The Sweet Far Thing
Tom waggles his eyebrows. “I’ve met quite a few promising candidates for the position of Mrs. Thomas Doyle. Of course, they will have to find me charming and utterly irresistible. I don’t suppose you could aid me in that pursuit with a little bit of…?”
“I’m afraid not,” I say. “You’ll have to take your chances.”
He twirls me a bit hard. “You’re no fun at all, Gemma.”
Later in the evening, I approach my father before he can slip off with the other men for brandy. “Father, I should like to have a word, if you please. Privately.”
For a moment, he regards me warily, but then his apprehension seems to be forgotten. He does not remember what occurred the last time we had such a talk, the night of Spence’s party. I did not need magic to take that memory from him; he has denied it to himself.
We duck into a musty sitting room whose draperies smell of ancient cigar smoke. There are many things we could speak truth of just now: his declining health, the battles I have seen, the friends I have lost. But we shan’t speak of them. It will never be any more than this, and I suppose the only difference now is that I know that. I must pick my battles, and this is the one I have chosen.
“Father,” I begin, my voice quavering. “I ask only that you hear me out.”
“That is an ominous tone,” he says with a wink, trying to lighten the mood. How easy it would be to forget everything I mean to say. Strength, Gemma.
“I am most grateful for this evening. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my dear….”
“Yes, thank you…but I shan’t attend any other parties. I don’t wish to continue my season.”
Father’s brows knit together in consternation. “Indeed? And why not? Haven’t you been given the best of everything?”
“Yes, and I am most grateful for it,” I say, heart hammering against my ribs.
“Then what is this nonsense?”
“I know. It makes no sense. I’m only just coming to understand it myself.”
“Then perhaps we should discuss it another day.” He starts to rise. Once he does, the conversation will end. There will not be another day. I know this. I know him.
I put my arm on his. “Please, Papa. You said you would hear me out.”
Reluctantly, he sits, but already he has lost interest. He fidgets with his watch. I have little time to make my case. I could sit at his feet as I did when I was a child, let him stroke my hair. Once, it was comforting for us both. But this is not a time for comfort, and I am no longer a child. I take the chair opposite him.
“What I mean to say is, I don’t imagine this life is for me. Parties and endless balls and gossip. I don’t wish to spend my days making myself small enough to fit into such a narrow world. I cannot speak with their bit in my mouth.”
“You’ve quite a dim view of them.”
“I mean no harm.”
Father sighs, irritated. “I don’t understand.”
A door is opened. Music and chatter from the dance intrude on our silence until the door is mercifully closed again, and the party is no more than a dim murmur on the other side. Tears prick at my eyes. I swallow hard.
“I am not asking you to understand, Papa. I’m asking for you to accept.”
“Accept what?”
Me. Accept me, Papa. “My decision to live my own life as I see fit.”
It is so quiet that I suddenly wish I could take it back. Sorry, it was only a terrible joke. I should like a new dress, please.
Father clears his throat. “That is not as easy as you make it sound.”
“I know it. I know I shall make beastly mistakes, Father—”
“The world does not forgive mistakes so quickly, my girl.” He sounds bitter and sad.
“Then if the world will not forgive me,” I say softly, “I shall have to learn to forgive myself.”
He nods in understanding.
“And how will you marry? Or do you intend to marry?”
I think of Kartik, and tears threaten. “I shall meet someone one day, as Mother found you.”
“You are so very much like her,” he says, and for once, I do not wince.
He rises and paces the room, hands behind his back. I do not know what will happen. Will he grant my wish? Will he tell me I am foolish and impossible and sentence me back to the ballroom, with its whirl of satins and fans? Is that where I belong? Will I regret this tomorrow? Father stands before a large portrait of a rather grim woman. She sits, hands in her lap, an unreadable expression upon her face, as if she expects nothing and will likely get it.