We found Papa, Helen and Mr Petrov in the Indian room. Mr Petrov, swathed in a shawl with a blanket over his knees, was sitting close to the fire. He had waited up for us. Poppy and Connie had gone straight to bed, and Helen was about to do the same.
“It was a lovely evening,” she said. “And I’m so glad for Connie. A great opportunity.”
“And you sang beautifully too,” said Papa, gallantly.
“Thank you.” She paused at the door. “Shall I leave it open, Nicholas? It’s so hot in here.”
“But I am always cold,” said Mr Petrov. He looked at her with a strange expression on his face. Was it regret, tenderness, sorrow … or all three? “Forgive me, my dear.”
“Of course,” she said. “You are in pain.”
“All the time, Helen.”
I’d been feeling sorry for Helen, married to such a sick and grumpy old man. Now I felt for Mr Petrov too. Life could be so very complicated.
Helen came back, leaned over and kissed her husband on the forehead. “Goodnight, dear. Goodnight, everyone.”
As we ate our supper, the reflected light from the flames flickered and danced on the brass trays and vases. The elephants cast shadows onto the wall and on the mantelpiece; the peacock feathers gleamed blue and gold.
“They really do look like eyes, don’t they?” said Papa, settling back with his glass of brandy. “They are looking at us.”
“The evil eye, more like,” said Hannah as she brought in hot milk. “Mr Petrov knows full well it’s bad luck to have peacock feathers in the house.”
“Is that an old superstition?” asked Papa when she’d left the room.
“Apparently so,” said Mr Petrov. “But my bad luck began long before I’d even seen a peacock. It started in St Petersburg.”
“What did, Nicky?”
Mr Petrov didn’t answer Papa’s question. He seemed to be talking to himself, the way older people often did. “My poor wife Natalya said it was a curse. Perhaps she was right. I’m glad she wasn’t there to see her grandchildren die.”
There was a brief silence and again I was uncomfortably aware of the chess set on its carved table.
“Did you ever hear of the Hand of Hope, Pierre?”
“It was a political group, was it not?”
“Yes. They were idealists who wanted to bring justice to the workers and peasants. I printed some pamphlets and posters for them, much to Natalya’s horror. And she was right, after all. Nothing was the same after …”
“After what, Uncle?”
Mr Petrov looked at Harold and me as if he’d forgotten we were there. Now he roused himself. “No, no, that is past history and not for your young ears. Now, off to bed. At your age, you need your sleep.”
As I shut the door behind me, I looked back into the room. Papa was right. The feathers did look like eyes.
Blood-red satin. Mama was wearing a red evening dress with an old-fashioned bell-shaped skirt that swayed as she walked. The earrings were rubies; so was the glittering necklace. A fan, made of cream-coloured lace and dotted with tiny red sequins, hung from one wrist, and her other hand rested on Papa’s arm. He was dark-haired and very handsome. They seemed to be in some kind of park. Was that a ruin? Among the trees I could see columns choked in ivy and what looked like a marble statue. Wherever they were, they were happy to be together. As she looked at Papa, Mama’s eyes shone. They laughed and chatted as if they were off to a party or a ball. Then they fell silent. A man stood in front of them. Tall, rather portly, red-headed.
“Come back,” he said. “I will forgive you.”
Mama shook her head.
And then I realised where they were. It was a cemetery.
I woke, trembling. Just a dream, I told myself.
Just a dream? That was no comfort. Last year, I’d had the same nightmare over and over again and it had turned out to be a premonition. Sometimes, dreams were messages from the past. Or from the future …
I heard a clock strike somewhere in the house. It was only three o’clock. I tried to snuggle down under the covers and go back to sleep but I kept seeing Mama and Papa and the red-headed man. Who was he? Why was he in my dream? You see, I recognised him. He’d been in my vision at the theatre, in Mama’s dressing-room, playing with her fan. He’d asked her to come back with him and he’d called her Penny. This man must have known Mama since she was a child, because later she used the stage name Isabella Savage. Perhaps they were sweethearts … No. Whether it was his small pale-lashed eyes, upturned nose or the fat belly that even his well-cut suit could not disguise, there was something horribly piggy about him.
Sleep was now just wishful thinking. I looked over at the other bed. Poppy was curled up like a kitten, but Connie had sprawled sideways and pushed the bedclothes off. I got up and pulled them over her again. Looking down at her face, I saw that she was smiling and I’m ashamed to say that something like jealousy shot through me. Connie had a gift. Oh, I knew I had one too, but mine was a tricky kind of talent and I couldn’t help wondering what I was meant to do with it. Connie’s gift was her destiny. She was a musician. With Madame Fodor as her teacher, perhaps she would have her chance to shine with recitals and concerts, even overseas travel to Paris or Rome. I pulled myself up short. Connie’s home was Riverbend Station. Could she bear to be parted from her father? How I wished I had a crystal ball.
My mind wandered. I thought of Millie the Milliner. Though it would be fun to see it in Mr Brandywine’s shop, I didn’t think I’d write another book. Writing wasn’t my passion. Mrs Morcom, trudging through jungles and swamps to paint rare plants, had a passion. And so did Harold. So had Mama. Sighing, I rolled over and tried to get comfortable. I turned fifteen this year; I was nearly grown up. What would life hold?
I must have gone back to sleep soon after that, because I had another dream.
Papa and Mama again. They were still young and happy, but this time there was no red-headed man with them. They were walking together along a country road. They hadn’t seen me yet, for they were taking their time, talking quietly to each other, hand in hand. Mama looked up. Recognition seemed to light her face. She waved. It was then that I realised that I wasn’t alone. Someone was standing next to me. It was Della Parker.
Della took my hand in hers. “Come on,” she said. “It’s time …”
Della’s face, so like Mama’s, hovered in my mind when I woke. My hand in hers … I could almost feel the warm pressure of her fingers. And instead of alarm, I felt a strange feeling of peace. Della, I thought. Della Parker … You’ve come into my life for a reason. There was no fear as I pondered that thought, only curiosity. Why?