The Sweet Far Thing

Pip. The magic has taken root in her. It’s building. And every time I try to talk myself out of my growing fear of her, I remember Mr. Darcy.



The key holds the truth. I wish I had the key, for my head spins so, and I’m desperately in need of truth.



There is one error I might put to rights. When our tasks are completed at day’s end, I go in search of Cecily. I find her in the library. Brigid has propped her up on a chaise, her ankle resting upon a pillow. She’s in a thoroughly disagreeable mood now she cannot participate in the masked ball—not that I can blame her. And she isn’t happy to see me. When I approach, she lifts her La Mode Illustrée so that I am face to face with an illustration of an elegant woman modeling the most fashionable frock.



“I’ve brought Pride and Prejudice. I thought perhaps I could read to you,” I offer.



Cecily thumbs through the pages of beautiful gowns. “I’ve been doing my own reading for many years now.”



“How is your ankle?” I ask, taking the chair beside the chaise.



“It hurts. I shall not perform my ballet. I shall not even be able to dance. My evening is ruined,” she says, sniffling.



“I thought perhaps you might recite Mr. Yeats’s poem in my stead.”



Cecily’s eyes narrow. “Why?”



“Well, you are an excellent reader, far better than I and—”



“No, why are you offering? Have you a troubled conscience, Miss Doyle?” Cecily’s glare is quite penetrating, and I realize I have not given her powers of observation sufficient acknowledgment.



“It is a fair offer,” I say.



“Let me see it,” she says after a moment, and I hand over the poem. She begins her recitation at once, and when I leave her, she rehearses with such whispered ferocity from her sickbed that I know she shall be the star of the ball.



Heaven help us.



Ann stops me in the hall. In her hands is a copy of The Era Almanack, which lists adverts for performers of all sorts as well as management companies and theaters.



“Gemma, look.” She shows me an advert for the Gaiety Theatre.



THE MERRY MAIDENS



A new and original musical entertainment to be performed in July.



Composed by Mr. Charles Smalls.



Young ladies of sound form and good voice should make an appointment with Mr. Smalls for Wednesday, the twenty-ninth of April, between the hours of noon and three o’clock.



Some dancing.



“You remember Charlie Smalls, the accompanist? He liked my voice,” she says, and bites her lip. “If I could get in to see him…”



“The twenty-ninth. That’s tomorrow,” I say.



“I know I shouldn’t ask,” she says. “But I promise I shan’t fail this time.”



I nod. “All right. We’ll manage. I don’t know how, but we will.”



Just after supper, Inspector Kent comes to call on Mademoiselle LeFarge. Their wedding is only weeks away. In the great room, the inspector regales us with tales of Scotland Yard’s derring-do. We want to know about Jack the Ripper, but he politely declines to discuss it. All the while, Mademoiselle LeFarge sits near, proud that he will be hers.



“Do tell us another!” we plead.



“Now, I fear I shall haunt your sleep if I tell you this one,” he says, smiling wickedly. That is all it takes for us to fall into desperate pleas for more and fervent promises that we shall not wake in the night crying for help.



Inspector Kent takes a sip of his tea. “This tale concerns a troupe of mummers who seem to have gone missing not too far from these parts.”



“Gracious,” Mademoiselle LeFarge says. “We had a visit from some mummers recently.”



“Against my better judgment,” Mrs. Nightwing grumbles.



“It’s a strange little story. Apparently, these chaps were due to rendezvous with others of their profession in Dorset, but they never showed. Meanwhile, we’ve reports of them spotted in various villages, like phantoms. And in their wake, there have been rumors of missing persons.”



The girls delight in the story, especially when Inspector Kent waggles his eyebrows at them.



But every hair on my neck is at attention. “Were they ghosts?”



Inspector Kent’s booming laugh rings out. The other girls giggle, too, thinking me foolish.



“In my twenty years with the Yard I have seen all manner of skullduggery but never have I seen a ghost. I shall tell you what I think. I believe these mummers, being of dubious station in life, owed money to these chaps in Dorset. That’s why they’ve not showed. And as for reports of missing persons, well, in every village there is someone who needs a means of escape from his present circumstances.”