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“What?”
“I wish Pip could be here.” She plucks the daisy’s petals one by one. “We were to see Paris in the summer. She would have loved it so.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Her face darkens. “Some things can’t be changed about us, then, no matter how much we wish it.”
I don’t know what she means, but Fee doesn’t give me time to ponder it. She pulls the last petal from the daisy with a cryptic smile.
“He loves me,” she says.
A shadow falls over Felicity and me. Her father, Admiral Worthington, stands on the path, blocking the sun. He’s a handsome man with a genial manner. If I didn’t know better, I’d be as charmed by him as everyone else is. He holds the hand of his ward, Polly, who is only seven.
“Felicity, will you look after our Polly for a spell? Her governess is undone by the heat and your mother is occupied at present.”
“Yes, of course, Papa,” Felicity says.
“That’s my good girl. Careful of the sun,” the admiral warns, and, dutifully, we raise our parasols.
“Come on, then,” Felicity says to the child once her father is gone.
Polly walks two paces behind us, dragging her doll in the dirt. It was a Christmas gift, and already, it is bedraggled.
“What is your doll’s name?” I ask, pretending for a moment that I am not completely useless with small children.
“She hasn’t got one,” Polly answers sullenly.
“No name?” I say. “Why not?”
Polly pulls the doll roughly over a rock. “Because she’s a wicked girl.”
“She doesn’t seem so bad. What makes her wicked?”
“She tells lies about Uncle.”
Felicity pales. She crouches low, covering the two of them with her umbrella. “Did you remember to do what I told you, Polly? To lock your door at night to keep the monsters out?”
“Yes. But the monsters still come in.” Polly throws the doll to the ground and kicks it. “It’s because she’s so wicked.”
Felicity lifts the doll and smooths the dirt from its face. “I had a doll like this once. And they said she was wicked, too. But she wasn’t. She was a good and true doll. And so is yours, Polly.”
The little girl’s lips tremble. “But she lies.”
“The world is a lie,” Felicity whispers. “Not you and me.”
She hands the child the doll, and Polly cradles it to her chest.
“Someday, I shall be a rich woman, Polly. I’ll live in Paris without Papa and Mama, and you could come to live with me. Would you like that?”
The child nods and takes Felicity’s hand, and they head up the path together, greeting people with defiant faces and fresh wounds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE HIPPOCRATES SOCIETY IS HOUSED IN A CHARMING IF slightly worn building in Chelsea. The butler takes our coats and ushers us through a wide parlor—where several gentlemen sit smoking cigars, playing chess, and arguing politics—and into the largest library I have ever seen. An assortment of mismatched chairs fill out the corners. Several are grouped about the roaring fire as if there has just been a rousing debate there. The rugs are Persian and so old that they’ve worn through in spots. Every single bookcase is stuffed and seems it can hold no more. Medical texts; scientific studies; Greek, Latin, and classic volumes line the shelves. I should like to sit and read for weeks.
Dr. Hamilton greets us. He is a man of seventy with white hair gone to mere threads on top. “Ah, you’re here. Good, good. Our man has prepared a marvelous feast. Let’s not keep him waiting.”
There are twelve of us at the table, a lively mix of doctors, writers, philosophers, and their wives. The conversation is spirited and fascinating. A bespectacled gentleman at the other end of the table argues vehemently with Dr. Hamilton.
