, of which it is apparent you know little. I wished to discuss your father.”
“How is he?” I ask, the painting forgotten.
“Delicate. This is to be a peaceful trip. I’ll have no outbursts, none of your peculiar habits, nothing to upset him. Do you understand?”
My peculiar habits. If she only knew. “Yes, of course.”
After I’ve exchanged my muddy dress for a clean one, I join the others in the drawing room.
“Ah, here is our Gemma now,” Grandmama says.
Father rises from his chair by the fireplace. “Dear me, could this beautiful and elegant young lady be my daughter?” His voice is weaker, his eyes do not quite twinkle as they once did, and he is still very thin, but his mustache bends with a broad smile. When he holds out his arms, I run to him, his little girl again. Sudden tears threaten and I blink them back.
“Welcome home, Father.”
His embrace is not as strong as it once was, but it is warm, and we shall fatten him up as soon as possible. Father’s eyes soften. “You look more like her every day.”
Tom sits sulking in a chair, taking tea and biscuits. “The tea has most likely gone cold by now, Gemma.”
“You shouldn’t have waited for me,” I say, still holding on to my father.
“That is what I said,” Tom complains.
Father offers me a chair. “You used to sit at my feet when you were a child. But as you are a child no more but a young lady, you shall have to sit properly.”
Grandmama pours tea for us all, and despite Tom’s grumbling, it is still hot. “We’ve been issued an invitation to dine at the Hippocrates Society in Chelsea this week, and Thomas has accepted.”
Scowling, Tom drops two fat lumps of sugar into his tea.
“How nice,” I say.
Father allows Grandmama to pour milk into his cup, turning it cloudy. “They’re a fine bunch of fellows, Thomas—mark my words. Why, Dr. Hamilton himself is a member.”
Tom bites into a biscuit. “Yes, old Dr. Hamilton.”
“It’s far more suited to your station than the Athenaeum,” Father says. “It’s for the best that nonsense is done with.”
“It wasn’t nonsense,” Tom says sullenly.
“It was and you know it.” Father coughs. It rattles in his chest.
