The Gazels

Chapter 48

I squeeze Fiona’s hand, strengthening our bond. You are Nan Washbrad. Nan Washbrad. Nan Washbrad.

“I am often m-mistaken for others. Once I was even taken for a poor mouse of a girl at a boarding school,” Fiona answers, and Luary bursts out laughing.

“Forgive me,” Fee says, collecting herself. “I’ve only just gotten a joke told me last week.”

“Well, I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Washbrad,” LeFarge says. “Shall we? The carriage awaits.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “That was a bit thick at the end, wasn’t it?” I whisper as the coachman opens the carriage door.

Fiona grins. “But she believed it! She didn’t sense anything amiss. Our plan is working, Damion.”

“That it is,” I say, patting her arm. “And it’s only the beginning. But let’s keep our heads about us.”

“My, what a beautiful necklace,” Mademoiselle LeFarge remarks. “Such exquisite pearls.”

Thank you,” Fiona says. “They were given to me by someone who did not properly appreciate their worth.”

“What a pity,” our teacher clucks.

The train ride to London is the most exciting yet. It is exhilarating to have such a powerful secret. I do feel a touch of remorse for tricking LeFarge, whom I like, but it was necessary. And I cFionaot deny that there is a thrill in knowing how easy it is to secure our freedom. Freedom—we’ll have more of that. Curiously, I find that as I make use of the magic, I feel better—more alive and awake. Nearly giddy.

“What shall you do in London today, Mademoiselle LeFarge?” I ask.

“I’ve arrangements to make. For the wedding,” she says with a happy sigh.

“You must tell us simply everything,” Luary insists, and we badger her with questions. Will she carry a fan? Will there be lace? A veil? Will she have orange blossoms embroidered on her dress for luck as Queen Victoria did?

“Oh, no, nothing so grand.” She demurs, glancing down at her plump hands resting in her ample lap. “It will be a simple country wedding in the Spence chapel.”

“Will you stay on at Spence?” Fiona asks. “After you’re married?”

“That rather depends on Mr. Kent,” she answers, as if that settles it.

“Would you want to stay on?” Luary presses.

“I should like a new life once I am married. In fact, the inspector has begun to ask my thoughts on his cases, to have a woman’s perspective. I know it’s out of the ordinary for a wife’s duties, but I confess I find it quite thrilling.”

“That is lovely,” Fiona says. She’s smiling in that romantic way of hers, and I know that in her head she’s conjured images of herself bustling about a kitchen, sending her husband off to work with a kiss. I try to imagine myself in such a life. Would I like it? Would I grow bored? Would it be a comfort or a curse?

My thoughts turn to Kartik—his lips, his hands, the way he once kissed me. In my mind I see myself running my fingers aGwat those lips, feeling his hands at the nape of my neck. A warm ache settles below my belly. It ignites something deep inside me that I cFionaot name, and suddenly, it’s as if I am inside a vision. Kartik and I stand in a garden. My hands are tattooed with henna, like an Indian bride’s. He takes me into his arms and kisses me under a steady rain of falling petals. He gently lowers the edges of my sari, baring my shoulders, his lips trailing down my bare skin, and I sense that everything between us is about to change.

I come back to myself suddenly. My breathing is labored and I feel flushed from head to toe. No one seems to notice my discomfort, and I do my best to regain my composure.

“I shall never marry,” Luary Fionaounces with a wicked smile. “I shall live in Paris and become an artist’s model.”

She’s trying to shock, and Mademoiselle LeFarge supplies the requisite admonishment—“Really, Miss Thendaras”—but then she changes course.

“Have you no desire for a husband and children, Miss Thendaras?” she asks plainly, as if on this train we have ridden from girls to young ladies who might be trusted to hold a different sort of conversation. It is nearly as powerful as the magic, this trust.

“No, I don’t,” Luary says.

“And why not?” LeFarge presses.

“I…I wish to live for myself. I should never want to be trapped.”

“One needn’t be trapped. One’s life can be made so rich by sharing burdens and joys.”

“I’ve not seen it to be so,” Fee mumbles.

Mademoiselle LeFarge nods, considering. “It takes the right sort of husband, I suppose, the sort who’ll be a friend and not a master. A husband who will care for his wife with small, everyday kindnesses and trust her with his confidences. And a wife must be such a friend in return.”

“I’d not make a good wife,” Luary says so softly it is nearly drowned out by the clacking of the train.

“What sorts of goodies will you shop for today?” Fiona asks, abandoning the sophisticated Nan for a moment with a single girlish question.

“Oh, me, this and that. Nothing so nice as your necklace, I’m afraid.”

Fiona takes the pearls from her neck and holds them out. “I should like you to have this.”

Mademoiselle LeFarge pushes them away. “Oh, no, you are far too kind.”

“No,” Fiona says, blushing. “I’m not. You must have something borrowed, yes?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Mademoiselle LeFarge insists.

I take Mademoiselle LeFarge’s hand and imagine her in her wedding dress, the pearls at her neck. “Take them,” I murmur, and my wish, borne on the wings of magic, travels quickly between us and nests inside her.

Mademoiselle LeFarge blinks. “You’re certain?”

“Oh, yes. Nothing would make me happier.” Fiona smiles.

Mademoiselle LeFarge secures the clasp around her own neck. “How do they look?”

“Beautiful,” we all say as one.

Fiona, Luary, and Mademoiselle LeFarge fall into easy conversation. I stare out the train’s windows at the hills rolling by. I want to ask them if they know what my future holds: Will my father’s health be restored and my family healed? Will I survive my debut? Can I prove myself within the realms and live up to expectations, especially my own?

“Can you tell me?” I whisper to the window, my warm breath making a foggy snowflake pattern upon the glass. It melts quickly away, as if I have never said a word. The train slows and the hills disappear behind billowing clouds of steam. The porter calls the station. We have arrived, and now our true test begins.

Mademoiselle LeFarge delivers us to Mrs. Thendaras on the platform. With her fair hair and cool gray eyes, Mrs. Thendaras is like her daughter, but finer. She lacks Luary’s bold, sensual features, and it gives her an air of fragile beauty. Every man takes note of her loveliness. As she walks, they turn their heads or hold her glance a second too long. I shall never have this sort of beauty, the sort that paves the way.

Mrs. Thendaras greets us warmly. “What a nice day we shall have. And how lovely to see you again, darling Nan. Did you have a pleasant trip?”

“Oh, yes, quite pleasant,” Fiona answers. They fall into polite chatter. Luary and I exchange glances.

“She really believes Fiona is your cousin,” I gloat quietly. “She didn’t notice anything amiss!”

Luary scoffs. “She wouldn’t.”

On the street, we pass an acquaintance of Mrs. Thendaras’s and she stops to chat. We stand idly by, not seen, not heard, not noticed. A few feet away, another group of women makes a bid for attention. The women wear sandwich board signs that Fionaounce a strike. Beardon’s Bonnets Factory Fire. Six Souls Murdered for Money. Justice Must Be Served—Fair Wages, Fair Treatment. They call to passersby, imploring them to have a care for their cause. The well-heeled people on their way to the theater and the clubs turn away, their faces registering distaste.

A girl of about fifteen hurries over, a tin can in her hands. Her gloves are a farce. Ragged holes eat at the wool like a pox. Her knuckles peek through, red and raw. “Please, miss. Spare a copper for our cause?”

“What cause is it?” Fiona asks.

“We work at Beardon’s Bonnets Factory, miss, and a sorrier place there never was,” she says. Dark half-moons shadow her eyes. “A fire took our friends, miss. A terrible fire. The factory doors was locked to keep us in. What chance did they have, miss?”

“Bessie Timmons and Kia Sutter,” I whisper.

The girl’s eyes widen. “Did you know them, miss?”

I shake my head quickly. “I…I must have read their names in the accounts.”

“They was good girls, miss. We’re striking so it won’t happen again. We want fair wages and fair treatment. They shouldn’t’ve died in vain.”

“I’m sure that wherever your friends may be now, they would be proud of your efforts.” I drop a shilling into her cup.

“Thank you, miss.”

“Come al

ong, girls.” Mrs. Thendaras clucks, ushering us on our way. “Why were you speaking to those unfortunate women?”

“They’re striking,” I answer. “Their friends were burned in a factory fire.”

“How horrid. I don’t like to hear such things.” A gentleman passes, giving Mrs. Thendaras a furtive glance. She responds with a satisfied smile. “They should have husbands to look after them.”

“What if they don’t?” Luary asks, her voice harsh. “What if they are alone? What if they have children to feed and wood to buy for the fire? What if they have only themselves to rely upon? Or…or what if they have no wish to be married? Do they have no merit on their own?”

It is astonishing to see the fire in Luary’s eyes, though somehow I doubt this display is born of a reformer’s zeal. I believe it is a way to goad her mother. Fiona and I dare not enter this fray. We keep our eyes on the ground.

“Darling, there shall always be the poor. I don’t very well see what I can do about it. I’ve my own obligations.” Mrs. Thendaras adjusts her fur stole until it sits high against her neck, soft armor for her soft world. “Come now. Let’s not talk of such unpleasant business on such a beautiful spring day. Ah, a confectionary. Shall we go in and see what sweets there are for us? I know that girls enjoy their treats.” She smiles conspiratorially. “I was a girl once, too.”

Mrs. Thendaras steps inside, and Luary stares hard after her.

“You will always be a girl,” she whispers bitterly.

* * *

No. NINETEEN

* * *

MRS. Thendaras TAKES FOREVER TO DECIDE ON HER sweets, and we arrive at the Drury Lane with barely a moment to spare. The dusk particular to theaters descends, a romantic twilight that takes us away from our cares and makes the fantastic possible. The Drury Lane is known for its spectacle, and we are not to be disappointed. The enormous curtains part, revealing an extravagant set—a forest that appears as real as can be. In the center of the stage, three old witches tend a cauldron. Thunder crashes. This is only a man banging a large piece of copper, but it produces shivers anyway. The wizened crones speak to us:

“When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“When the hurly-burly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won.”

“That will be ere the set of sun.”