by Libba Bray
“Well,” she says, tossing her head, “I can’t help that, now, can I?”
Felicity and I take refuge on a terrace overlooking the street. The drivers have gathered in a huddle, keeping one another company. One tells a joke, and I can see by the way the others lean in that it is naughty. They fall into laughter but quickly disperse at the sight of one of the guests. Hats are donned, spines are stiffened as Lucy Fairchild walks toward her carriage. Simon keeps pace, but Lucy’s chaperone shuts him out. The driver helps the women into the carriage and it pulls away from the curb, leaving Simon behind.
“How delicious!” Felicity exclaims. “Scandal! At my ball—and not involving moi. Astonishing!”
“Yes, it is rather astonishing that there are events which have nothing at all to do with you, isn’t it?” I quip.
Felicity puts her hands on her hips, a wicked smile on her lips. “I was to offer you lemonade, but now, I shall only satisfy myself. You may watch me enjoy it and suffer.”
She saunters off and I let the cool night air wash over me. Down below, Lord Denby consoles his son. They exchange words I cannot hear. Lord Denby prevails, and he and Simon return to the ball.
As they pass, Lord Denby sees me on the terrace. He stares daggers at me, and I put my fingers to my mouth and blow him a kiss.
I spend the day after the ball, Sunday, with my family before returning to Spence. The seamstress has come to fit my gown to me and make minor adjustments. I stand before the mirror in my half-finished gown whilst she takes in a pinch here, adds a ruffle there. Grandmama hovers nearby, barking instructions to the woman, fretting over every little detail. I pay her no mind, for the girl staring back at me from the mirror is starting to become her own woman. I can’t say exactly what it is; it’s not something that can be named. I only know that she’s there, emerging from me like a sculpture from marble, and I’m most anxious to meet her.
“You look like your mother. I’m sure she would have wanted to be here for this,” Grandmama says, and the moment is ruined utterly. Whatever was struggling from the marble of me is gone.
You’ll not mention my mother again, I think, closing my eyes. Tell me how beautiful I look. Tell me how happy we are. Tell me I shall be someone, and there’s nothing but blue-sky days ahead.
When I open my eyes, Grandmama smiles at my reflection. “Dear me, aren’t you a vision in that dress?”
“The picture of loveliness,” the seamstress chimes in.
There. That’s so much better.
“Grandmama tells me you’ll be the loveliest girl in London for your debut,” Father says when I join him in his study. He’s sorting through drawers as if looking for something.
“Can I be of help?” I ask.
“Hmmm? Oh. No, pet,” he answers, distracted. “Just cleaning out a few things. I must ask you something unpleasant, however.”
“What is it?” I take a seat and Father does the same.
“I heard Simon Middleton was far too familiar with you last night at the ball.” Father’s eyes flash.
“He wasn’t,” I say, attempting a laugh.
“I hear that Miss Fairchild refuses to admit him,” he adds, and I feel a twinge of remorse, which I push away.
“Perhaps Miss Fairchild wasn’t a proper match.”
“Still…” Father trails off into a coughing fit. His face is red, and he wheezes for a full minute before settling into easier breathing. “London air. Too much soot.”
“Yes,” I say, uneasily. He looks tired. Unwell. And suddenly, I’ve the urge to be with him, to sit beside him like a child and let him pat my head.
“You say Simon Middleton has nothing to answer for?” Father presses.
“No, nothing,” I say, and mean it.
“Well, then.” Father nods. He turns back to his search, and I know I’ve been dismissed.
“Father, shall we play a game of chess?”
He riffles through papers and looks behind books. “I’ve no mind for chess just now. Why don’t you see if your grandmother wants to go for a walk?”
“I could help you look for whatever it is you’ve lost. I could—”
He waves me away. “No, pet. I’m in need of my solitude.”
“But I shall leave tomorrow,” I complain. “And then it shall be my season. And then…”
“Now, let’s not have tears, shall we?” Father chides. He opens a drawer, and I see the brown bottle lying there. I know at once it’s laudanum. My heart sinks.
I take his hand, and I can feel his sadness intruding. “We’ll get rid of it, then, won’t we?” I say aloud.
Before Father can answer, I feed him happiness like an opiate, till the furrows of his brow smooth and he’s smiling.
“Ah, here’s what I was looking for. Gemma, pet, would you put this in the rubbish?” he asks.
Tears prick at my eyes. “Yes, Father. Of course. Straightaway.”
I kiss him on the cheek and he wraps his arms around me, and for the first time ever, I let go before he does.
At supper, Tom is like an expectant father whose nerves have the better of him. His leg jiggles so throughout the meal that my teeth rattle from it, and once, he kicks me quite by accident.
“Will you settle yourself, please?” I ask, rubbing my shin.
Father looks up from his supper. “Thomas, what is the matter?”
My brother moves his food about his plate, not eating any of it. “I was to have gone to my gentlemen’s club this evening, but I’ve had no word from them.”
“None at all?” I ask, savoring the victory along with my potatoes.
“It’s as if I no longer exist,” Tom grumbles.
“That isn’t very sporting,” Father says between bites of his quail, and I’m glad to see him eating.
“Yes, very bad form.” Grandmama tuts.
“Perhaps you should go to the Hippocrates tonight,” I suggest. “You know you’ve a standing invitation to join them.”
“An excellent idea,” Father agrees.
Tom pushes his peas to the side of his plate. “Perhaps I will,” he says. “If only to get out for a bit.”
I’m so cheered by this news that I eat two pieces of cake for dessert. When Grandmama frets that such an appetite will mean bringing back the seamstress, I laugh, and once I put the idea into her head, she laughs, too, and soon, we’re all laughing while the servants look on as if we’re barking mad. But I don’t care. I have what I want. I have it, and it will not be taken from me. Not by Lord Denby or anyone.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
* * *
DR. VAN RIPPLE’S CALLING CARD LISTS AN ADDRESS IN a shabby little district that reminds me of a comfortable chair in need of an upholsterer. The row houses are not particularly well kept. They have no aspirations beyond providing lodging to their inhabitants.
“Charming,” Felicity says as we make our way down a narrow, poorly lit street.
“It got you out of the house, didn’t it?” I say. Children run past us. They play in the dark, their mothers too tired to care.
“Well, my mother still believes that I’m there, sitting at the piano. That was an impressive trick, Gemma. Tell me, do your powers detect Dr. Van Ripple’s lodging house yet?”
“For that we only require our eyes and direction,” I reply.
We pass a pub that spills out working folk. Some are stooped with age; others can’t be older than eleven or twelve. Mothers cradle babes to their bosoms. A man stands on a crate just outside the pub. He speaks with vigor and conviction, holding his audience in thrall.
“Should we work for the sweater fourteen hours a day for a pittance? We should do like the match girls done at Bryant and May, and our brothers on the docks!”
There are mumbles of encouragement and of dissent.
“They’ll starve ’oos,” a man with hollows under his cheeks shouts. “We’ll ’ave nuffin’.”
“We already ’ave nuffin’—it’s the only fing I don’t want mor
e of!” a lady calls and everyone laughs.
“A strike! Support our sisters o’ the Beardon factory. Take courage from their stand, brothers and sisters. Fair pay, fair hours, a fair London!”
A cheer goes up. The crowd applauds. It draws the attention of a constable.
“Here now,” he says. “What’s this about?”
The man steps off the crate, holding out his hat. “Evenin’, guv’nah. We’re collectin’ for the poor. Spare us a copper?”
“I’ll spare you a room for the night—in Newgate.”
“Can’t throw us in jail for assemblin’,” the man says.
“The law can do what it bloody well likes!” the constable says, waving his nightstick. He disperses the crowd but he cannot disband their convictions; the people talk in excited whispers still.
“’Ere now,” a lady holding a baby chides. “You sum o’ them fancy ladies come slummin’?”
“Certainly not,” Felicity replies, sounding every bit like the sort who would hire a carriage with friends to gawk at the poor.
“Well, you can clear off. We won’t be your entertainment fo’ th’evening. No’ for the likes of you.”
“Have a care—”
I take Fee’s arm. “Not a word.”
We turn the corner and there it is. We’ve invented a tale to gain entry, but the tired landlady knows not to ask questions of her lodgers’ lady callers, lest she discover her suspicions are ugly truths. She knocks twice on the magician’s door and wearily announces us.
Dr. Van Ripple’s eyes widen in surprise. He wears a worn-out dressing robe over his trousers. “Come in, come in. Dear me, I wasn’t expecting callers this evening.”
He closes the door and bids us have a seat. An enormous board in a gilded frame looms in the corner. It shows a painting of a much younger Dr. Van Ripple in a turban. His fingers point toward a dazed woman who would appear to be under his spell. The board reads Doctor Theodore Van Ripple, Master Illusionist! Feats of magic that must be seen to be believed!
On one wall hangs a portrait of an older woman with dark hair and eyes like Dr. Van Ripple’s. Beside the portrait is a hair wreath, made to honor the dead, the hair cut and framed as a reminder of the loved one. This one is a coiled braid of faded gray and brown.
“My mother,” he says, catching me staring. “Even the best illusionist cannot cheat death.”
Dr. Van Ripple offers us a seat on a shabby settee covered in an old paisley shawl. I sit on something hard—a book, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.
“Ah, so that is where it went! I’d been wondering,” Dr. Van Ripple exclaims, seizing it.
Felicity makes a face. “Mr. Wilde was tried for indecency. Papa says he is a thoroughly immoral man.”
“It is Queensberry and men like him who are ‘indecent,’” Dr. Van Ripple says, referring to the man who brought the charges against Mr. Wilde.
“Why do you say such, sir?” Felicity presses.
Dr. Van Ripple bends the flower in his buttonhole toward his nose and inhales deeply. “True affection and love have a purity which shall always prevail over bigotry.”
“We have not come here to speak of Mr. Wilde’s misfortunes,” Felicity says hastily, and far too rudely, but Dr. Van Ripple shows no sign of being affronted by her brashness.
“Indeed. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
“We have need of your services,” I say.
“Ah. I am sorry to disappoint you. But I am recently retired as an illusionist. I’ve nothing to offer but old tricks from an old man. That is not what the people want these days. They want vulgar thrills,” he grouses. “Like this Houdini chap, escaping from chains and boxes. It is cheap, music hall entertainment. In my day, I played the best theaters, from Vienna to St. Petersburg, from Paris to New York. But now, the days of magic are ending, I fear. The new power in the world is industry. Industry and greed.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. “But you did not come to listen to tales of the glory days of an old magician, my dears. And so I would bid you a good night.”
“We would pay, of course,” I say.
Dr. Van Ripple’s eyes glimmer with interest. “Ah. Yes. Well. I could, perhaps, be convinced to aid ladies in need for a modest sum.”
“How modest?” Felicity asks.
“Miss Worthington,” I say through a forced smile. “I am quite sure Dr. Van Ripple will treat us fairly. We should hate to offend.”
“No offense taken,” the old man says. “Now, how might an old magician be of assistance to two such lovely young ladies?” he asks, all smiles.
“We wondered if you might tell us more about Wilhelmina Wyatt,” I say.
Dr. Van Ripple frowns. “I don’t see how I can be of help in that regard.”
“I’m sure you can be of great help,” I say sweetly. I hold up my coin purse, and Dr. Van Ripple’s lips curl into a smile once more.
We agree upon a fee, and though it is more than I wished to pay, it is the only way the bargain shall be struck. Dr. Van Ripple pockets the coins at once. I half expect him to test their worth between his teeth.
“Did Miss Wyatt have a dagger in her possession?” Felicity blurts out, much to my chagrin.
“Not that I recall. And certainly one would recall such a weapon.” Dr. Van Ripple strokes his beard, thinking.
“Does the phrase ‘The key holds the truth’ mean anything to you?” I ask.
Dr. Van Ripple purses his lips, thinks some more. “I’m afraid not.”
“Did she ever make mention of a key—any key that was special to her?” Felicity presses.
“No, no,” the doctor answers.
“Did she leave anything behind?” I ask, but my hopes are fading fast.
“A few of her dresses remained at the hall, and those I sold. I kept only one of her possessions—the slate.”
“Might we see it?” I plead.
Dr. Van Ripple rifles through a cupboard and comes back with the slate I’ve seen in my dreams and visions, and my excitement grows. The slate is of a good size, perhaps a foot tall by a foot wide, and it rests upon a wooden base. My fingers trace over the board, feeling the marks grooved into it from use.
“May we purchase this from you?” I ask, emboldened.
He shakes his head. “Dear me. It has such sentimental value that I couldn’t possibly—”
“How much?” Felicity interrupts.
“Perhaps five pounds?” he suggests.
“Five pounds!” Felicity gasps.
“Four?” he counters.
It doesn’t matter whether it’s four or five; we haven’t got it. Or do we? I wave my hand over my coin purse. I know I shall hate myself for this later, but that is later.
“Here you are, sir,” I say, opening my purse and counting out four pounds to Fee’s astonishment. She takes the slate from the magician.
“Dr. Van Ripple,” I say, “you said that Wilhelmina had been in contact with a sister, a friend, whom she no longer trusted. Are you certain you can’t recall her name?”
He shakes his head. “As I said, I was never introduced. The lady never came round, and as far as I know, she did not attend our shows. I only know that Wilhelmina feared her, and Mina did not fear much.”
A cold shiver speeds up my spine.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Van Ripple,” I say, and he sees us out. At the door, he reaches behind Felicity’s ear and produces a perfect red rose, which he hands to her. “I understand they are Mr. Wilde’s favorite.”
“I will not have it, then,” Felicity says rudely.
“Judge not, lest ye be judged, my dear,” Dr. Van Ripple says with a sad smile, and Fee’s cheeks burn.
“However did you do that?” I ask him, for I find the trick merry even if Fee doesn’t.
“In truth, it is the simplest act in the world. The trick works because you wish it to. You must remember, my dear lady, the most important rule of any successful illusion: First, the people must want to believe
in it.”
“I cannot believe he asked five pounds for this.” Felicity clucks as we cloak ourselves in the gloom of London’s streets again.
“Well, let’s hope he spends it quickly before it disappears,” I say.
Under the narrow glow of a streetlamp, we examine the slate, turning it this way and that, but there’s nothing unusual about it that we can see.
“Perhaps words will etch themselves as we watch,” Felicity says.
It’s ridiculous, but we watch it anyway. Absolutely nothing happens.
I sigh. “We’ve bought ourselves a useless slate.”
“But it’s a clean slate,” Felicity quips, and I can’t even be troubled to give her a roll of my eyes.
On our way to the London underground, we pass the striking ladies from Beardon’s Bonnets Factory. Their faces are long; they lean into one another, resting their protest signs against their skirts whilst passersby pay no attention to their plight or, at the worst, heckle them, calling them the most appalling names.
“Spare a copper for our cause?” the girl with the coin cup asks, her voice weary.
“I can spare more than that,” I say. I reach into my purse and give her what real coins I have, and then I press my hand to hers and whisper, “Don’t give up,” watching the magic spark in her eyes.
“The tragedy of the Beardon’s Bonnet Factory!” she shouts, a fire catching. “Six souls murdered for profit! Will you let it stand, sir? Will you look away, m’um?”
Her sisters-in-arms raise their placards again. “Fair wages, fair treatment!” they call. “Justice!”
Their voices swell into a chorus that thunders through the dark London streets until it can no longer be ignored.
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
* * *
WE’VE ONLY JUST ARRIVED BACK AT SPENCE AND PUT OUR suitcases in our rooms when Mrs. Nightwing comes brandishing an invitation. “There is to be a birthday party in honor of Miss Bradshaw’s cousin Mr. Wharton at Balmoral Spring,” Mrs. Nightwing says, rolling the estate’s name on her tongue as if it were wine gone to vinegar.
