Chapter 5

The next day, a small crowd was gathered in the vast castle kitchens.

‘Mrs Cobbett isn’t going to like it, sir,’ Johnson told the Maharaja.

‘My dear man, Mrs Cobbett is being given the whole afternoon and evening off, as are the rest of the kitchen staff. She has nothing to complain about.’

‘But that’s her kitchen. She won’t want strangers in it.’

‘I can hardly ask Mrs Sullivan to cater a picnic dinner for the whole of her circus cast and crew in her little tent, can I?’ The Maharaja ushered Johnson out of the castle kitchens, past where Lizzie and the Sullivans stood waiting in the hallway. Johnson glowered at them as he passed.

Ma Sullivan took a deep breath. ‘Right, girls! Let’s get to work.’ She strode into the kitchens and looked around approvingly at the hanging pots and pans, the slate work surfaces, the colossal table and the stove. All the walls were covered with cream-coloured tiles with embossed patterns on. ‘Saints preserve us, would you look at the size of this place. I could feed the five thousand with a kitchen like this.’

‘Why does the Maharaja think you couldn’t cope in your tea tent?’ Erin said, casting a wary eye over the dangling ladles and knives. ‘You feed us all every day with your dear little stove.’

‘Ah, but not all at once, cushla, and that’s the point.’ Ma Sullivan rolled up her sleeves. ‘The Maharaja wants a grand feast, and a grand feast he shall have.’

Flora, the circus’s Fat Lady, fat as a Christmas pudding, and the Amazon Queen, tall and mahogany-brown, let themselves into the kitchen. ‘Heard it was all hands to the pump,’ Flora said. ‘What can we do to ’elp?’

‘You heard right. I’ll need spuds peeled, chickens plucked, apples cored, and anything this lot don’t have in their stores we’ll have to send to town for.’

So that afternoon it was Ma Sullivan who was the ringmaster, taking over the castle kitchens and ransacking the stores, while Nora, Erin and Lizzie scurried around doing whatever they were told and trying not to get under anybody’s feet. Lizzie did her best, but she wasn’t used to cooking, and when she tried to chop an onion it shot across the room like a cannonball. Taking the knife off her, Ma Sullivan sent Lizzie off on an errand instead.

‘We’ll need ice for the ice cream. You know where it’s kept?’

‘The ice house?’

‘Clever girl.’

Lizzie had seen the ice house earlier, a gloomy stone building like a tiny tomb, cold enough to store ice in the summer. As she crossed the lawn, she saw the castle staff setting up tables and chairs and laying delicate white cloths out. It’s going to be a proper fancy dinner party, she thought, and felt a surge of excitement. Tonight she’d dine with royalty. It was a long way from the squalor and hunger of Rat’s Castle where she’d started out.

Johnson was shepherding the rest of the staff about, grumpily ordering them to set a table down here or a chair there, and to mind the ruddy flowerbeds while they did it. As Lizzie watched, the Maharaja came strolling over in his shooting coat, smoking a fat cigar and nodding in approval.

‘Capital work, Johnson,’ he said.

‘With respect, sir, you oughtn’t to be hosting this party at all.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘I’d be wary of showing off your wealth in front of all these strangers. I wouldn’t let them into my home, neither. They don’t have much, by the look of them, and envy can make people light-fingered.’

Gurinder Bhatti waved away the comment. ‘They are my guests. Now, you have your instructions, Mister Johnson. I expect you to carry them out. Good man.’ He walked away, whistling to himself.

Johnson stared after him. He was turning beetroot-coloured with anger again. ‘Marching about like he owns the bloomin’ place, when he’s only the tenant,’ he muttered. ‘He’ll learn. Oh, he’ll learn. “From him who hath much, much shall be taken away.”’

Lizzie found Hari down by the ice house. Her friend was poking around in the gravel, and jumped when he saw Lizzie.

‘What you up to?’ she asked him.

‘Just examining the local rocks,’ Hari said casually. ‘You can find lots of interesting fossils here on the coast.’

‘Right,’ Lizzie said, eyeing him curiously. ‘What’s so interesting about them?’

‘They’re the remains of ancient animals,’ Hari explained.

‘Well, sorry to drag you away from your old animal rocks, but can you help me carry some ice?’ Lizzie asked.

They each gathered up a block of ice from the dark straw-packed cavity inside the building. ‘We should drop some of this down old Johnson’s back,’ Lizzie giggled. ‘Help him cool off.’

‘Is he shouting about his lawns again?’

‘He’s angry at the Maharaja for telling him what to do. I dunno why. He’s a servant, ain’t he? He gets paid to do what he’s told.’

‘Some white people think brown people are meant to take orders, not give them. If someone with dark skin tells them what to do, it turns their whole world upside down.’

‘Gawd. I never even thought of that.’

Hari shrugged. ‘Why would you? You’re white.’

‘It must be hard for you and your uncle, looking different.’

‘Different,’ Hari said thoughtfully. ‘Do you know what they call brown-skinned people in India?’

‘No, what?’

‘People.’

Later that afternoon, Ma Sullivan was in despair.

‘Lizzie, Lord love you, do you even know one end of a knife from another? I asked you to top and tail those green beans, and you’ve murdered them in cold blood!’

Lizzie, who had held the kitchen knife with both hands and hacked at the beans like a maniac until green fragments flew across the room, was not discouraged. ‘I can still help. Just give me something else to do.’

‘Can you beat an egg white until it’s stiff?’

‘Dunno,’ Lizzie said brightly. ‘Never tried.’

Ma Sullivan heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the pit of her stomach. ‘Best not, then. I’m scared to think what might come of it. Tell you what, let’s set you to buttering the bread. Saints help us if you can’t manage that.’

‘’Course I can butter a slice of bread!’ Lizzie scoffed.

Ma Sullivan set her to work, and asked in a softer voice, ‘Did you never help with the cooking at home, love?’

Lizzie shrugged. ‘There weren’t ever much to cook, even when my ma was alive. Pa took all the money and spent it on drink.’

‘Mother of mercy,’ Ma Sullivan said, shaking her head. ‘No wonder you were all skin and bones when you joined up with Fitzy’s.’ She whipped up egg whites and sugar into a foamy froth, then blobbed them out on a baking tray.

Nora and Erin looked on excitedly. ‘Are you making meringues, Ma?’

‘I surely am. We’ll have whipped cream and cherries, and we can use some of that ice to do a blackberry sorbet.’

Lizzie’s mouth watered at the thought of a table laden with desserts. ‘How’d you know how to make all this posh nosh?’ she asked. ‘Cakes is one thing, but this is a bit classy, innit?’

‘I used to be in service!’ Ma Sullivan said proudly. Her kindly eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘Picture me in a pinafore, if you will.’

‘Our ma worked in a big house like this one, so she did,’ Erin butted in. ‘The lord of the manor took a fancy to her, and she was only eighteen, and it was right scandalous.’

‘That he did, and that it was, and I was having none of it, so I ran away – Nora, would you check the red cabbage, it’s boiling dry for heaven’s sake. I met my dear Mister Sullivan in a ballroom in Galway. Before you could whistle, I’d run off to join the circus!’ She laughed loudly over the sound of bubbling pots and rattling lids.

Lizzie loved hearing Ma Sullivan’s stories, when the twins would let her finish them. ‘Fitzy must have been a young man then.’

‘No, this wasn’t Fitzy’s. We joined up with a fella name of Lovett. American, he was. Used to tour with a Wild West show, like Sean and the boys do now. We travelled with him for a while – Flora, see if the pantry’s got a spare bottle of sherry for the trifle, and sure I’ll have one myself while you’re at it! – then with a load of other circuses until we threw in with Fitzy a few years ago.’

‘Do you ever miss it? Being in service?’

‘Miss it? Miss it?’ Ma Sullivan laughed until Lizzie worried she might hurt herself. ‘Oh, Lizzie, you do say the silliest things. Miss being bossed around by a bunch of toffs who look down on you all the time? Who could miss that?’ She paused and looked around. ‘Ah, but a grand kitchen like this, it’s wasted on the likes of Mrs Cobbett. I could work wonders in this place.’

Months ago, when Dru had been arrested by the London police in the belief he was the mysterious Phantom burglar, Lizzie had brought the real villain to light and saved Dru’s life. His sister Collette, who had been icy and harsh with Lizzie before, changed her attitude overnight. Her gratitude and affection were a bit embarrassing.

Still, she did know fashion, and had given Lizzie a stunning dress she’d outgrown. It was meant to be ‘for best’, but was so beautiful that Lizzie had never worn it. She sometimes unfolded it, just to look at, and then put it away again. Silly. When would she ever get a chance to dress up in fancy clothes while she was living this circus life, constantly on the road?

‘It’s time,’ she whispered, unfolding the parcel of crackly brown paper. A waft of lavender went up; Collette had left some in the dress’s folds to protect against moths.

The dress was blue silk, with a black lace overlay and beaded buttons. Lizzie changed into it, looked at herself in the mirror and made a little excited noise in her throat. She wasn’t sure how she could eat, with these butterflies in her stomach.

On impulse, she snatched up her mother’s tortoiseshell comb and arranged it in her brown hair, just so. Perfect. ‘Time to go and meet the quality,’ she told her reflection. ‘Wish you could be here too, Ma.’

The sun was setting behind the turrets of Dunsley Castle. All the circus folk were gathered on the lawn, dressed in their finest clothes. Lizzie stared at the clowns, unrecognizable in evening dress. She could tell that some last-minute sewing jobs had been carried out, and some collars had been freshened up with chalk, but at least they had made the effort.

She, Nora and Erin slowly walked over to where Dru, Hari and Malachy were standing below a tree. Nora and Erin were in identical dresses of rust-coloured silk, their hair patiently combed through and tied up in bows. The boys all looked like young men in their evening dress. A strange silence fell as they looked one another up and down.

Malachy coughed. ‘Erin, you look, um…’

She cocked her head. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘You’re all so…’ Hari couldn’t get the words out. Nora raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Dru came to their rescue. ‘Ladies, you are all exquisite. It would be our honour if you would accompany us to the table. Gentlemen, allons-y.’

He offered Lizzie his arm and she took it, her heart thumping. She felt ever so grown-up all of a sudden, carrying on like this.

The Maharaja spread his hands in welcome. He wore his full ceremonial ensemble, from the turban festooned with pearls to the great lengths of rich crimson silk that draped his arms and waist. But it was the woman behind him who drew everyone’s attention.

‘My friend, the Lady Susannah de Montefiore,’ he said proudly. It was the same blonde woman he’d been sitting with at the Oxford performance, but now she was dressed in deep indigo and wore so much black jet jewellery that it put the window display at Delingpole’s to shame.

Everybody stood in a line, ready to be introduced to the pair, and a hubbub of whispered conversation began.

‘She’s so beautiful,’ Lizzie whispered to the Sullivans.

Mrs Sullivan sucked at her cheeks. ‘Aye, she’s a looker, and don’t she know it?’

‘Ma!’ said Nora through clenched teeth.

‘I speak as I find,’ Ma Sullivan said firmly. ‘She’s a little too full of herself for my liking.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘She reminds me of someone too. Was it … no, can’t place her. Probably one of the posh people I used to work for. Lord knows there were enough of those.’

Fitzy worked his way down the line, introducing the Maharaja to each member of the circus in turn. The Maharaja shook their hands enthusiastically and seemed every bit as excited as he had been in the show tent. He was full of questions: did Mario the Mighty have a special diet? Was every clown’s make-up truly unique? How old was Leo the lion?

He was especially excited to meet Lizzie. ‘The famous fortune-teller! I tried palm-reading myself, you know, but I never had the knack for it. Do you do séances? I’ve been to a few in London, where a psychic communicated with spirits.’

Lady Susannah, who had been quiet until now, spoke up before Lizzie could answer. ‘You’re a clairvoyant?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Lizzie said, giving a little curtsey. Was that the right thing to do? She had absolutely no idea.

‘I’m sure you’re very convincing,’ the lady said, with a gracious smile. She turned to the Maharaja. ‘It’s all an act, my love. They work it all out with special signals and so forth. She doesn’t really have mysterious powers.’

‘She does,’ Hari insisted. ‘You should let her do a reading for you. You won’t doubt her after that, I promise you.’

‘Well,’ Lady Susannah said with a light laugh, ‘perhaps that can be arranged.’

‘I love your jewellery!’ Nora burst out, unable to contain herself. ‘It’s just beautiful.’

Erin glared at her sister, but Lady Susannah didn’t seem to mind. ‘Jet is popular in London too,’ she smiled. ‘For the same reason as séances are, I am sorry to say. Grief for the dead. Our beloved Queen Victoria is wearing it in mourning.’

The Maharaja sighed. ‘Indeed. Poor, dear Victoria. Since her husband Albert passed away, she is quite inconsolable. I fear she will waste away altogether from sheer grief.’

It gave Lizzie a giddy feeling to think that the man standing before her was a close friend of the Queen of England. ‘Poor thing,’ she said, not knowing what else to say.

‘Don’t tell the Queen,’ said the Maharaja with a wink, ‘but I have a gift I think will bring fire back into her heart again. Mum’s the word, eh?’

Lizzie suddenly had a hunch. The word sparkling had popped into her mind. ‘Is it jet jewellery?’ she guessed.

‘Oh, no!’ the Maharaja laughed, lifting a chubby finger. ‘My present is far more valuable than jet.’

Lizzie noticed Lady Susannah giving him a somewhat frosty look, but said nothing. Is the lady jealous of Queen Victoria? she wondered. It must be a truly amazing present…

The Maharaja moved on down the line. Nora sighed and muttered, ‘Look at all that jet. It’s lying on her in heaps! Oh, I’d do anything for some of my own!’

‘You don’t need jewellery,’ Hari said in a shy voice. ‘You’re pretty enough as you are.’

‘I thought you only fancied fossils?’ Lizzie teased.

Nora hadn’t heard properly, and spun around indignantly. ‘Did you just call me a fossil, Hari?’

* * *

Later on, as they were about to sit down to dinner, Lizzie glanced out over the castle grounds. Dusk was setting in, but the sea was still dimly visible in the far distance. Just as she was fondly remembering how it felt to swim there, a strange greenish light appeared, flickering across the waves. It was only there for a second, then it was gone.

She rubbed her eyes and looked again. Probably just my imagination, she thought. It’s been a long, busy day…

The light flickered again. Was she seeing things, or was it coming from a misty cloud on the sea?

A chill ran through her. She’d seen that sight in her vision; now she was seeing it in real life. She remembered what Elsie the cockle girl had said about the ghosts of drowned sailors returning to the town after dark. The light she was seeing now must be the same light Elsie had spoken fearfully about…

The light of the ghost ship.