The boy sat up, groaning. He was pale and thin. His hair was the colour of straw and stuck out in wisps from under his shabby cap. His knee was bleeding. He touched it gingerly, and then wiped his eyes with the back of his muddy sleeve. Stella went over to him and crouched down. She took out her handkerchief and dabbed at the blood as gently as she could, then tied the handkerchief around his knee.
Agapanthus fished in the top of her stocking and handed him a toffee. ‘Here,’ she said, patting his shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He unwrapped the silver paper and put the toffee in his mouth.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Stella. ‘Can you walk?’
They helped him to his feet.
‘Likely,’ said the boy, taking a tentative, limping step. He nodded, then bent down gingerly and began to collect the fallen flowers. Stella and Agapanthus helped him. The flowers were tiny and delicate, made from wire and glass beads. Stella collected a daisy and a buttercup and a forget-me-not. They had been stamped into the mud, squashed and broken.
‘Who were those men?’ asked Agapanthus, as she passed the boy a dandelion and a cornflower.
‘Them? The Gabbro brothers.’ The boy sucked the toffee and shrugged. ‘There’s three of ’em. They’re hired by the fairground for keepin’ order. No flats on the tober, that’s what they say.’ He glanced up, saw their confused faces and explained, ‘It means no hawkin’ on the fairground. I din’t see them comin’ up behind me, that time. I got to be a good bit nippier and keep a leery eye out, so I do.’
Stella picked up a bluebell and passed it to him. ‘These are very pretty,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Tuppence each,’ he said hopefully. ‘Four a tanner.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stella, as she handed him a violet. ‘We don’t have any money. Did you make them?’
‘My sister.’ The boy carefully bent the muddy violet back into shape, spat on it and rubbed it clean on the front of his ragged shirt. The tiny glass beads sparkled. He laid it carefully beside the others on the tray. He looked around. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said, and stood up. ‘I’m Joe.’
‘I’m Stella,’ said Stella.
‘Agapanthus,’ said Agapanthus.
‘That’s a name and a half, ain’t it?’ Joe grinned. ‘Well. I’m right obliged to you, so I am. And you’ll be wanting your wiper back.’ He bent down to untie Stella’s handkerchief from his knee.
‘Please keep it. Are you sure you’re all right?’ asked Stella doubtfully.
He gave another grin and a little jerk of his head. ‘I’m prime,’ he said, and then limped away, disappearing into the crowd.
Stella and Agapanthus watched him go.
‘Come on,’ said Agapanthus. ‘If we don’t get back soon, we’ll be in so much trouble. We have to hurry.’
At the edge of the fairground they came to a stretch of open, muddy ground. Tethered horses were cropping the grass, between wagons and carts, and piles of timber and canvas.
Stella spied a shabby-looking wagon with red-and-yellow wheels. She grabbed Agapanthus’s arm. ‘That’s the wagon that came and collected Ottilie’s trunk, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. Is it?’ Agapanthus frowned.
‘I think so. It had red-and-yellow wheels, just like these,’ said Stella. She looked around, to make sure that nobody was watching them, and tried the door of the wagon, but it was locked with a heavy iron padlock.
From inside came a faint scrabbling sound.
‘Did you hear something?’ Stella asked.
Agapanthus shook her head.
There was a little dusty window. Stella jumped, but it was too high and she could not see in.
Agapanthus bent down. ‘Climb up on my back,’ she said. Stella clambered up, and Agapanthus stood, wobbling. Stella clutched the windowsill.
‘Steady,’ she said, trying to peer inside.
Agapanthus wobbled again, her feet slipping. ‘Oops!’ she gasped, then lost her balance and collapsed. They both fell sprawling into the mud.
Agapanthus helped Stella up. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. She picked up her hat and crammed it back onto her head. ‘Did you see anything?’
‘No, it was too dark inside.’ Stella rubbed her elbow and inspected a large hole in her stocking. ‘Miss Mangan won’t like this, will she?’ she said, grinning ruefully as she tried to brush the wet mud from her skirt.
‘She will utterly explode!’ Agapanthus gave a snort of laughter. She spied her purple hat ribbon lying in the mud, picked it up and pushed it back into her coat pocket. ‘Well. Let’s try again —’
‘What are you two doin’ back here?’
They jumped and spun around. Three men appeared from behind the wagon. Two of them were the men who had been pushing Joe. The Gabbro brothers. All three looked very alike, broad-shouldered and thickset.
‘N-nothing,’ stammered Stella.
‘It ain’t safe for little morts round here.’ The first brother frowned. ‘In particklar, pryin’ little morts who poke their noses where they ain’t wanted.’
The second brother nodded and rubbed his hands together. His knuckles cracked.
The third brother finished the chop he was gnawing on, threw away the bone and wiped the gravy off his face with the back of his hand.
Stella and Agapanthus stepped backwards.
‘W-we aren’t doing anything,’ said Stella.
‘Git on your way, then,’ said the first one. He jerked his thumb back towards the fairground. ‘Go on. Git.’
Stella grabbed Agapanthus’s arm. ‘We’re just going,’ she said, and they turned and hurried away. Stella looked back and saw the three brothers were standing beside the red-and-yellow wagon, watching them go. One of them said something, and the other two laughed.
‘The Gabbro brothers,’ said Agapanthus.
Stella nodded. ‘It was one of them that was pasting up those posters yesterday. I’m sure. That’s what frightened Ottilie, I think. She saw him, and it frightened her.’ She looked back over her shoulder and caught her breath.
One of the brothers was following them.
‘Come on.’ They went a bit faster. They passed the sideshows and skirted the swing boats, pushing their way through the crowd. A whistle shrieked, making Stella’s heart thump. They went along as quickly as they could, their feet slipping on the muddy ground. Someone stepped backwards, thumping into Stella, and she nearly fell over.
The man following them shouted something, and the man on the Hoop-La shouted back and laughed.
The music from the steam organs jangled. The engines thundered and shrieked. Inside a tent, someone screamed with laughter.
Stella glanced behind. The man was getting closer.
‘This way. Quick.’ Agapanthus grabbed Stella’s hand and dragged her into a narrow alley beside the cocoa-nut shy, pulling her down behind a sack of cocoa-nuts. They crouched there and watched the man pass. He was walking quickly, frowning, scanning the crowd.
They made their way cautiously between the tents and stalls, sliding through narrow gaps, ducking under ropes. They emerged from around the side of a gingerbread stall, not far from the merry-go-round.
‘I think we lost him,’ said Agapanthus.
Before Stella could answer, someone grabbed her arm. She gasped in shock as she was pulled off her feet and spun around.
A dark shape loomed above her. Stella shrieked.
It was Miss Mangan.
Nine
The mistress towered over them, her black cloak flapping in the breeze. Her face was like thunder.
‘Outrageous,’ she hissed. ‘Shocking. Deplorable.’
Stella gasped. ‘M-Miss Mangan. We were looking for Ott—’
‘Silence!’ Miss Mangan gave Stella a shake that made her teeth bang together and her ears ring.
‘But —’ Stella tried to explain. ‘She was —’
Miss Mangan shook her again, until Stella was too dizzy to think. ‘Not one word,’ she snapped. ‘Not o
ne. You should both be ashamed of yourselves. You are in utter disgrace. Come with me.’
She dragged them back to the entrance of the fairground, gripping their arms tightly as she strode along. She walked so fast that they had to jog to keep up with her.
Stella looked across at Agapanthus, and Agapanthus rolled her eyes and grimaced. Miss Mangan did not notice and did not slow down. She marched them out of the fairground and down the hill, and then along the High Street, past all the grand shops. It began to drizzle, and she did not stop to open her umbrella, which she carried hooked over her arm, but strode along through the rain, her breath coming in angry hisses.
By the time they reached the school, Stella was wet through and out of breath. Miss Mangan pulled them up the stairs and into the cloakroom, where she gave them one last shake and released her grip at last. Stella rubbed her bruised arm, and once more she tried to explain.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Mangan,’ she started to say. ‘We were looking for Ottilie. She was —’
‘Silence!’ said Miss Mangan. ‘I will not listen to any of your excuses. A fairground! The thought of it! Look at your stockings! Appalling. And where are your hat ribbons?’
Stella fished into the pocket of her wet coat and pulled out the hat ribbon. She untangled it and put it back on her hat, as well as she could with trembling fingers. She hung her hat on its hook. Agapanthus was slow to untangle her hat ribbon, and Miss Mangan slapped her.
‘Foolish girls,’ she said. ‘Foolish, wilful, thoughtless girls. Anything could have happened to you.’ She took an angry breath and added, ‘As soon as you have made yourselves presentable, Miss Garnet will see you in her parlour. Certainly, once she has done with you, there will be no more of this behaviour. You mark my words.’
Stella shivered. She did not know what happened inside Miss Garnet’s parlour, and she did not want to find out. She pulled off her wet gloves and coat and sat down to unlace her boots. Her fingers were still shaking.
Miss Mangan led them up to the dormitory and stood over them as they brushed their hair and plaited it. She dipped a rough flannel into a jug of icy water and rubbed it over their faces, making them gasp for breath.
When they were ready, Miss Mangan looked them up and down, nodded, said, ‘Follow me,’ and marched them down the stairs to the door of Miss Garnet’s parlour. ‘Stand there.’ She pointed.
They stood side by side against the wall. Stella looked down at her shoes. She did not dare to risk even one glance at Agapanthus. She swallowed. She was determined not to cry.
Miss Mangan knocked on the door of the parlour. Miss Garnet’s grim-faced maid appeared. ‘Yes, Madam?’
Miss Mangan stepped inside, and the maid closed the door behind her.
Stella took a shaking breath and whispered quickly, ‘I’m so sorry. I thought we might find Ottilie at the fairground. I really did. And now we’re in dreadful trouble, and it’s my fault. It was all for nothing.’
‘But she was there,’ whispered Agapanthus. ‘Look.’ With her eyes on the parlour door, she quickly pulled something out of the sleeve of her dress and passed it to Stella. It was a muddy hat ribbon. Sewn in tiny stitches was a name. Ottilie Smith.
‘Ottilie’s ribbon!’
‘Yes. It was near that wagon where we fell over. I thought it was mine. I picked it up and shoved it in my pocket. But when we got back here, I had two of them. My one, and this one too. She must have dropped it.’
‘So, she was there,’ breathed Stella. ‘Perhaps she was in the wagon all the time.’
‘Yes. We have to go back.’
Stella nodded, winding the hat ribbon around her fingers. Agapanthus was right. They had to go back and rescue Ottilie, if they could.
The parlour door opened, and Miss Mangan came out. Stella whipped the ribbon behind her back. Miss Mangan frowned at them and said, ‘Miss Garnet will see you now.’ She pointed at Agapanthus. ‘You first.’
Agapanthus knocked on the parlour door. The maid opened the door, and Agapanthus went inside.
‘Wait right there,’ said Miss Mangan to Stella, then she turned and stalked away, up the stairs towards the classrooms.
Stella stood alone in the cold hallway, twisting Ottilie’s hat ribbon between her fingers.
It was very quiet. She could hear voices from the classrooms upstairs. A carriage drove past outside. A flurry of raindrops blew against the window, and a cold breath of air snaked along the passageway. For a moment, Stella remembered the horrible pale creature from her dream, with its long, icy fingers. She shivered.
A sudden sharp cry from inside Miss Garnet’s parlour made her jump. Her heart gave a lurch like a fish caught on a line. She held her breath, listening, but all she could hear was the sound of the rain. Another carriage drove past. Minutes passed.
At last, the door opened and Agapanthus came out. Her face was white and expressionless. Her freckles stood out like tiny spots of ink.
‘You’re to go in now,’ was all she said. She did not meet Stella’s eyes. She turned and walked away towards the stairs. She did not look back.
Stella hesitated, watching Agapanthus climb the stairs. Then she pushed Ottilie’s hat ribbon into her pocket, took a breath and knocked on the parlour door.
Miss Garnet’s parlour was a large room and rather dark. Heavy velvet curtains hung at the windows. It was warm, and it smelled of lavender and mildew. The only sounds were the ticking of a tall grandfather clock and the fire crackling in the grate.
As Stella’s eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw that the room was full of little tables and cabinets, and every surface was covered with ornaments. There were shelves everywhere, and they were crammed with trinkets, glimmering in the firelight. Stella gazed around at the ornaments. Nearby on a small table was a china dog decorated with painted flowers and the words A Present from Southsea, a green glass cat, an ivory fan, a little ship made out of beads, a basket covered with shells and a silk pincushion in the shape of a hedgehog with pearl-headed pins stuck into it. Everywhere she looked were figurines and souvenirs, pincushions and paperweights.
‘Come closer,’ said a voice.
Miss Garnet was sitting in an armchair near the fire, half-hidden amongst all the ornaments. She was a plump, elderly lady, with immaculate white hair and colourless, protruding eyes. Her skin was as pale as mutton fat. She wore a lace cap and a figured silk gown, decorated with tiny, gleaming beads. She was turning the pages of a large photograph album. On the table beside her were an ivory elephant, a china thimble, a vase of flowers made out of peacock feathers and a cake stand full of tiny cakes and sandwiches.
Stella swallowed nervously and tried to stop herself from shaking. She took three steps forward, careful to avoid brushing against another low table full of ornaments. She curtsied.
‘Closer.’
Stella hesitated, and then took two more steps. Miss Garnet gestured at the ornaments.
‘Mementos from my girls. They remember their old Headmistress.’ She smiled. ‘They are all in here.’ She laid her hand on the photograph album. ‘All my girls. Look.’
The album contained silhouettes of girls’ heads. They had been cut from black paper and glued into elaborate frames that were adorned with roses and scrolls and curling leaves. They were tiny, but extraordinarily lifelike. Miss Garnet ran her finger along the rows of faces, and then turned a page to reveal still more pictures.
‘I take an image with my physiognograph of every girl in her first term at school here —’ She put a spoonful of sugar into her cup of tea, stirred it and took a sip. ‘— as soon as a girl’s character becomes clear to me, and I have identified her particular faults.’ She tapped one of the pictures with the tip of her pale finger. ‘This is Theodora d’Arcy. Laziness.’ Miss Garnet considered the tiny image with her head on one side. In the dim, flickering firelight, the silhouette seemed almost alive. Stella blinked. She almost thought she saw Theodora turn her head, just a fraction. Miss Garnet said, ‘She is Lady Cholmon
deley now, of course. And just last month, she sent me this, from Alexandria.’ Miss Garnet reached out to a nearby shelf and laid her finger on a shiny brass camel. ‘She is rather busy there, organising the natives.’ She gave the camel a little smile, took another sip of tea and turned the page.
‘Here is Dorothea Hamilton.’ She touched a picture. ‘Dishonesty.’ Her finger moved to the next face. ‘Veronica St Aubrey. Vanity. Always admiring herself in the mirror, I recall. And this is Frederica Fitzgerald. Sulkiness. I cannot abide a sulky girl. Saisha Vengalil. Despondency. That girl would have spent her whole time crying in corners, if she had been given her own way. She went on to marry the Nawab of Tonk, of course.’ Miss Garnet turned several pages, running her finger over the rows of faces. ‘Marguerite Cavendish. Carelessness. And here is Philadelphia Courtenay. Intemperance. Immoderation. Dissipation. I had to take her image three times, and even so, I saw insufficient improvement in her behaviour, and I was obliged to expel her.’ She sighed and picked up a miniature pink cake from her tea tray and ate it in three tiny bites.
She turned page after page, murmuring to herself, until she reached the final pictures in the album. There were only two faces on the page. Miss Garnet rested her finger on Ottilie and then on Agapanthus. There were lines of tiny, silvery writing underneath, but from where Stella was standing, she could not read it. Reluctantly, she took another step closer to the Headmistress. The writing was immaculate. Ottilie Smith. Intractability. Agapanthus Ffaulkington-Ffitch. Insubordination.
Ottilie and Agapanthus were the last images in the album. The remaining frames on the page were empty and waiting. Miss Garnet tapped the next empty frame with the tip of her finger. She said, ‘Your Aunts informed me that you are inclined to waywardness. As was your mother.’ She pursed her lips with distaste.
Stella wanted very much to know about her mother. What had she done that was so dreadful? Nervously, she took a shaking breath. ‘Please, M-Miss Garnet, what —?’
Miss Garnet went on as if Stella had not spoken at all, ‘And now, Miss Mangan tells me that you have proved to be wilfully disobedient. I trust you are ashamed of yourself.’
Wakestone Hall Page 6
