Friday, August 31, 1888
“I cannot believe you made me take an omnibus,” I said to Everett, moments after we arrived in Spitalfields on that hot and sticky afternoon. I let my shoulders sag slightly. “It just feels so … common.”
Everett arched a brow at me, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Shall I call a carriage next time for your royal highness?”
Pursing my lips in annoyance, I strode on ahead of him, tilting my chin up.
“We are quickly running out of money,” he added, catching up to me with quick strides. “We cannot afford to take hansoms everywhere.”
“Everywhere,” I repeated, glaring up at him. “Because we are constantly on the go. My social calendar is terribly full.”
“Cora—”
“The theater, the opera, a party or two,” I continued. “There is always something on the go and we are paying drivers several times a day.” I stopped and glared at him. “Do you want to make a positive impression on these people or not? What will it say if my hem is filthy and I smell of whatever I happen to step in on our way there?”
“They live in Spitalfields,” he reminded me in a hushed tone.
I understood what he meant. One of the poorest areas of London, the streets were crammed with merchants, immigrants, and evidence of severe poverty. The most noticeable thing about the area was the stark contrast of grim destitution so close to busy and prosperous shops, bright silks draped in their store windows.
After a few minutes of following Everett down this street and that, I spoke up. “Do you know your way around all of London or just the poorer parts?”
He shot me a look over his shoulder.
“I mean it,” I said. “Your sense of direction is quite remarkable.”
“I’ve lived in many different areas of London,” he said. “All over.”
We navigated through the busy streets of Spitalfields and a few other pedestrians got between us, my wide skirts hindering my path, and Everett rushing on ahead without me. When he realized I was not at his side he stopped, and a lady nearly bumped into the back of him.
He smiled weakly back at me. “Apologies. I am not used to getting around with another person.” Everett offered me his arm, I took it, and we navigated the busy street together.
A few minutes later, we stopped at a dark and narrow house, looming over the corner where two busy streets met. Four stories high and not especially well-maintained, the house was heavy with windows, each one somehow a slightly different shape and size from the one next to it. Its exterior of weathered gray stone made it look as if the house itself was coated in dust. A small wooden plaque hung by the door, reading The Hemlock, its letters tall and thin like a drooping branch from a dead tree.
Everett kept glancing at me, probably to see if I would let cowardice overtake me. I put my shoulders back and approached the front door. A glimpse of movement from an upstairs window caught my eye as I lifted the heavy knocker on the door, the handle embellished with the iron head of a demon baring his angry fangs.
I looked up at Everett for reassurance. He folded his hands in front of him and gave me a nod and a calm smile, holding my gaze for a moment. I took a deep breath and waited. After a moment, a middle-aged woman greeted us by opening the door by about an inch and looking at us through suspicious, narrowed eye slits.
“Yes?” she spat in a cockney accent. “Who are ya?”
“Good morning,” Everett said, his tone friendly, as he pulled the letter from his pocket. “We were asked to come to this address to speak with Miss Baudelaire.”
The woman’s face softened slightly at the reference, but she still snatched the letter from Everett’s hand. She gave it a quick skim and looked us over once more. “Alrigh’ then.” She opened the door wider. “Come in. I’m Mrs. Jones, her housekeeper. ‘Ave a seat an’ I’ll go fetch ’er for ya.”
I followed Everett into the great room, the heavy front door thundering as she shut it behind us before disappearing down a hallway. The floors creaked underfoot, and I found myself holding onto Everett’s arm again. He led me to the purple velvet chaise in the middle of the room and I exhaled slowly as I sat, my eyes gradually adjusting to the dim lighting.
Everett leaned his head closer to me. “Are you having second thoughts?” His breath was sweet, and his lips were so close to my cheek that I felt the heat rise in my neck.
“No,” I said, counting the number of cobwebs between each spoke of the staircase bannister nearby. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you are squeezing my arm so tightly I am concerned it may fall off.”
I looked at him and then quickly pulled my hands free, clasping them together in my lap so I might stop them from shaking.
“Mrs. Jones could have at least offered us some kind of refreshment,” I said quietly, desperate to appear unmoved.
“You must forgive Mrs. Jones’ rudeness,” a smoky voice said from the darkened hallway. “She is a barbarian.”
Everett and I bolted to our feet as a figure stepped out of the shadows, the spiraling smoke from her cigarette visible before the rest of her. Minerva Baudelaire swept into the room, a long cigarette holder held tight within her bright red lips. The train of her lavish, glittering red and black sequined gown dragged behind her as she walked towards us.
I had never seen a woman under three feet tall look so elegant and powerful.
She plucked the cigarette holder from her mouth and effortlessly blew a smoke ring. “Oh, do sit down,” she said with an eye roll under her thick black eyelashes. “I’m not the queen.” She grinned. “Not yet, anyway.”
We both sat immediately, like a pair of well-trained hounds.
“It is an honor to meet you, Miss Baudelaire,” Everett said, beaming at the sight of her. “I saw you perform many times growing up.”
She studied him for a moment and used her cigarette holder to point at him. “You look familiar. What is your name, young man?”
He gave me a quick glance. “Everett Rigby, ma’am. I’ve done props and lighting at most of the small theaters and music halls in London. I believe we have crossed paths a few times over the years. You have a remarkable memory to recognize me.”
I did not even know he worked at any music halls.
She stepped onto a little stool before sitting in an armchair across from us and took a long, thoughtful inhale on her cigarette. “Any relation to Henry Rigby?”
“Yes.” Everett glanced at me again as he spoke. “He was my uncle.”
The corner of her painted lips curled up. “He was quite the rotter, wasn’t he?”
He laughed. “Yes. Yes, he was.”
She knows more about Everett than I do.
Mrs. Jones appeared out of nowhere to trade Miss Baudelaire’s cigarette holder for a glass of sherry. She placed two glasses on a nearby table for Everett and me.
Perhaps not a barbarian after all.
Miss Baudelaire slowly moved her eyes from Everett to me. “Madame Pringle.”
I smiled and gave a single nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
She pointed at me and wiggled her finger. “Do a turn for me?”
Rising to my feet, I did a slow spin as directed. Miss Baudelaire nodded and I took my seat again.
“Bella said you were a beauty. She was right to think so.”
Miss Baudelaire’s letter had explained that one of her troupe’s members, Bella, had come to the flat for a reading as a sort of blind audition. Miss Baudelaire could not come herself as she was too easily identifiable.
I beamed. “That is very kind of you to say.”
“She also said your act is horrendous and needs a tremendous amount of work.”
My shoulders fell a bit. “Oh.”
“But she is obviously good enough to garner your attention,” Everett added, “or you would not have invited us to talk about potential opportunities.”
Miss Baudelaire’s lips pursed slightly. “Our act has been wanting since the unfortunate departure of our former spiritualist. The fool met a rich American and went to New York. She was quite a good performer. You will need to either be comparable to her or exceed her in popularity. We will work on your act and provide costumes.”
I nodded again. “Yes, ma’am.”
“We will also provide you a new name since Madame Pringle is a little uninspired as well as tarnished, thanks to that article about you in the Gazette Weekly.”
I winced. I had hoped she had not read it. It seemed not much escaped Miss Baudelaire.
“We can also provide you with lodgings here,” she continued, “but, naturally, rent and meals will come out of your weekly pay. You have potential, Mrs. Pringle, and we will see where we are in a month’s time. Stay for lunch. We can discuss business after.”
I beamed. “Thank you, Miss Baudelaire.”
“Yes, thank you so much,” Everett added.
Miss Baudelaire’s mouth tightened as she looked back at him. “Apologies, Mr. Rigby. I can only provide lodgings for the talent.”
I had not even considered that Miss Baudelaire might not want Everett as part of the arrangement.
“He is my manager,” I said quickly.
“No, I am your manager now,” she corrected, her eyes still on him.
I panicked. I did not want to venture into this strange new world without Everett.
“You must know, he has a lot of experience working with performers and stage props and costumes. Perhaps you would consider bringing him on as well?”
She took a long drag on her cigarette, looking Everett over for a moment.
“Fine,” she eventually said, the words mingling in the cloud of smoke between us. “It just so happens that our prop master is having some back trouble and could use the help at the moment.”
Everett’s face lit up. “Thank you, Miss Baudelaire.”
Miss Baudelaire waved a dismissive hand before setting her eyes on me. “We will begin your retraining as soon as possible.”
“Yes, of course.” I nodded.
“Welcome to Minerva’s Marvels,” she said. “Do not make me regret this.”
It had been a while since I had eaten a meal at a long table surrounded by new acquaintances. Mealtimes had become quiet affairs with just Everett and I, or occasionally with Mrs. Harris.
The meal on offer at The Hemlock smelled delicious and the scent nearly overtook me as Everett and I made our first appearance in the dining room. Despite the formal setup, two people at the far end of the table were eating and chatting away, not bothering to wait for anyone else. Steam curled from the edges of the hot meat pies they speared with their forks, juice drizzling out and onto their plates. Nothing had ever looked so appetizing to me in my entire life. My stomach let out a soft grumble in response and I placed my hand over my middle to smother the sound.
Mrs. Jones moved swiftly around us and slid a bowl of potatoes onto the table next to several other large serving dishes full of assorted meats, breads, and vegetables. I had become so accustomed to meager meals that seeing such a buffet before me was something of a spiritual awakening.
Mr. Jones gave his wife a little pat on the bottom as she glided out of the room. She let out a surprised, “Oh, sir!” and grinned as she disappeared from view.
As Mr. Jones left to assist her, Everett took the opportunity to lean over to me.
“We know that one,” he whispered, nodding to the petite woman at the end of the table.
I did not recognize her underneath the dark makeup around her eyes. As I tried to remember who she was, she turned to us, one eyebrow raised.
“Oh,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You two. Joining the troupe, are you?”
Her voice was high like a young girl’s and I suddenly realized she was the woman who had come to see my act under false pretenses. If I recalled correctly, she wanted to make contact with her late parents. She had not been terribly complimentary when describing my act to Miss Baudelaire but I had apparently been good enough for a recommendation all the same.
“Yes,” I said. “I believe you had a part in that, so I thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, love. The name is Jezebella, or just Bella if you like,” she said, her parlance rougher around the edges than when we had met her previously. Her voice suddenly went silky smooth as her gaze landed on Everett, looking as if she wanted to devour him. “Nice to see you both.”
The tiny hairs on my neck prickled.
Bella has no way of knowing if Everett and I are romantically involved or not. How dare she presume we are not. Or, perhaps, she does not care.
Mr. Jones joined us, bringing in yet another serving dish before picking up a pair of plates and handing one to each of us. “Help yourselves. We don’t stand on ceremony here.”
As Everett and I greedily piled our plates, Mr. Jones introduced us.
“Friends, this is our new spiritualist, Cora, formerly known as Madame Pringle.” Mr. Jones began filling a plate for himself. “We’ll come up with a better name for you.”
I smiled and nodded, forcing the shock I felt away from my face. We barely knew this man and yet he was calling me by my first name. The impropriety was alarming.
“Who is this fellow?” The man sitting across from Bella pointed at Everett with his fork. “Does he also speak to ghosts?” His words sounded so lovely, cradled by a Spanish accent in a deep, husky voice.
“This is my companion, Mr. Rigby,” I said. “He is joining the team as well, to help with some of the backstage matters.”
Bella’s shoulders squared and an eyebrow perked up as soon as I said “companion.” The woman really was tremendously shameless.
“And no,” Everett added, “I don’t speak with ghosts.”
“Nice to meet the pair of you,” the Spanish man said warmly. “I’m Diego.”
Everett took the seat next to me but paused for a moment, struck by a thought. “You throw knives, right?”
Since Diego had just taken a bite off a thick chunk of bread, Mr. Jones cut in.
“Throws knives, juggles blades, and swallows swords.” Mr. Jones sat next to Diego with his plate. “That last one is a fool’s errand, my friend.”
He gave a shrug. “The people, they love it.”
“They’d love it more if you cut your throat open,” Bella said, dragging a finger across her neck.
Swallowing hard I winced, a bloody image forming in my mind. The thought of dining did not appeal to me suddenly.
“Have you ever had any accidents with a blade?” Everett’s eyes were wide with fascination.
Diego shrugged again. “A few.”
I was thankful Everett did not get the chance to ask him for details as we were soon joined by Miss Baudelaire and Mrs. Jones. Miss Baudelaire took a seat at the most ornate chair at the head of the table, a small set of stairs beside it. Mrs. Jones poured a glass of sherry for Miss Baudelaire and served her a plate before sitting beside her husband. I found it rather unorthodox that the housekeeper ate with us.
But not many things were orthodox in that house.
I could feel Miss Baudelaire’s eyes lingering on me as she sipped her drink. I did not know how informal I should be with her, so I stayed silent. I felt like a lowly courtier waiting for the monarch to speak to me first.
“Mrs. Jones showed you your rooms?” She looked at the two of us from under heavy eyelids. “I hope they will suffice.”
“Our rooms are lovely, thank you.”
My bedroom was plain—a narrow bed, a dresser, a small writing desk, and a simple vanity—but Everett’s bedroom was no more than a hammock hanging in an attic closet.
“Thank you for inviting us to dinner,” Everett added. “This food is splendid.”
Bella leaned across me to grab an apple from a basket. “Minerva likes to keep us well fed. It’s a wonder we’re not all round as these here apples.”
Mr. Jones patted his round belly. “Speak for yourself, lass.”
I turned to Bella. “I apologize. I did not ask what your act is.”
She took a big bite of her apple and crunched loudly, wiping the juice from her lips with the back of her hand. “I’m an acrobat.”
“Oh, how exciting!”
“And I make things,” Mr. Jones added. “We have a little taxidermy display called the Zoo of Wonders—I make all of those. I also make drawings, potions, charms, things to sell during intermission and the like.”
Mrs. Jones frowned at him. “You make things.” She shook her head and looked at me. “My Basil is a proper artist, ‘e is. He acts like it’s nothin’ but he’s a real talent.”
Smiling sweetly at his wife, Mr. Jones looked at her with such love that it warmed my heart.
“Do you all live here at The Hemlock?” I asked.
“All of us except Diego. He’s got a wife and little ones,” Bella said. “How many children you got now anyway?”
Diego shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe six or seven.”
“The only one of us missing this evening is Magni,” Miss Baudelaire said with a roll of her eyes. “He lives here but does not spend much time here.” She sighed. “It is for the best.”
Everyone at the table snickered and scoffed, except for Everett and I.
I glanced at Everett. He was reflecting on this comment carefully.
“Magni?” He looked from Mr. Jones to Miss Baudelaire, his eyes wide. “You’re not talking about Magni the Magnificent, are you?”
“This was a mistake,” Everett said moments after we got into the hansom cab and directed the driver to his flat. “We still have a little bit of time—we can still find another place to live—”
“Who is this Magni person and why are you acting like this?”
“Magni the Magnificent is a magician,” he explained. “I knew him when he was just starting out and he was a horrible man. Arrogant and vain and—”
“Talented?”
Everett threw me a look. “Yes, unfortunately.” He clenched his jaw. “If it was just the arrogance I was concerned about, it would not be a problem. He is a rake.”
“Ah,” I said. “You think I will fall in love with him, is that it?”
He sat back in his seat and considered this for a long moment. “No. I would hope you would be a better judge of character than the many, many women he has wooed.” He was quick to change the subject. “I’m surprised Miss Baudelaire would have him as part of the Marvels. He has double-crossed his assistants, other illusionists, craftsmen who create his props, everyone. If he thought it would bring him an inch of publicity or money, he would do anything.”
I pondered what I could do to latch onto some of Magni’s publicity. After all, publicity was half the battle.
“I would at least like to meet Magni before we flee,” I offered softly. “It sounds as if you knew him years ago. It is possible he has become a better person since then.” I gave a little shrug. “I plan to continue with moving into The Hemlock tomorrow as planned. We have a place to live, we have food to eat, and we have a bed to sleep in—”
“You have a bed to sleep in.”
“A hammock is a type of bed.” I smiled at him and batted my eyelashes.
That maneuver no longer worked on Everett. He knew me too well by then.
“You are free to take your chances in a vermin-ridden common house if you prefer,” I said, my words clipped, before softening my tone again. “I feel safer at The Hemlock than out there.” I looked at the window, the streets of London at night flying by. “We have been given a chance. A real chance. I would rather not just give it up so quickly.” I placed my hand on his and looked at him. “Please.”
Everett stared down at our hands, transfixed. His gaze drifted up my wrist, along the length of my arm and over my neck, pausing at my lips before flicking up to my eyes. His thumb brushed the edge of my wrist ever so delicately and the feeling of such a subtle gesture made my stomach tighten.
Finally, Everett nodded his agreement and slid his hand away from mine.