AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“How odd,” he says, his face brightening. “I had a remembrance of your mother, but it’s left me now, and I can’t get it back.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” I say.
“Yes. Forgotten,” he says. “Now, who would like a story?”
We all want one of Father’s stories, for they are the most entertaining ever.
“I say, have I ever told you the one about the tiger…,” he begins, and we grin. We know it well; he has told it hundreds of times, but it hardly matters. We sit and listen and are enthralled anew, for good stories, it seems, never lose their magic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
EASTER SURPRISES US ALL WITH A GLORIOUS BLUE MORNING of such purity it makes the eyes ache. After a morning at church, we stroll amiably toward Ladies’ Mile in Hyde Park. The streets become a sea of frilly white as parasols are opened to block the dim British sun. Weak as it is, it may still freckle, and our skins are to be as unblemished as our reputations. My skin is already covered in small brown spots, much to my grandmother’s eternal dismay.
The ladies in their Easter finery strut like peacocks. Under cover of their parasols, they examine Lady Spendthrift’s new fur-trimmed coat or Mrs. Fading Beauty’s attempt at looking younger than her days, her corset pulled to straining. They pass sentence with no more than a glance or a pursing of the lips. The nannies and nurses follow the mothers and fathers, pushing prams, correcting children who get away from them.
Even in early bloom, the park is magnificent. Many ladies have placed their chairs on the grass so that they might chat and watch the horses. The path belongs to those eager to prove their skill in the saddle. Here and there, the horsewomen break free, showing a fierce competitive spirit. But then it is as if they remember themselves. They slow to a polite trot. That is a shame, for I should like to see them blazing a path through Hyde Park, their eyes alive with will, their mouths set in joyful, determined smiles.
I have the misfortune of walking with a wealthy merchant’s daughter who must be mortally afraid of silence, for she never ceases talking. I give her the secret name Miss Chatterbox. “And then she danced with him for four dances! Can you imagine?”
“How scandalous,” I answer without enthusiasm.
“Exactly so! Everyone knows that three is the limit,” she answers, missing my point entirely.
“Steady. Here come the dowager soldiers,” I warn.
We adopt a pose of demure innocence. A team of old ladies, powdered and puffed to the stiffness of meringue tarts, passes us with barely a nod. The crowd thins just a bit, and my heart nearly stops. Simon Middleton, resplendent in his white suit and boater hat, walks in our direction. I’d forgotten how handsome he is—tall, well formed, with brown hair and eyes the blue of clear seas. But it is the naughty twinkle in those eyes that makes a girl feel as if she has been undressed and has not cared to object. Strolling beside Simon is a lovely brunette. She is as small and dainty as the figurine on a music box. Her chaperone marches in time with her, the picture of respectability.
“Who is that girl with Simon Middleton?” I whisper.
Miss Chatterbox is overjoyed that I have joined her in gossip. “Her name is Lucy Fairchild, and she is a distant cousin,” she relates breathlessly. “American and very well-to-do. New money, naturally, but heaps of it, and her father has sent her in hopes she’ll marry some poor second son and come home with a title to add luster to their wealth.”
So this is Lucy Fairchild. My brother would throw himself on the tracks to gain her attention. Any man would. “She’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t she absolute perfection?” Miss Chatterbox says wistfully.
I suppose I’d hoped to hear that I was mistaken—“Why, I don’t think she’s as pretty as all that. She has a funny neck and her nose is oddly shaped.” But her beauty is confirmed, and why is it that her beauty casts such a long shadow over me that every bit of my light is extinguished?
Miss Chatterbox continues. “There are rumors of a betrothal.”
“To whom?”
My companion giggles. “Oh, you! To Simon Middleton, of course. Wouldn’t they make a lovely couple?”
An engagement. At Christmas Simon made the same pledge to me. But I turned him away. Now I wonder if I might have been too hasty in refusing him.
“But the betrothal is only a rumor,” I say.
Miss Chatterbox glances about furtively, positioning her umbrella to hide us. “Well, I shouldn’t repeat this, but I happen to know that the Middletons’ fortunes have turned. They are in need of money. And Lucy Fairchild is exceedingly well off. I should expect they’ll announce the engagement any day now. Oh, there is Miss Hemphill!” Chatterbox exclaims excitedly. Having spied someone far more important than I, she is off without so much as another word, for which, I suppose, my ears should be grateful.
While Grandmama prattles away with an old woman about gardens and rheumatism and the sorts of subjects that might very well be found printed in a primer under the heading What Old Women Must Talk About, I stand along Rotten Row, watching the horses and feeling sorry for myself.
“Happy Easter to you, Miss Doyle. You’re looking well.” Simon Middleton stands beside me. He is strong and shining and dimpled—and alone.
“Thank you. How lovely to see you,” I say.
“And you.”
I clear my throat. Say something witty, Gemma. Something beyond the obvious, for heaven’s sake. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
