A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(77)

“Let’s do something with that hair of yours.”

She tries to see around me in the mirror. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing a good brushing and several pins can’t cure. Hold still.”

I take down her hair. The brush yanks through a knotty snarl at the base of her scalp. “Ouch!”

“The price of beauty,” I say by way of apologizing without really apologizing. After all, she said she wanted to come along.

“The price of baldness, you mean.”

“If you’d hold still, this wouldn’t be so difficult.”

She’s suddenly so still she could be mistaken for a stone. Pain is underrated as a tool of motivation. I put what seems like a thousand pins in to hold her hair in place. It’s not half bad. At least it’s an improvement, and I’m feeling a little impressed with myself, actually. Ann positions herself in front of the mirror.

“What do you think?” I ask.

She turns her head left and right. “I liked it the other way.”

“There’s gratitude for you. You’re not going to be this sullen all day, are you? Because if you are—”

Felicity pushes open the door and leans provocatively against the frame, playing the coquette. “Bonjour, mesdemoiselles. ’Tis I, the Queen of Sheba. You may save your genuflecting for later.” The laces of her corset have been cinched so tight that her breasts are pushed forward noticeably. “What do you think, darlings? Am I not irresistible?”

“Beautiful,” I answer. When Ann hesitates, I nudge her foot with mine.

“Yes, beautiful,” she echoes.

Felicity smiles as if she’s only just discovering the world. “He’s coming. I can’t wait for him to see what a lady I’ve become these past two years. Can you believe it’s been two long years since I last saw my father?” She twirls around the room. “Of course, you must meet him. He’ll adore you all, I’m sure of it. I want him to see that I’m getting on well here. Does either of you have any scent?”

Ann and I shake our heads.

“No perfume at all? I can’t go without smelling lovely!” Felicity’s mood is dropping fast.

“Here,” I say, pulling a rose from a vase on the windowsill. The petals crush easily, leaving a sweet, sticky juice on my fingers. I dab it behind Felicity’s ears and onto her wrists.

She brings her wrist to her nose and inhales. “Perfect! Gemma, you are a genius!” She throws her arms around me, gives me a little kiss. It’s a bit disconcerting, this side of Felicity, like having a pet shark that thinks itself a goldfish.

“Where’s Pip?” Ann asks.

“Downstairs. Her parents came with Mr. Bumble. Can you imagine? Let’s hope she sends him packing today. Well,” Felicity says, breaking away. “Adieu, les filles. I shall see you anon.” With a low bow, she is gone in a haze of roses and hope.

“Come on, then,” I say to Ann, wiping the last traces of flower from my fingers. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”



The front parlor is crowded with girls and their various family members when we arrive downstairs. I’ve seen better organization on India’s infamous trains. My family is nowhere to be seen.

Pippa comes over to us, head bowed. A woman in a ludicrous hat complete with feathers trails behind her. She is outfitted in a dress better suited for a younger woman and for evening wear at that. A fur stole hangs from her shoulders. There are two men with her. I recognize the bushy-whiskered Mr. Bumble straightaway. The other I take to be Pippa’s father. He has her dark coloring.

“Mother, Father, may I present Miss Gemma Doyle and Miss Ann Bradshaw?” she says, her voice almost a whisper.

“How do you do? It’s so charming to meet Pippa’s little friends.” Pip’s mother is as beautiful as her daughter, but her face is harder, a fact she’s tried to hide with plenty of jewels.

Ann and I make our polite hellos. After a silence, Mr. Bumble clears his throat.

Mrs. Cross’s mouth is a tight line of a smile. “Pippa, aren’t you forgetting someone?”

Pippa swallows hard. “May I also present Mr. Bartleby Bumble, Esquire?” The next part comes out like a quiet cry. “My fiancé.”

Ann and I are too astonished to speak.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintances.” He looks down his nose at us. “I do hope they serve tea soon,” he says, glancing at his pocket watch with impatience.

This rude old man with the fat face is going to be lovely Pippa’s husband? Pippa, whose every waking moment is consumed by thoughts of a pure, undying, romantic love, has been sold to the highest bidder, a man she does not know, does not care about. She stares at the Persian carpet as if it might open up and swallow her down whole, save her.

Ann and I extend our hands and make our subdued greetings.

“It’s good to see that my fiancée is acquainted with the right sort of girls,” Mr. Bumble sniffs. “There’s so much that can taint the young and impressionable. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Cross?”

“Oh, absolutely, Mr. Bumble.”

He deserves to have his head on a spike for all to see. Warning: If you are insufferable, do not walk here. We shall eat you down to the marrow.