Chapter 26

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Today is Assembly Day. My dictionary has no formal entry for this occasion, but if it did,

it might go something like this:

Assembly Day (n.) A boarding school tradition in which the family of the schoolgirl is

allowed a visit, resulting in the mortification of all and the enjoyment of none.

I've coiffed my hair, buttoned, laced, and pinned myself into ladylike perfection—or as

close as I can get to it. But inside, I'm still reeling from my visit with Mother and our

argument. I behaved terribly. Tonight I'll go to her and apologize, feel her warm arms

around me again.

Still, I wish I could tell my family—Father especially—that I've seen Mother. That

somewhere beyond here in another world, she is alive and loving and beautiful as we all

remember her to be. I have no idea what I'll find when I go downstairs, and I'm torn up

with hoping and wishing. Father might walk in, looking well fed and well groomed in his

fine black suit. He might hold out a gift for me, something wrapped in gold paper. He

might call me his jewel, might even get sour-faced Brigid to laugh at his tales, might hold

me close. He might. He might. Might. Is there any opiate more powerful than that word?

"Perhaps I could come along with you," Ann says as I try to tame my hair for the

hundredth time. It doesn't want to stay neatly coiled atop my head as a lady's should.

"You'd be dreadfully bored within five minutes," I say, pinching roses into my cheeks that

flare and fade straightaway. I don't want Ann along when I'm not sure of what I'll find.

"Will your brother be coming today?" Ann asks.

"Yes, God help us all," I mutter. I don't want to encourage Ann where Tom is concerned.

Two springy curls flop down low on my forehead. I've got to do something with this hair.

"At least you have a brother to annoy you."

In the washstand mirror, I catch a glimpse of Ann sitting forlornly on her bed, dressed in

her best with nowhere to go, no one to see. I'm going on and on about the trials of seeing

my family, while she'll spend the entire day alone. Assembly Day must be excruciating

for her.

"All right," I sigh. "If you're up for the torture, you can come along."

She doesn't say thank you. We both know it's a mission of mercy, but for which one of us,

I can't say yet. I take in the sight of her. White dress straining at the seams over her

chubby body. Wisps of lank hair already escaping from her chignon, hanging in her

watery eyes. She's not the beauty I saw last night in the garden. "Let's do something with

that hair of yours." She tries to see around me in the mirror. "What's wrong with my

hair?"

"Nothing a good brushing and several pins can't cure. Hold still."

I take down her hair. The brush yanks through a knotty snarl at the base of her scalp.

"Ouch!"

"The price of beauty," I say by way of apologizing without really apologizing. After all,

she said she wanted to come along.

"The price of baldness, you mean."

"If you'd hold still, this wouldn't be so difficult." She's suddenly so still she could be

mistaken for a stone. Pain is underrated as a tool of motivation. I put what seems like a

thousand pins in to hold her hair in place. It's not half bad. At least it's an improvement,

and I'm feeling a little impressed with myself, actually. Ann positions herself in front of

the mirror. "What do you think?" I ask.

She turns her head left and right. "I liked it the other way."

"There's gratitude for you. You're not going to be this sullen all day, are you? Because if

you are—"

Felicity pushes open the door and leans provocatively against the frame, playing the

coquette. "Bonjour, mesdemoiselles. 'Tis I, the Queen of Sheba. You may save your

genuflecting for later." The laces of her corset have been cinched so tight that her breasts

are pushed forward noticeably. "What do you think, darlings? Am I not irresistible?"

"Beautiful," I answer. When Ann hesitates, I nudge her foot with mine.

"Yes, beautiful," she echoes.

Felicity smiles as if she's only just discovering the world. "He's coming, I can't wait for

him to see what a lady I've become these past two years. Can you believe it's been two

long years since I last saw my father?" She twirls around the room. "Of course, you must

meet him. He'll adore you all, I'm sure of it. I want him to see that I'm getting on well

here. Does either of you have any scent?"

Ann and I shake our heads.

"No perfume at all? I can't go without smelling lovely!" Felicity's mood is dropping fast.

"Here," I say, pulling a rose from a vase on the window-sill. The petals crush easily,

leaving a sweet, sticky juice on my fingers. I dab it behind Felicity's ears and onto her

wrists.

She brings her wrist to her nose and inhales. "Perfect! Gemma, you are a genius!" She

throws her arms around me, gives me a little kiss. It's a bit disconcerting, this side of

Felicity, like having a pet shark that thinks itself a goldfish.

"Where's Pip?" Ann asks.

"Downstairs. Her parents came with Mr. Bumble. Can you imagine? Let's hope she sends

him packing today. Well," Felicity says, breaking away. "Adieu, les filles. I shall see you

anon." With a low bow, she is gone in a haze of roses and hope.

"Come on, then," I say to Ann, wiping the last traces of flower from my fingers. "Let's get

this over with, shall we?"

The front parlor is crowded with girls and their various family members when we arrive

downstairs. I've seen better organization on India's infamous trains. My family is nowhere

to be seen.

Pippa comes over to us, head bowed. A woman in a ludicrous hat complete with feathers

trails behind her. She is outfitted in a dress better suited for a younger woman and for

evening wear at that. A fur stole hangs from her shoulders. There are two men with her. I

recognize the bushy-whiskered Mr. Bumble straightaway. The other I take to be Pippa's

father. He has her dark coloring.

"Mother, Father, may I present Miss Gemma Doyle and Miss Ann Bradshaw?" she says,

her voice almost a whisper.

"How do you do? It's so charming to meet Pippa's little friends." Pip's mother is as

beautiful as her daughter, but her face is harder, a fact she's tried to hide with plenty of

jewels.

Ann and I make our polite hellos. After a silence, Mr. Bumble clears his throat.

Mrs. Cross's mouth is a tight line of a smile. "Pippa, aren't you forgetting someone?"

Pippa swallows hard. "May I also present Mr. Bartleby Bumble, Esquire?" The next part

comes out like a quiet cry. "My fiancé."

Ann and I are too astonished to speak.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintances." He looks down his nose at us. "I do hope they

serve tea soon," he says, glancing at his pocket watch with impatience.

This rude old man with the fat face is going to be lovely Pippa's husband? Pippa, whose

every waking moment is consumed by thoughts of a pure, undying, romantic love, has

been sold to the highest bidder, a man she does not know, does not care about. She stares

at the Persian carpet as if it might open up and swallow her down whole, save her.

Ann and I extend our hands and make our subdued greetings.

"It's good to see that my fiancée is acquainted with the right sort of girls," Mr. Bumble

sniffs. "There's so much that can taint the young and impressionable. Wouldn't you agree,

Mrs. Cross?"

"Oh, absolutely, Mr. Bumble."

He deserves to have his head on a spike for all to see. Warning: If you are insufferable, do

not walk here. We shall eat you down to the marrow.

"Oh, there is Mrs. Nightwing. She will need to know our news. She might even want to

announce it today." Mrs. Cross swans across the room with her husband in tow. Mr.

Bumble smiles at the back of Pippa's head as if she were the biggest prize on display at

this carnival.

"Shall we?" he says, offering his arm.

"May I have a moment with my friends, please? To share my news?" Pippa asks in a sad,

quiet way. The idiot thinks he's being flattered.

"Of course, my dear. But don't be too long about it."

When he's gone, I reach out for Pippa's hands. "Please don't," she says. Tears pool in her

violet eyes. I can't think of anything to say.

"He seems quite distinguished," Ann offers after a moment of silence.

Pippa gives a short, sharp laugh. "Yes. Nothing like a wealthy barrister to wipe away

Father's gambling debts and save us from ruin. I'm nothing more than a marker, really."

She doesn't say it bitterly. That's what hurts. She's accepted her fate without fighting it.

Behind her, Bartleby Bumble, Esquire, is anxiously waiting for his future bride. "I've got

to go," Pippa says with all the enthusiasm of a woman meeting her executioner.

"Her ring is lovely," Ann says, after a moment. Above the crowd, we can hear Mrs.

Nightwing offering her loud congratulations and others chiming in.

"Yes. Very lovely," I agree. We're both trying to put a good face on it. Neither of us wants

to admit the enraging hopelessness of the situation—or the guilt at not having drawn that

short straw ourselves. Not yet, at least. I can only hope that when my time comes, I'm not

foisted off on the first man who dazzles my family.

Felicity breezes by. She's got a handkerchief in her hand that she's twisting into a messy

lump.

"What is the matter? You look as if the world has ended."

"Pippa is engaged to Mr. Bumble," I explain.

"What? Oh, poor Pip," she says, shaking her head.

"Has your father come?" I ask, hoping for happier news.

"Not yet. Forgive me, but I'm far too nervous to wait around here. I'm going to stay out in

the garden till he comes. Are you certain I look presentable?"

"For the last time, yes," I say, rolling my eyes.

Felicity is so anxious she doesn't come back with a snappy reply. Instead, she nods

gratefully and, looking as if she might be unable to hold her breakfast a moment longer,

dashes off toward the lawn.

"Well, if it isn't the lady Doyle."

With a great flourish and an exaggerated bow, Tom announces his arrival. Grandmama is

beside him in her best black crepe mourning clothes.

"Is Father here? Did he come?" I'm nervously craning my neck, searching for him.

"Yes," Tom starts. "Gemma…"

"Well, where is he?"

"Hello, Gemma."

At first I don't see Father. But there he is, hidden away behind Tom, a ghost in his illfitting

black suit. There are deep circles under his eyes. Grandmama takes his arm in an

effort to hide how badly he shakes. I'm sure she's given him only a touch of his usual

dose to get him through, with a promise of more after. It's all I can do not to cry.

I'm ashamed for my friends to see him this way.

And I'm ashamed of being ashamed.

"Hello, Father," I manage, kissing his hollow cheeks.

"Did anyone know we'd be seeing a queen today?" he jokes. The laugh makes him cough

hard and Tom has to hold him steady. I can't look at Ann.

"They're serving tea in the ballroom," I say, steering them upstairs to a quiet, out-of-theway

table, away from the crowd and the gossips. Once we're seated, I introduce Ann.

"Charming to see you again, Miss Bradshaw," Tom says. Ann blushes.

"And where is your family today?" my grandmother asks, looking around for someone

more interesting to talk to than the two of us. She would have to ask that question, and it

will have to be answered, and then we'll all sit in awkward silence or my grandmother

will say something unkind under the guise of being kind.

"They're abroad," I lie.

Happily, Ann doesn't try to correct me. I think she's grateful not to have to explain that

she's an orphan and endure everyone's polite, silent pity. Sudden interest overtakes my

grandmother, who, I'm sure, is wondering at this very moment whether Ann's relatives are

rich or titled or both.

"How very exciting. Where are they traveling?"

"Switzerland," I say, just as Ann barks out, "Austria."

"Austria and Switzerland," I say. "It's an extensive trip."

"Austria," my father starts. "There's a rather funny joke about Austrians…" He trails off,

his fingers shaking.

"Yes, Father?"

"Hmmm?"

"You were saying something about the Austrians," I remind him.

He knits his brows together. "Was I?"

There's a lump in my throat that will not go away. I offer the sugar bowl to Tom. Ann is

watching his every move with fascination, though he's hardly noticed her.

"So," Tom says, dropping three lumps of sugar into his tea. "Miss Bradshaw, has my

sister driven you out of your wits yet with her forthright manner?"

Ann blushes. "She's a most genial girl."

"Genial? We are speaking of the same Gemma Doyle? Grandmama, it seems Spence is

more than a school. It's a house of miracles."

Everyone has a polite laugh at my expense, and truly, I don't mind. It's so nice to hear

them laugh, I wouldn't care if they poked fun at me all afternoon. Father fumbles with his

spoon as if he's not quite sure what to do with it.

"Father," I say gently. "Could I pour you some tea?"

He gives me a weak smile. "Yes, thank you, Virginia."

Virginia. At my mother's name, an embarrassed quiet descends. Tom stirs his tea around

and around, chasing it with his spoon.

"It's me, Father. It's Gemma," I say quietly.

He squints, turns his head to one side, studying me. Slowly he nods. "Oh, yes. So it is."

He goes back to playing with his spoon.

My heart's a stone, sinking fast. We make polite conversation. Grandmama tells us of her

garden and her visiting and all about who is not speaking to whom these days. Tom

prattles on about his studies while Ann hangs on his every word as if he were a god.

Father is lost to himself. No one asks how I am or what I am doing. They could not care

less. We're all looking glasses, we girls, existing only to reflect their images back to them

as they'd like to be seen. Hollow vessels of girls to be rinsed of our own ambitions,

wants, and opinions, just waiting to be filled with the cool, tepid water of gracious

compliance.

A fissure forms in the vessel. I'm cracking open. "Is there any news about Mother? Have

the police found anything new?"

Tom sputters. "Ho-ho! At it again, are we? Miss Bradshaw, you'll have to excuse my

sister. She has a keen sense of the dramatic. Our mother died of cholera."

"She knows. I told her," I say, watching for their reactions.

"I'm sorry that my sister has had such a poor joke at your expense, Miss Bradshaw." His

words to me through gritted teeth are a warning. "Gemma, you know that cholera took

poor Mother."

"Yes, her cholera. Amazing that her cholera didn't kill us all. Or perhaps it is. Perhaps it's

coiled in our blood, suffocating us all slowly with its poison each day," I spit back with

an equally venomous smile.

"I think we'd best change the topic. Miss Bradshaw certainly does not need to be

subjected to such histrionics." Grandmama dismisses me with a sip of her tea.

"I think my poor mother is an excellent topic of conversation. What do you think,

Father?"

Come on, Father. Stop me. Tell me to behave, to go to hell, something, anything. Let's see

some of that old fighting spirit. There's nothing but the syrupy whistle of wet air going in

and out of his slack mouth. He's not listening. He's lost in his own reflection, the one

staring back at him, bloated and distorted, in the shiny hollow of the teaspoon he's

twirling between skeletal fingers.

I can't stand the sight of them huddled together against the truth, deaf and dumb to

anything remotely real. "Thank you for coming. As you can see, I'm getting along quite

well here. You've done your duty, and now you're free to go back to whatever it is you all

do."

Tom laughs. "Well, that's a fine thank-you. I'm missing a cricket match for this. Weren't

they supposed to civilize you here?"

"You're being childish and rude, Gemma. And in front of your guest. Miss Bradshaw,

please excuse my granddaughter. Would you care for more tea?" Grandmama pours it

without waiting for a response. Ann stares at the cup, grateful for something to focus on.

I'm embarrassing her. I'm embarrassing everyone.

I rise. "I have no desire to ruin everyone's pleasant afternoon, so I shall say goodbye. Are

you coming, Ann?"

She glances shyly at Tom. "I haven't finished my tea," she says.

"Ah, at last a real lady among us." Tom applauds lightly. "Bravo, Miss Bradshaw."

She smiles into her lap. Tom offers cakes and Ann, who has never refused a morsel of

food in her life, declines as a well-born, properly bred lady should, lest she seem a

glutton. I've created a monster.

"As you wish," I grumble. I bend at Father's knees, take hold of his hands, and pull him

away from the table. His hands shake. Perspiration beads on his forehead. "Father, I'm

going now. Why don't you walk with me?"

"Yes, all right, darling. See the grounds, eh?" He attempts a half-smile that fades into a

grimace of pain. Whatever Grandmama has given him isn't enough. He'll need more soon,

and then he'll be lost to us all. We take a few steps, but he stumbles and has to right

himself on a chair. Everyone looks up and Tom is quickly by my side, ushering him back

to the table.

"There now, Father," he says a bit too loudly, so that it can be overheard. "You know Dr.

Price said you mustn't walk on that ankle yet. That polo injury must heal." Satisfied, the

heads go down in the room, save for one. Cecily Temple has spotted us. With her parents

in tow, she's headed to our table.

"Hello, Gemma. Ann." Ann's face is the picture of panic. Cecily sizes up the situation.

"Ann, will you be singing for us later? Ann has the sweetest voice. She's the one I told

you about—the scholarship student."

Ann shrinks down low in her chair.

Grandmama's confused. "I thought you said your parents were abroad…"

Ann's face contorts and I know she's going to cry. She bolts from the table, knocking over

a chair on the way.

Cecily pretends to be embarrassed. "Oh, my, I hope I haven't said the wrong thing."

"Every time you open your mouth and speak it's the wrong thing," I snap.

Grandmama barks, "Gemma, whatever is the matter with you today? Are you ill?"

"Yes, forgive me, everyone," I say, tossing my wadded napkin onto the table in a heap.

"My cholera is acting up again."

Later, there will need to be an apology—sorry, so sorry, can't explain myself, sorry. But

for now, I'm free from the tyranny of their need masquerading as concern. Gliding

through the ballroom and down the stairs, I have to put a hand to my stomach to keep

from breathing too fast and fainting. Thankfully, the French doors are open to allow a

breeze and I walk out onto the lawn, where a game of croquet has sprung up. Fashionable

mothers in large-brimmed hats knock brightly colored wooden balls through narrow

hoops with their mallets while their husbands shake their heads and gently correct them

with an arm here, an embrace there. The mothers laugh and miss again, deliberately, it

would seem, so as to have their husbands stand close again.

I pass unnoticed through them, down the hill to where Felicity sits alone on a stone

bench.

"I don't know about you, but I've had quite enough of this absurd show," I say, forcing a

surly camaraderie into my tone that I don't feel at all. One hot tear trickles down my

cheek. I wipe it away, look off at the croquet game. "Has your father come yet? Did I

miss him?"

Felicity says nothing, just sits.

"Fee? What's the matter?"

She passes me the note in her hand, on a fine white card stock.

My dearest daughter,

I am sorry to tell you on such short notice but duty calls me elsewhere, and duty to the

Crown is of the utmost importance, as I'm sure you would agree. Have a jolly day, and

perhaps we shall see each other again at Christmastime.

Fondly,

Your father

I cannot think of anything to say.

"It's not even his handwriting," she says at last, her voice flat. "He couldn't even be

bothered to pen his own goodbye."

Out on the lawn, some of the younger girls play happily in a circle, ducking under each

other's arms, falling to the ground in fits of laughter while their mothers hover nearby,

fretting over soiled dresses and hair shaken free of ribbons and bonnets. Two girls skip

past us, arm in arm, reciting the poetry they've learned for today's occasion, something to

show how much they've become small buds of ladies.

"She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro' the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot."

Overhead, the clouds are losing their fight to keep the sun. Patches of blue peek out from

behind larger clumps of threatening gray, holding on to the sun with slipping fingertips.

"Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack'd from side to side;

'The curse is come upon me,' cried

The Lady of Shalott."

The girls throw back their carefree heads and laugh riotously at their dramatic reading.

The wind has shifted to the east. A storm isn't far off. I can smell the moisture in the air, a

fetid, living thing. Isolated drops fall, licking at my hands, my face, my dress. The guests

squawk in surprise, turn their palms up to the sky as if questioning it, and dash for cover.

"It's starting to rain."

Felicity stares straight ahead, says nothing.

"You'll get wet," I say, jumping up, angling toward the shelter of the school. Felicity

makes no move to come inside. So I go on, leave her there, even though I don't feel right

about it. When I reach the door, I can still see her, sitting on the wet bench, getting

drenched. She's opened up her father's note to the wet, watching it erase every pen mark

on the soggy page, letting the rain wash them both clean as new skin.