And when I leave the room, he scarcely takes notice.
Grandmama sits in her chair, her fingers busy with her needlework, while I try to make a house of cards.
“I was very upset with your behavior this afternoon, Gemma. What if you had been seen by someone we know? There is your reputation—and ours—to think of.”
I drop a card onto the square I’ve built. “Isn’t there more to be concerned about than what others think of us?”
“A woman’s reputation is her worth,” Grandmama explains.
“It’s a small way to live.” I drop a queen of hearts on top. The card walls shiver and collapse under the new weight.
“I don’t know why I bother,” she sniffs. Her stitching picks up new, furious speed. When she can’t bring me to heel with scolding, she bends me into shape with guilt.
I try arranging the cards again, perfecting my balancing act.
“Stay,” I whisper. I place the last card on top and wait.
“Is that all you have to occupy your time? Card houses?” Grandmama sneers.
I sigh, and the tiny gust of breath tears down my work. The cards flutter into a messy pile. I’m in no humor for this. The afternoon’s events were upsetting enough, and if I cannot have comfort, I should like some peace. A little magic can remove her disappointment and my own.
“You’ll forget everything that happened today after we left the dressmaker’s shop, Grandmama. I am your beloved granddaughter, and we are happy, all of us…,” I intone.
Grandmama looks helplessly at the needlework in her lap. “I…I’ve forgotten my stitch.”
“Here, I’ll help you,” I say, guiding her hands till she picks it up again.
“Ah, me. Thank you, Gemma. You are such a comfort to me. What would I do without you?”
Grandmama smiles, and I do my best to return it, though somewhere deep inside I wonder if I have traded one life of lies for another.
A terrible knocking has me awake and not at all happy about it. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I creep downstairs. It’s Tom who is making such a racket. He’s returned in a lively mood; in fact, he enters the drawing room singing. It is an unnatural occurrence, like watching a dog ride a bicycle.
“Gemma!” he says happily. “You’re awake!”
“Yes, well, it would prove difficult to sleep through this cacophony.”
“I am sorry.” He bows and comes up too quickly, stumbling into a small table and knocking over a vase of flowers. The water spills onto Grandmama’s precious Persian carpet. Tom tries to rescue the vase but it only spins away from him.
“Tom, what are you doing?”
“This poor vessel is not well. It requires my care.”
“It is not a patient,” I say, taking it from him.
He shrugs. “It’s still not well.”
Tom flops into a chair and tries to muster what dignity he has left by arranging and rearranging his disheveled tie. The smell of spirits is quite strong on his breath.
“You’re drunk,” I whisper.
Tom holds up his finger like a solicitor addressing a witness. “That is a scur—shcurous—schurress…terrible thing to say.”
“Scurrilous,” I say, correcting him.
He nods. “Precisely.”
I’ve been awakened by an idiot. I shall go back to bed and leave him to torment the servants and wither under their judging eyes come morning. Clearly, whatever magic I’ve given Tom has gone and he is back to his impossible self.
“Go on, ask me about my evening,” he says, far too loudly.
“Tom, mind your voice,” I whisper.
Tom wags his head. “Exactly so, exactly so. Quiet as a church mouse, that’s me. Now. Ask.” He folds his arms, nearly clocking himself in the face.
“Very well,” I say. “How was your evening?”
“I’ve done it, Gem. Proved myself. For I have been asked to join a very exclusive club.” Exclusive comes out sounding more like “ex-cuusif.” Seeing my puzzled face, he frowns. “You could offer congratulations, you know.”
“Is it the Athenaeum, then? I thought…”
His face darkens. “Oh. That.” He waves it away with his hand. “They don’t take chaps like me. Haven’t you heard? Not good enough.” The liquor has only added to his bitterness. “No. This is different. Like the Knights Templar. Men of crusades! Men of action!” He gestures broadly, nearly taking out the vase again. I rescue it quickly.
“Men of clumsiness is more like it,” I grumble. “Very well, you’ve intrigued me. What is this saintly club?”
