Rebel Angels (30 page)

Felicity stops the governess. “Oh, do let me take our Polly to bed.”

The governess gives a slight bow of her head. “As you wish, miss.”

I don’t like this. Why does Felicity want to be alone with Polly? She wouldn’t harm the child, would she? Making excuses, I slip from the room in order to follow them. Felicity leads Polly upstairs to the nursery. I stand just outside the door, watching. Felicity’s crouched low, her arms on Polly’s slight shoulders.

“Now, Polly, you must promise me something. Promise me that you will lock your door before you go to bed. Promise?”

“Yes, Cousin.”

“And you must lock your door every night. Do not forget now, Polly. It is very important.”

“But why, Cousin?”

“To keep out the monsters, of course.”

“But if I lock the door, Uncle can’t sprinkle me with fairy dust.”

“I will sprinkle you with fairy dust, Polly. But you must keep Uncle out.”

I don’t understand. Why would she be so insistent on keeping her own father out? What could the admiral do that could possibly . . .

Oh, God. The full horrible understanding rises in me like a great bird, the wings of truth unfurling slowly, casting a terrible shadow.

“You cannot go to her with anything that matters.”

“No. No admirals.”

“Do you suppose there is some evil in people that makes others
do things?”

I move into the shadows as Felicity leaves Polly’s room. She stands for a moment, listening for the click of the lock. She seems so small. At the stairs, I step out, surprising her.

“Gemma! You startled me. Is your head ringing? I shall never try absinthe again, I can tell you that! Why aren’t you at the party?”

“I heard what you said to Polly,” I say.

Felicity’s eyes are defiant. But I’m not afraid of her this time. “Indeed? What of it?”

“Was there no lock on your door?” I ask.

Felicity takes a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you are implying, but I think you should stop at once,” she says. I place my palm on her hand, but she pulls away.
"Stop it!” she spits out.

“Oh, Fee, I am so sorry. . . .”

She shakes her head, turns away from me so I cannot see her face.
"You don’t know how it really is, Gemma. It’s not his fault. The blame is my own. I bring it out in him. He said so.”

“Felicity, it most certainly is not your fault!”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand that he is your father.”

She looks back at me, her face streaked with tears. "He didn’t mean it. He loves me. He said so.”

“Fee . . .”

“That’s something, isn’t it? It’s something.” She’s biting back the sobs, her hand against her mouth as if she can catch them, push them back down.

“Fathers should protect their children.”

The eyes flash. The hand points. “Aren’t you the fine expert on that? Tell me, Gemma, how does your father protect you in his laudanum stupor?”

I’m too shocked to answer.

“That’s the real reason he’s not here tonight, isn’t it? He’s not ill. Stop pretending everything’s fine when you know it isn’t!”

“It isn’t the same thing at all!”

“You’re so blind. You see what you want to see.” She glares at me.
"Do you know what it is to be powerless? Helpless? No, of course not. You’re the great Gemma Doyle. You hold all the power, don’t you?”

We stand there, staring each other down, neither saying a word. She has no right to attack me this way. I was only trying to help. At the moment, I can only think that I never want to see Felicity again.

Without another word, I start down the stairs.

“Yes, go on. Leave. You’re always coming and going. The rest of us are stuck here. Do you think he’d still love you if he knew who you are? He doesn’t really care—only when it suits him.”

For a moment, I do not know whether she means Simon or my father. I walk away, leaving Felicity standing in the shadows at the top of the stairs.

The ball is over. The floor is a mess. Gathering coats, yawning goodnights, the ballgoers step across the detritus on the floor—confetti, crumbs, and forgotten dance cards, the withered flower petals. Some of the gentlemen are red-nosed and tipsy. They shake Mrs. Worthington’s hand with too much ardor, their voices too loud. Their wives pull them along with a polite but firm “Our carriage is waiting, Mr. Johnson.” Others follow. Some leave with the flush of new love on their dreamy faces; others wear their dashed hopes and broken hearts in downcast eyes and trembling smiles.

Percival asks if he may call on us at home sometime. I do not see Simon. It would seem the Middletons have gone. He’s left without saying goodbye.

I’ve made a mess of everything—Kartik, Simon, Felicity, Father. Merry Christmas. God bless us, every one.

But I have seen the Temple in a vision.

I only wish I had someone to tell.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

TWO MISERABLE, LONELY DAYS PASS BEFORE I FIND the courage to call on Felicity, under the pretext of returning a book.

“I shall inquire whether she is at home, miss,” Shames, the butler, says, taking my grandmother’s card, on which I have added my name in neat script. In a moment he returns my card to me—alone.
"I am sorry, miss. It seems Miss Worthington has gone out after all.”

On the walk, I turn back. Looking up, I see her face at the window. She immediately ducks behind the curtain. She is home and has chosen to snub me.

Ann comes out to me at the carriage. “I am sorry, Gemma. I’m sure she doesn’t mean it. You know how she can be.”

“That doesn’t excuse it,” I say. Ann seems agitated about more than this.
"What is the matter?”

“I’ve received a note from my cousin. Someone’s made inquiries about my claims to be a relation of the Duke of Chesterfield. Gemma, I’ll be found out.”

“You won’t be found out.”

“I will! Once the Worthingtons know who I am and that I’ve deceived them . . . oh, Gemma. I’m done for.”

“Don’t tell Mrs. Worthington about the note.”

“She’s already so very cross about the dress. I overheard her telling Felicity it was as good as ruined now that it’s been let out for me. I shouldn’t have let her talk me into it. And now . . . I’ll be ruined forever, Gemma.” Ann is nearly ill with her fear and worry.

“We’ll remedy it,” I say, though I have no idea how. Up at the window, I see Felicity again. So much to remedy. “Would you give Felicity a message for me?”

“Certainly,” Ann moans. "If I am still here to give it.”

“Would you tell her that I’ve seen the Temple. I saw it in a vision the night of the ball.”

“You did?”

“The three girls in white showed me the way. Tell her whenever she’s ready, we’ll go back.”

“I shall,” Ann swears. “Gemma . . .” Not again. I cannot help her now.
"You won’t tell Tom about all of this, will you?”

If he finds out, I don’t know whom he’ll hate more for the deception, Ann or me.
"Your secret’s safe.”

I can’t bear to return home. Father’s deteriorating rapidly, crying out for laudanum or the pipe, some opiate to take away his pain. Tom sits outside Father’s door, his long arms resting on the tops of his bent knees. He is unshaven and there are dark circles beneath his eyes.

“I’ve brought you tea,” I say, handing him the cup. “How is he?”

As if in answer, Father moans from behind the door. I can hear the bed creaking under the weight of his thrashing. He cries softly. Tom puts his hands on either side of his head as if he could squeeze all thoughts from his skull.

“I’ve failed him, Gemma.”

This time I sit beside my brother. "No, you haven’t.”

“Perhaps I’m not meant to be a doctor.”

“Of course you are. Ann thinks you’re going to be one of the finest physicians in London,” I say, hoping to cheer him. It is hard to see Tom—impossible, arrogant, unstoppable Tom— feeling so glum. He is the one constant in my life, even if the constant is irritation.

Tom gives a sheepish grin. "Miss Bradshaw said that? She is most kind. And rich, as well. When I asked you to find me a suitable match with a small fortune, I was only joking. But you took me at my word, I see.”

“Yes, well, about that fortune . . . ,” I start. How do I explain this lie to Tom? I should tell him before things go much further, yet I can’t bring myself to confess that Ann is no heiress, only a kind, hopeful soul who thinks the world of him.
"She is rich in other ways, Tom. Remember that.”

Father groans loudly, and Tom looks as if he will crawl out of his skin.
"I can’t take much more. Perhaps I should give him a little something—some brandy or—”

“No. Why don’t you go out for a walk or to your club? I’ll sit with him.”

“Thank you, Gemma.” He gives me an impulsive peck on the forehead. The spot feels warm. “Don’t give in to him. I know how you ladies are—too soft to be proper guardians.”

“Go on, then. Away with you,” I say.

Father’s room is bathed in the purplish haze of dusk. He moans and writhes on the bed, twisting the linens into a wreck. The air smells of sweat. Father is drenched in it, his bedclothes plastered to his body.

“Hello, Father,” I say, drawing the curtains and turning up the lamp. I pour water into a glass and put it to his lips, which are cracked and white. He takes halting sips.

“Gemma,” he gasps. "Gemma, darling. Help me.”

Don’t cry, Gem. Be strong.
“Would you like me to read to you?” He grips my arm. “I’m having the most horrid dreams. So real I cannot tell if I am dreaming or awake.”

My stomach twists. "What sorts of dreams?”

“Creatures. They tell me terrible stories about your mother. That she wasn’t who she claimed to be. That she was a witch, a sorceress who did terrible things. My Virginia . . . my wife.”

He breaks down sobbing. Something inside me falls away.
Not my father. Leave my father alone.

“My wife was virtuous. She was a noble woman. A good woman.” His eyes find mine. “They say it’s your fault. All this is because of you.”

I try to take a breath. Father’s eyes soften. “But you are my darling girl, my very good girl, aren’t you, Gemma?”

“Yes,” I whisper. "Of course.”

His grip is strong. “I cannot bear another minute of these things. Be my good girl, Gemma. Find the bottle. Before those dreams come back for me.”

My resolve weakens. I’m no longer certain of myself as his pleadings grow more urgent, his tear-soaked voice a raw whisper. “Please. Please. Please. I can’t bear it.” A small bubble of spit floats on his cracked lips.

I think I shall go mad. Like Nell Hawkins’s, my father’s mind has been worn thin. And now those creatures have found him in his dreams. They will give him no peace because of me. This is my fault. I must remedy it. Tonight, I will go into the realms and not leave them until I have found the Temple.

But I will not let my father suffer while I do.

“Shhh, Father. I will help you,” I say. Pulling up my skirts to an immodest length, I run to my room and find the box where I’ve hidden the bottle. I race back to my father’s bedside. He’s working the bed linens between his knuckles, rocking his head back and forth, writhing and sweaty.

“Father, here. Here!” I put the bottle to his lips. He drinks down the laudanum like a man parched.

“More,” he pleads.

“Shhh, that’s all there is.”

“It’s not enough!” he cries. "Not enough!”

“Give it a moment.”

“No! Go away!” he screams, and pounds his head against the headboard.

“Father, stop!” I place my hands on either side of his head to keep him from injuring himself further.

“You are my good girl, Gemma,” he whispers. His eyes flutter. His grip lightens. He settles into an opiate slumber. I hope I have done the right thing.

Mrs. Jones is at the door. "Miss, is everything all right?”

I stumble out. “Yes,” I say, barely catching my breath. “Mr. Doyle is going to rest now. I’ve just remembered something I must do. Would you sit with him, Mrs. Jones? I shan’t be long.”

“Yes, miss,” she says.

It has begun to rain again. There is no carriage and so I take a cab to Bethlem Hospital. I want to tell Nell that I’ve seen the Temple in my vision and that it is within my grasp. And I want to ask her how I may find Miss McCleethy—Circe. If she thinks she can have her creatures torment my father, she is mistaken.

When I arrive, there is pandemonium. Mrs. Sommers scurries down the hall, wringing her hands. Her voice is high. She is in a very excited state.

“She’s doing wicked things, miss. Such wicked things!”

Several of the patients have gathered in the corridor, anxious to see what is causing all the disturbance. Mrs. Sommers pulls at her hair.
"Wicked, wicked girl!”

“Now, Mabel,” a nurse says, pinning Mrs. Sommers’s arm to her side. “What’s all this carrying on about? Who’s doing wicked things?”

“Miss Hawkins. She’s a wicked girl.”

There’s a terrible squawking coming from down the hall. Two of the women begin a game of imitating it. The sound, everywhere at once, pierces me.

“Merciful heavens,” the nurse exclaims. "What is that?”

We hurry past the squawking women, our footsteps echoing off the gleaming floors till we reach the sitting area. Nell’s standing with her back to us. Cassandra’s cage stands empty, the door ajar.

“Miss Hawkins? What’s all the ruckus . . .” The nurse goes silent as Nell turns to us, the bird cradled in her small hands. Green and red feathers trail over her palms in a waterfall of color. But the head is all wrong. It lies at an impossible angle to the fragile body. She has broken its neck.

The nurse gasps. "Oh, Nell! What have you done?”

A crowd has gathered behind us, pressing in to see. Mrs. Sommers runs from person to person, whispering, “Wicked! Wicked! They said she was wicked! They did!”

“You cannot cage things,” Nell Hawkins says flatly.

Horrified, the nurse can only repeat, “What have you done?”

“I’ve set it free.” Nell seems to see me now. She gives a smile that would break the heart. “She’s coming for me, Lady Hope. And then she will come for you.”

Two burly men arrive with a straitjacket for Nell. They approach her gently and wrap her in it like a baby. She doesn’t struggle. She doesn’t seem to be aware of anything.

Only when she passes me does she scream. “They will lead you astray with false promises! Do not leave the path!”