The Tigers in the Tower

by Julia Golding

  “Put the cover over him if he starts on his rude words,” he cautioned. “When I got it from Jamrach’s shop on Ratcliffe Highway, his visitors had already made it unfit for most drawing rooms. I reckon the boys won’t mind though.”

  “They’ll probably think it great sport,” Sahira agreed, taking the ring of the cage from him. “What’s his name?”

  “Napoleon,” Mr Cops replied.

  Hearing its name, the parrot fluffed its jewel blue and red feathers and screeched: “Vive la France!”

  Sahira chuckled. “I would’ve thought this was one animal in the menagerie the duke would approve of, seeing how he caged his namesake.”

  Mr Cops tweaked the black ribbon. “You’re a wit, aren’t you?”

  “At least half a one.”

  He guffawed at that. Sahira smiled back. She remembered that she liked making people laugh, her parents especially.

  The Peels’ carriage arrived as promised, the coachman looking none too pleased to be ferrying a girl and various beasts across town. Sahira looked longingly up at the box where he sat high above the crowds and wondered if she dared. The marmoset, now transferred to her shoulder, chattered in her ear. She had a pretty white face and golden-coloured fur. Her chittering seemed to say that she liked Sahira’s hair well enough and was happy to sit there rather than in the basket Mr Cops had provided. No one could resist her charm for long and even the snooty driver was seen to smile as she wrapped her hands around the end of the ribbon and waved it like a fan, experimenting with the unfamiliar material.

  “Might I – might we – travel alongside you?” Sahira asked, finally braving the request she had been contemplating. “I promise we won’t be any trouble and Tiny likes to see what’s going on.” So did Tiny’s minder.

  The coachman ruffled the capes of his enormous coat. The layers were to keep the rain off in bad weather. For all anyone knew, under that mound of cloth, the man himself could be but a skinny creature, like a crab in a too-big-for-him shell.

  “All right then, Miss,” he replied. “No fussing or you’re in the carriage.”

  “Thank you!” Accepting the driver’s hand, Sahira scrambled up alongside him and now shared his view over the two glossy backs of his matched pair. They shone like guardsmen’s toecaps. “My, they are fine horses!”

  “My master only has the best,” agreed the driver. He clicked his tongue and twitched the reins. The horses woke up from their daydreams and set off for the West End.

  Sahira searched for a topic of conversation that would not vex him. “Did you by any chance see a zebra on your travels?”

  “Lawks, yes! Attracting quite a crowd it was. Young Master Bobby sent all the available footmen to help escort it across town.” Now he had settled to having her alongside him, the coachman, who she learned was called Jenks, proved talkative. “The young lad leading it though was making quite a few pennies for himself by letting little ones sit on its back. I don’t reckon they’ll be there before us even with their head start.”

  As they made their way west through the choked streets of the city Sahira saw no sign of Ned or the zebra, but there was plenty else for Tiny and her to look at: churches with spires; bow windows of glittering jewellers and dusty counting houses; a column marking the spot where the Great Fire of London broke out; canny street sellers hustling the passers-by; lush gardens hidden behind walls; men in white wigs and black cloaks flocking like starlings to a seed tray.

  Seeing her interest, the coachman nodded to a fine gateway. “Them’s the Temple gardens where the barristers live. You don’t want to go through them doors. The lawyers will bleed you dry of every penny.”

  Thanking God that her tiger money had escaped that fate, she turned her back on them. Mr Rummage, her grandfather’s lawyer, was probably inside that secret garden.

  The further west they went, the lighter and cleaner the streets became. Roads opened up to display fine mansions set around garden squares, young lords and ladies playing under the watchful eye of their nurses. None of these had the hungry look of the children on the streets around the orphanage. It was as though in four miles she had travelled further than she had on the voyage from India. Now she began to understand where Britain got its wealth and power if it could afford to house its privileged like this. Only the very richest in Hyderabad had anything approaching this level of comfort and here there were many families all nestled together, golden chicks in a silk-lined nest.

  Jenks didn’t pull up outside the Peels’ house but took the carriage around to the mews at the back. “Easier to unload the creatures,” he explained gruffly.

  Sahira wondered if that was the real reason. Maybe Jenks thought his master might notice that he’d let her ride with him? Or perhaps he was ashamed to be seen as the driver for the particular circus she carried with her? Whatever the case, the carriage arrived at the same time as Ned, who led Nebuchadnezzar into the same stable yard. Ned was grinning fit to burst his buttons.

  “We made at least twelve shillings!” he gabbled as soon as Sahira jumped down. A footman came to help her with the baskets.

  “Eat snails!” shrieked Napoleon the Parrot. He then set off on a rendition of “Black-eyed Susan”, whistling the opening lines over and over.

  That soon could become very annoying but Sahira didn’t want to spoil his fun by drawing the cover over his cage.

  Leaving Nebbie behind near the water trough, Ned and Sahira were shepherded up to a room on the third floor that had been fitted out as a schoolroom. Through an open door further down the corridor there was a nursery for younger children, furnished with a splendid rocking horse and shelves of tin soldiers lined up in regiments. Clearly the Peel children lacked for nothing.

  “What do we do now?” Sahira asked the footman as he left them to make themselves at home.

  “Master Peel and his friends will be along very soon. They wanted to see the animals before tea and my lady suggested you keep the creatures away from the cakes.”

  “Very wise.” Sahira checked the window was closed, then opened the cage so Napoleon could stretch his wings. He immediately deposited his calling card on the nearest desk. “You might want to tell the servants there’ll be a mess to clear up.”

  The footman tapped his forehead to acknowledge the warning and went downstairs, no doubt to regale the servants’ hall with tales of the zebra’s trek across town.

  A thunder on the stairs announced the boys’ arrival. They burst into the room like puppies spilling from a basket, shaggy hair, bright eyes; their tails would have been wagging if they had them.

  “Miss Clive, Ned, you came! And in a dress! Not you Ned, of course: I mean Miss Clive.” Bobby bounced across to them. He slapped Ned on the shoulder and hesitated in front of Sahira before settling for a bow. She curtseyed, holding out her skirts. “Tree frogs, splendid! Did you know you can eat any kind of frog as long as you don’t eat the skin? That’s where the poison lies.”

  “Eat snails!” shrieked Napoleon on cue.

  Bobby immediately turned his attention from the natural history lessons to be taught by the skirt trim to the parrot. “What a marvellous bird. What’s he called?”

  Sahira wondered what to do about the boys milling about, jumping and hooting. They would spook many of the animals she had hoped to show them, apart from the indomitable Napoleon, who doubtless would shriek his insults even over the guns at Waterloo.

  “Would you mind taking seats?” she asked politely.

  Her words were ignored as the boys competed to feed the parrot.

  “Please?” she pleaded.

  Fortunately, the tutor, Mr Evesham, at that moment arrived at a sedate pace, in conversation with an older boy. Taking stock of the situation, he let out an impressive whistle. Like soldiers called to muster, the boys stopped in their tracks and stood to attention.

  “Lads, there is a lady present and she asked you to do something.”

  They looked at each other sheepishly.

  “Slugs and
snails and puppy dog tails!” squawked the parrot.

  “Quite. Greet her like young gentlemen rather than a rabble,” Mr Evesham instructed.

  They executed passable bows.

  “Now fall in!” he commanded.

  The boys scrambled for the best seats at the desks.

  “Introduce your friends, Master Peel,” said Mr Evesham.

  Blushing, Bobby got back to his feet and ran through their names rapidly. When he came to the older boy at the door, he paused. “And this is John Bracewell, your cousin, Miss Clive.”

  John gave Sahira a deep bow.

  Shocked, she put a hand to her chest, fearing her heart would leap its way right out of her ribcage. Bobby had hinted he was arranging something, but she hadn’t expected this. He could have warned her! “My cousin?”

  “Isn’t it splendid he came?” Bobby said excitedly, clearly oblivious to the awkwardness of the situation.

  “My mother and your father were brother and sister,” said John. He had to be about fifteen with thick light brown hair worn in fashionable curls on top, short at the sides. That, matched with a pair of lively green eyes, made him quite handsome. Sahira mustered a wobbly curtsey. Bobby had put them both on the spot. “I was sad to hear of Uncle Richard’s passing, as was my mother.” He approached and she now saw that he was wearing a black armband.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, afraid that if she tried to speak further she would do something unforgivably sentimental, like weep.

  “We are much obliged to you for bringing your animals to show us,” continued John. “I always loved tales of your father’s exploits in the jungles. Perhaps you can tell us more about the ones here today?” In the gentlest way, he was hinting that she should get on with the show and not make a spectacle of the family scandal.

  Clearing her throat, she began.

  “Let me introduce you first to our parrot. His name is Napoleon,” she said, happy for the distraction.

  “Curse Old Beaky!” the bird shrieked.

  The boys laughed.

  “As you can see, he shares the patriotic feelings of his namesake and I’m sad to say he’s been taught all the wrong things to say by the people who had him before the menagerie.”

  “Where did he come from?” asked a red-headed boy.

  “Jamrach’s,” replied Sahira.

  The lad nodded sagely. “My uncle bought a wombat from there. It makes a fearful mess of his library.”

  Sahira paused, wondering if she should mention that wombats were best not housed in a library, but decided to let it go and instead continue with her explanation of the diet and habitat of a parrot in the wild and how the Tower kept him in the aviary with the other birds.

  “Don’t they kill each other?” asked a little boy at the front, one of the younger Peels from the nursery.

  “On the whole, jungle birds live well side by side, not like the meat eaters or birds of prey.” She fed Napoleon a nut which he took after calling her a trollop. The boys sniggered at the insult and he called them blackguards, which pleased them no end. She left him to his peanut and turned to the basket of snakes. She got through the explanation of these creatures with some credit, all the while distracted by wondering what her cousin thought of her.

  Cousin.

  Sahira knew already that her father’s sister, Janet, had married and had a family but she had never been able to picture these relations who lived thousands of miles away. She should have paid more attention because she couldn’t even remember whom her aunt had wed. A Mr Bracewell, obviously, but was he the sort to share Lord Chalmers’s prejudices, or might he allow Sahira to meet her aunt?

  Some excited whispering caught her attention.

  “She’s got a monkey in her hair!” a boy exclaimed.

  She had forgotten Tiny, so light was her weight. Leaving the snakes wrapped around the arms of the most venturesome boys, she coaxed the monkey out so they could admire her.

  “This is a marmoset. She’s shy but she might go to you if you sit quietly,” Sahira said.

  That promise worked like a treat. The boys became as still as statues. Mr Evesham passed behind her.

  “Couldn’t have done it better myself,” he murmured, giving her a wink.

  Tiny behaved well, accepting transference onto Bobby’s shoulder. She proceeded to tug his earlobe.

  “I think she’s telling you not to forget to wash behind them,” Sahira suggested, making the audience giggle again.

  When the wonders of the baskets had been admired sufficiently, Ned led them downstairs to meet the zebra. Sahira stayed behind to pack up, wagering that there would be several rides given in the mews if Ned had his way. She had to hope he remembered that Nebbie was not used to being ridden. Zebras weren’t bred for it like horses.

  But something was off. Sahira counted the snakes twice, realizing she’d lost track of one of them. A hand appeared in front of her, a milk snake dangling from it.

  “Is this what you are looking for?” asked her cousin.

  “Thank you,” she said, relieved. She put it back with the others. “Not to be mixed up with the coral snake that looks very similar. A coral snake is deadly.”

  “As I’ve just had it wrapped round my arm, I’m pleased you know the difference.” He smiled at her quizzically. “Why are you here, Miss Clive?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Was he going to tell her off for bringing the family into disrepute with an animal show?

  “Why aren’t you at Fenton Park – or at school? In fact, where are you living?”

  So he didn’t know. “I’m…” How to explain? She had to tell the truth. “I’m in an orphanage. Lord Chalmers doesn’t wish to acknowledge the connection.”

  “An orphanage?” He stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled. “I doubt he knows anything about it. Grandfather had a stroke three months ago; then came the news of your father’s death, which set back his recovery. He’s rarely conscious and makes scant sense when he is. Step-Grandmother thinks he’s lost his wits.”

  “Step-Grandmother?” This was the first Sahira had heard of her.

  “His second wife.” John flushed slightly and looked over her head. “A young lady he married swiftly after Grandmama died ten years ago. She doesn’t take much interest in his children apart from the heir, I’m afraid. She only worries about her own offspring.”

  That was like many species in the wild, favouring their own and driving off rivals. “Do you think it was her who told the lawyer to say I wasn’t welcome?”

  “Unlikely,” John replied. “She’s not callous, just self-absorbed. That might have been our Great-Aunt Dorothy, Grandfather’s sister. She’s as mean as… what did you call it… a coral snake?”

  Sahira nodded. It didn’t matter which of the family it was who barred her from Fenton Park: the result was the same. Still, it turned the anger she felt toward Lord Chalmers to pity to know he wasn’t behind the rejection and remained seriously ill.

  “Mother will ask me how you are. What should I tell her? Do they treat you well at the orphanage?” he asked.

  Sahira massaged her aching palms. “It’s –” horrible “– well enough, I suppose. They let me work at the Tower menagerie.”

  John gave her a quick grin. “That will make Mother howl. She has very set ideas about proper female behaviour. My poor sisters can’t step out of doors without chaperones to watch their every move. They’re all launched on the marriage market and no shade may fall on their good name.”

  That put an end to the fleeting idea of appealing to him to live under his roof. Doing that would mean having to leave the tigers and that wasn’t possible. In any case, Sahira knew from Mr Rummage that she was likely to be regarded as “shade”. Better the orphanage than that.

  “She’ll want to see you once I tell her our paths crossed,” he continued. “Where should she call on you?”

  Sahira thought of herself wandering the Tower in her tunic and trousers or dressed neatly in orphan grey. �
�Duck Street, Whitechapel. I am there until midday; then I go to work in the menagerie.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Really? They let a girl work there? I thought you’d just made that up.”

  Was he disapproving? “How else do you think I met Bobby? My tigers need me, Master Bracewell.”

  “I’m sure they do. And call me John, or Cousin, if you prefer.”

  “I’m Sahira. I’d like to have someone I can call Cousin. I’m woefully short of relatives who will acknowledge me.”

  “We Bracewells will – at least I think so.” A little frown appeared on his forehead as he gave it serious thought, perhaps for the first time. “Father can be a little stuffy and traditional but he knows how much Mother loved her brother.”

  “What does your father do?” asked Sahira.

  “He’s an engineer working on the new railway.” He paused. “Mother is considered to have married down, you know?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not familiar with the caste system here.”

  He smiled wryly. “You will be. That’s how I met Bobby. My father thinks he’s splendid, the son he wished he had.” He looked wistful for a moment.

  “I’m sure he thinks no such thing.”

  John gave her an over-bright smile. “I’m too artistic for him. I’d prefer to spend my days painting rather than making technical drawings. He thinks I’m out of step with the new modern age of machines and industry because I prefer wild landscapes and ocean views. According to him, I’m too romantic.”

  A smile spread across Sahira’s face. “You’re like Wordsworth: you like to see into the life of things.”

  “That’s from ‘Tintern Abbey’ – one of my favourite poems! I didn’t know you’d be familiar with the English poets!” John helped her carry the baskets downstairs. “I love poetry – so does Mother.”

  Finally, Sahira was beginning to feel like they might be related. “So do I – and so did my father.”

  John cast a look at her sideways. “You know, Sahira, I think I’m going to enjoy having you as a cousin. The rest of the Clives are brutes but finally they’ve produced someone cultured!”

  “I hope your father allows us to remain acquainted,” she said cautiously.