The Sweet Far Thing

Mr. Katz extends his hand and helps Ann from her spot beside the piano. “Miss Washbrad, how would you like to become the newest star in the Katz and Trimble Repertory Company?”



“I…Nothing could make me happier, Mr. Katz!” Ann exclaims. I’ve never seen her so full of joy. Not even in the realms. “If you’re certain you wish to take me on.”



Mr. Katz laughs. “My dear, I’d be a fool not to. You’re a very pretty girl.”



Ann’s smile fades. “But that isn’t everything….”



Mr. Katz chuckles. “Well, it certainly doesn’t hurt. People like to hear a nice voice, my dear, but they like to see where that voice comes from, too. And when it comes from a beauty, they’ll pay more for a ticket. Right, Lily?”



“I don’t rouge my cheeks for nothing,” Lily Trimble says on a sigh.



“But—what about my talent?” Ann bites her lip, and it only enhances her loveliness.



“Of course, of course,” Mr. Katz says, but he hasn’t stopped gazing at her. “Now, let’s see to your contract.”



When we emerge from the darkened hole of Mr. Katz’s office, the world seems a different place, full of excitement and hope. The mud and dirt flecking the hems of our dresses is our mud and dirt—proof that we’ve been here and done what we set out to do.



“We should toast your success! I knew you’d do it,” Felicity squeals.



“You didn’t even want her to audition,” I remind her. I shouldn’t, but her smugness compels me.



“I believe that Charlie Smalls is smitten with you,” Felicity singsongs.



Ann keeps her eyes trained on the ground. “Smitten with Nan Washbrad, you mean.”



“You mustn’t say that. It’s a glorious day.” Felicity turns to a hapless shopkeeper sweeping his walk. “Excuse me, sir, did you know you are in the presence of the new Mrs. Kendal?” she says, mentioning the name of the celebrated actress. The man regards her as he would an escaped lunatic.



“Felicity!” Ann says, laughing. She pulls Fee away, but the man gives Ann a little bow, and it makes her smile.



Big Ben strikes the hour. “Oh,” Ann says, wilting. “We’d best go back. I don’t want this day to end.”



“Let’s not end it just yet, then,” Felicity says.



We repair to a tea shop to celebrate. Over glasses of tickly ginger ale, we toast Ann, and Fee and I tell her again and again how absolutely brilliant she was. At a table nearby, four suffragists sit discussing a demonstration before the House of Commons. With their banners worn proudly and their Votes for Women posters at their feet, they are a sight to behold. They speak to one another with passion and zeal. Some of the ladies in the shop look on in disapproval. Still others approach shyly, taking a leaflet or asking questions. One pulls up a chair to join them. They make room, welcoming her, and I see that Ann is not the only woman who means to change today.



When we return to Spence, I search for Kartik’s bandana in the ivy under my window, but it isn’t there, and I hope that he’ll return with news soon.



“Have you seen Ann?” Felicity asks when I step into the great hall. “She disappeared after dinner. I thought we were to play cards.”



“I haven’t,” I answer. “But I’ll go and have a look, shall I?”



Felicity nods. “I’ll be in my tent.”



Ann isn’t to be found in any of her usual haunts—our room, the library, the kitchen. I know of only one other place, and that is where I find her—sitting alone on the third-floor terrace that overlooks the lawn and the woods beyond.



“Care for some company?” I ask.



She gestures to the empty spot on the railing. From here I have a perfect view of the half-completed turret and the skeletal East Wing. I wonder if my mother and her friend Sarah ever experienced the sort of happiness we did today. I wonder what they might have changed if they’d had the chance.



A gentle breeze blows. Far off I can see the lights of the Gypsy camp. Kartik. No, I shan’t think about him just now.



“I thought you’d be packing for your trip to the world’s stages,” I say.



“We shan’t leave until next week.”



“It will be here before you know it. What’s that?” I point to the sealed envelope in her lap.



“Oh,” Ann says, fiddling with it. “I can’t seem to post it. It’s a letter to my cousins, informing them of my decision. Was I really all right today?”