I can see a few embers remaining."No, I think not. If . . ."
He sighs, and it says everything.
"Pay me no mind," I say, swallowing hard."I'm tired."
"Yes," he latches onto that excuse."Still recovering. You'll put this all behind you soon enough and everything will be like it was."
Nothing will be as it was. It is already changed. I am changed.
The maid knocks. "Begging your pardon, sir. Lady Denby asked for you."
"Very good. Miss Doyle--Gemma, will you excuse me? I won't be long."
When I'm alone, I take the poker and strike at the smoldering logs again and again till one catches and a small fire blazes to life. He quit too soon. It only needed a bit more tending. The stillness of the room closes in around me. The carefully grouped furnishings. The portraits looking down with passive eyes. The tall clock measuring the time I have left. Through the open doors, I can see Simon and his family, smiling, content, not a care in the world. Everything is theirs-- not for the taking but for the having. They do not know hunger or fear or doubt. They do not have to fight for what they want. It is simply there, waiting, and they walk into it. My heart aches. I would so very much like to wrap myself in the warm blanket of them. But I have seen too much to live in that blanket.
I leave the pearl brooch on the mantel, grab my coat before the maid can give it to me, and walk out into the cold dusk. Simon will not come after me. He is not the sort. He'll marry a girl who is not me and who will not find the brooch heavy in the slightest.
The air is crisp and biting. The lamplighter ambles up the street with his long stick. Behind him the lights burn. Across Park Lane, Hyde Park rolls out, the shroud of winter covering its eventual spring. And beyond that, Buckingham Palace stands, governed by a woman.
All things are possible.
Tomorrow I shall be back at Spence, where I belong.
CHAPTER FIFTY
SPENCE, THAT DOUR, IMPOSING LADY EAST OF LONDON, has grown a friendly face in my absence. I've never been so happy to see a place in all my sixteen years. Even the gargoyles have lost their fierceness. They are like wayward pets who haven't the sense to come in from the roof and so we let them live there, glaring but cheerful.
The rumors surrounding the night the constable found me in Baker Street have already run rampant through the school. I was kidnapped by pirates. I lay at death's door. I nearly lost a leg--no, an arm to gangrene! I actually died and was buried only to pull the bell rope with my toe, giving the poor gravedigger a fright when he had to release me from the coffin in the nick of time. It is astonishing the stories girls will concoct to relieve their boredom. Still, it is nice to have everyone offering to do things for me, to have them part when I enter a room. I shan't lie; I am enjoying my convalescence immensely.
Felicity has taken it upon herself to give the younger girls archery lessons. They adore her, of course, with her Parisian hair combs and status as one of the older, fashionable girls. I suspect that they would follow her like the Pied Piper of Hamlin no matter how nasty she chose to be. And I suspect that Felicity is aware of this and rather enjoys having a crowd of adorers.
As I am under strict orders from Grandmama and Mrs. Nightwing to do no exercise until I am well again, I sit under a mound of blankets in a large chair that has been brought out especially for me. It is, I find, the best way to exercise, and I shall try to extend this for as long as possible.
Out on the great lawn, the targets are in place. Felicity instructs a passel of ten- year-olds in the proper technique, correcting this one's form, chiding that one for giggling. Admonished, the giggling girl stands straight, closes one eye, and shoots. The arrow bounces along the ground and sticks in a lump of dirt.
"No, no," Felicity sighs. "Pay attention. I shall demonstrate proper form again."
I open the morning's post. There is a letter from Grandmama. She doesn't mention anything of Father until the end. Your father is making progress at the sanitarium and sends his warm regards. There is also a small parcel from Simon. I am afraid to open it, but eventually curiosity wins out. Inside is the small black box I returned to him by messenger along with its original note: A place to keep all your secrets. That is all. He has surprised me. Suddenly, I am not at all sure of what I am doing, of whether I have done the right thing by letting him go. There is something so very safe and comforting about Simon. But it's a bit like the false-bottomed box, that feeling. I know only that something in me senses I might eventually fall through the bottom of his bright affection and find myself trapped there.
I've been so absorbed that I haven't noticed Mrs. Nightwing behind me. She takes in the sight of the girls with bows and arrows and clucks in disapproval.
