An hour later, Drucilla was still in her bedroom.
I knocked gently. There was no answer but I could hear her moving around. I knocked again, harder. “Drucilla, are you all right?”
“Please go away, Verity,” she snuffled. “I have a headache.”
“But … isn’t there anything I can do?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? Smelling salts? A cup of tea?”
“No!”
That last “no” was quite ferocious. I went downstairs, taking each step slowly. What on earth could I do to bring Drucilla and SP together?
You see, after everyone had calmed down, Judith had taken me aside and explained why Drucilla must marry SP.
“They’re made for each other,” she’d said. “They are both clever, funny and somewhat eccentric. They will fight and make up again splendidly. And though looks aren’t everything, Drucilla – with her red hair and blue eyes – is adorably pretty.”
Now that Judith had put the idea into my head, it was as plain as the nose on your face. Yes, SP had been head over heels ever since Drucilla had come into our lives. And if he’d made his proposal in private, I thought, right now he may have been happily engaged. I could still see his puzzled expression. Hurt feelings, bruised pride, broken heart … I felt so sorry for SP.
I wandered downstairs and through the house to Papa’s study. The door was open a crack, and I peeked in. He was lying on the sofa with a glass of soda water in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. He looked so happy I decided not to lecture him about the cigar. Doctor Isaacs had said he must cut down to one a day, and I knew for a fact he’d had two already. But it was his birthday, and I intended to slip away without disturbing him. However, Papa must have sensed I was there.
“Chérie?”
“Yes, Papa.” I went over and kissed him on the forehead. “Did you enjoy your party?”
“It was a lovely party. Our dearest friends – well, they are like family, aren’t they? And how kind of SP to find Nicky and Ernö for me.”
“Mr Petrov looks so ill.”
“He is. He is almost crippled, poor fellow, and racked with pain. It is the result of a terrible fever he caught in India. I almost did not recognise him, Verity, and yet we were boys together in Russia.” Papa sighed deeply. “Poor Nicky. First his wife died, and then his son. He sold up his business in London and went to India. Everything went well for him there – he made his fortune and his daughter Irina married an army officer and had three children of her own. But then she and her husband were killed in an accident, leaving Nicky to bring up the little ones.”
“Oh, how awful.”
“It doesn’t end there,” said Papa. “His grandchildren died in an outbreak of cholera two years ago. His life has been full of tragedy.”
So had Papa’s for that matter, but he was not a man to dwell on such things.
“Since then he has remarried. His wife was the children’s nanny.” Papa sighed again. “I suppose the two old people came together in their grief. I am glad for him. I have often thought about it for myself – marrying again, you know – but somehow, well … It is not for me. But,” he said in a brighter voice, “for SP, it is the very thing! He wants to marry our Drucilla, eh. What do you think of that, chérie?”
“I just want him to be happy. Now he is quite heartbroken.”
“Oh, young men need some heartbreak. It is character-building. And as your English Shakespeare says, ‘the course of true love never ran smooth’. Did you know that Isabella refused me three times before she said yes? Well, she did. The arguments we had! Ah, but when we made up again …” He closed his eyes briefly, remembering my mother. Then he said, “Go to my desk, will you, chérie? In that first drawer – yes, that’s the one. You will find a small flat box.”
“This red one?” I held it up.
“Open it.”
Snug inside the box was a miniature portrait in a gold frame. It was of a dark-haired woman with a complicated old-fashioned coiffure. I gazed at it for a few seconds before I picked it up. I felt wary. Because of my gift, you see. I don’t mean teleagtivism – the ability to find lost things by thinking about them. I’ve always been able to do that, even before Professor Plush gave it a fancy name. No, I mean my other gift. Psychometry. In plain English, it’s when objects – like this miniature – make me see things. Scenes from the past, with long-dead emotions. It’s strange and unsettling and sometimes downright scary. But there wasn’t even a tingling in my fingertips as I held Isabella’s picture. Isabella … my mother.
“When I was ill, I often felt that she was here with me,” said Papa. “Sometimes I could even smell her perfume. I thought it was because I was going to die.”
“Papa! Please don’t.”
“But I didn’t die, and she is still here, near me. I wonder if I am getting some of your gift, Verity. Perhaps it has rubbed off on me.” He was silent for a few seconds. “That picture was painted the year we were married. She was thirty years old and as beautiful as a queen. I have looked at it every day since I lost her. But I don’t think I need it now. I would like you to have it, Verity.”
I looked at the mysterious smile, the shining eyes. Even though I would always think of Ma as my mother, Isabella had given me life. We were linked together forever by Papa’s love.
“Love,” said Papa, as if he had read my thoughts. “L’amour. We had the real thing, Isabella and I. I hope your Drucilla gets over her huff with poor SP and takes his ring.”
“So do I.” I kissed his silvery head. “Thank you, Papa.” Then I couldn’t help myself. “You don’t really want this, do you?” I said as I plucked the cigar out of his hand.
He gave a shout of laughter. “Such a bossy boots you are, chérie! Just like your mother.”
The little case opened to make a stand, so when I went up to my bedroom I set the miniature on my dressing table, next to my framed photograph of Papa. Seeing them side by side, I smiled. They belonged together, Papa and Isabella. Isabella. Suddenly it seemed wrong to call her by her first name. She was my mother.
“Mama.” As I said it out loud, tears came to my eyes. I’d resisted that word for a long time. It seemed disloyal to Ma and Pa, who’d adopted me when I was just a tiny baby. They had been simple working people, kind and honest and loving, with no money for fripperies like portraits or photographs. They were always in my heart. Loving Papa and Mama couldn’t diminish what I felt for them.
“Mama,” I whispered. “I don’t remember you, but I know you loved me.”
I studied her face carefully. Papa had often told me how strong-willed she’d been. She’d had to be. Her parents, the Parker Pork Packing millionaires of Swine Bay, Ontario, Canada, had forbidden her to go on the stage as an opera singer. But she’d been determined. I could be very determined too. Was that what Papa meant by bossy?
Was I like Mama in any other way? Mama had been a tall woman and Papa had told me she’d been so lovely that people turned to stare at her in the street. Mama’s eyes were large, heavily lashed and deep, deep brown. According to Papa, even from “the gods” – the highest, cheapest seats in a theatre – opera-goers could see those eyes.
“Flashing with anger,” Papa had said. “Or melting with love. She was the perfect romantic heroine.”
Short and slim with fine brown hair, a small pointed face and not one skerrick of musical talent, I’d be lucky to be the heroine’s maid, I thought.
My reverie was interrupted by noises coming from the hall. Thump-thump-thump. Thud! I opened the door to see Drucilla manoeuvring her trunk into her bedroom. She must have gone upstairs to the boxroom and dragged it down herself.
“What are you doing?” I asked, even though it was obvious. She was packing.
“I’ve already written a letter to Aunt Theodora in Hobart. I shall post it tomorrow. As soon as I get a reply, I’ll book my passage to Tasmania.”
“Aunt Theodora? But you can’t stand her.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. She’s my nearest relative and I’ll only stay with her until I get another position.”
“But Drucilla, you’re being silly.”
She turned on me, eyes blazing. “I am not silly. You don’t understand. How can you? I simply cannot … I cannot …” She flung herself on the bed, weeping. I patted her back and made sympathetic noises, but I couldn’t for the life of me make out why she was acting this way. For a moment I thought about repeating Judith’s words – about Drucilla and SP being made for each other, and so on – but something stopped me. SP’s proposal had obviously taken her by surprise, and not in a good way. Perhaps she needed to get used to the idea of SP as a husband, not just a friend. Maybe some time away would change things. I sighed. Though according to Drucilla I couldn’t possibly understand, I knew that this was a case of l’amour gone very, very wrong.
I had thought Drucilla might stay in her room until she got a reply from Aunt Theodora, but the next morning she came downstairs for breakfast at eight o’clock as usual.
“Good morning, Kathleen. Good morning, girls,” she said. Apart from Kathleen, our maid, there was just Connie, Poppy and me in the breakfast room. Since his illness, Papa ate his breakfast in bed. It was doctor’s orders.
“Mornin’, miss.” Kathleen must have known about yesterday’s romantic debacle, but she tactfully ignored Drucilla’s red and swollen eyes. “Tea, miss?”
Drucilla took a tiny sip of her tea but made no move towards the toast rack or any of the covered dishes on the sideboard. Normally she had a hearty appetite. Was she going to go into a decline?
“Do eat something, Drucilla,” I said. “There’s bacon and eggs, or very nice sausages, or porridge–”
“May I be allowed to drink my tea in peace, Verity?”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
After that I kept quiet, but I was pleased to note that she ate two boiled eggs and three pieces of toast.
When she was finished, Drucilla said, “I have to talk to Mr Savinov first, but I will see you three girls for lessons in the schoolroom shortly. Today we will be practising mental arithmetic. And then grammar.”
Arithmetic? Grammar? “Drucilla, have you forgotten? We’re all going into town this morning.”
“Oh, yes; now I remember.” She turned to Poppy. “You must be on your best behaviour,” she said in a stern voice. Poppy’s manners were getting better all the time, but there was still the occasional lapse. “And you must keep your voice down. No shouting.”
“Connie is teaching me how to momulate my levels,” said Poppy. “Connie says I am doing very well.”
In the week that Connie had been staying with us, Poppy had become her devoted slave. “Connie says” started every second sentence.
“Are you sure you want to go, Drucilla? I can ask Papa to take us if you’re not feeling up to it,” I said.
“I am quite well,” she said snappishly. “Go and get ready, girls. We will take the train from St Kilda, and then walk to Mr Brandywine’s shop.”