The Sweet Far Thing by Libba Bray Read Free Book Online Page A

condescending way and I cannot help imagining him immersed in a large cauldron surrounded by hungry, fire-wielding cannibals. “You wouldn’t, would you, Gemma? You don’t wish to belong to anyone or anything at all.”
    “At least the members of the Hippocrates Society are men of science and medicine,” I say, ignoring his slight. “They share your interests.”
    “They do not garner the respect that the Athenaeum Club does. That is where the real power lies. And I hear the men of Hippocrates may vote to allow women to join them in a lesser capacity.” My brother snorts. “Women! In a gentlemen’s club!”
    “I like them already,” I say.
    He smirks. “You would.”

CHAPTER SIX
    THE LAST TIMEISAW OUR HOUSE IN BELGRAVIA, IT WAScloaked in the starkness of winter.
    As our carriage winds through Hyde Park, we are greeted by the glorious sight of budding trees standing as proud as the royal guard. Daffodils show off their new yellow bonnets. London smiles.
    Not so our housekeeper, Mrs. Jones. She greets me at the door in her black dress and white pinafore, a white doily of a cap on her head, and such a severe expression that I consider putting a glass to her mouth to see if there is still breath issuing from it.
    “How was your journey, miss?” she asks without enthusiasm.
    “Very pleasant, thank you.”
    “Very good, miss. I’ll have your case brought to your room, then?”

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    “Yes, thank you.”
    We take such pains to be polite. We never say what we mean. For all it matters, we could greet each other and speak only of cheese—“How was your Limburger, miss?” “Salty as a ripe Stinking Bishop, thank you.” “Ah, very cheddar, miss. I’ll have your Stilton brought to your Camembert, then.”—and no one would likely notice.
    “Your grandmother waits for you in the parlor, miss.”
    “Thank you.” I cannot help myself. “I’ll see myself into the Muenster.”
    “As you wish, miss.”
    And there we are, though it is a pity my wickedness has been wasted with no one to appreciate it but me.
    “You’re late,” Grandmama announces the moment I open the doors to the parlor. I don’t know why she’s blaming me, as I was neither the driver nor the horse. She casts a disapproving eye over me from head to toe. “We’ve a tea to attend at Mrs. Sheridan’s. You’ll want to change, of course. And what has happened to your hair? Is this the fashion at Spence these days? It won’t do. Stand still.” Grandmama pulls my hair up so tightly that my eyes water. She sticks in three pins that nearly impale my skull. “Much improved. A lady must always be at her best.”
    She rings a bell and our housekeeper arrives like a phantom. “Yes, mum?”
    “Mrs. Jones, Miss Doyle shall need assistance in dressing. Her gray wool, I should think. And another pair of gloves that do not look as if they’re the charwoman’s,” she says, scowling at the smudges on my fingertips.
    I’ve been home less than a minute, and already, I am under siege. I take in the dim parlor—the heavy burgundy velvet drapes, the dark green papered walls, the mahogany desk and bookcases, the Oriental rug, and the enormous fern in a heavy pot. “This room could do with a bit of light.” Hah. If it’s criticism she wants, two may play at that game.
    Grandmama’s face furrows into worry. “It is a fashionable room, is it not? Do you say that it is not fashionable?”
    “I didn’t say that. Only that it would be nice to let in the light.”
    Grandmama eyes the drapes as if considering. But it is short-lived and she once again regards me as a village’s missing idiot. “The sun will only fade the settee. And now, if we have dispensed with matters of decorating, you would do well to dress. We leave at half past.”
    A silent maid welcomes us to Mrs. Sheridan’s well-appointed library. The sight of so many books comforts me, which is more than I can say