by Karen Harper
The girls were forever trying to spot cottages with the so-called witches’ seats on the chimney tops. Nellie pointed at one now, and they both nodded without having to say a word. It was an island tradition that, if a house didn’t have that slab for the crones to sit on, smoke their pipes, and keep warm from the chimney draft, they would come right down and sit by the fire, and then the householder would be cursed.
Seagulls screeched overhead, and the sea this late afternoon glittered azure in the sun, then plunged to darker blue when a cloud raced overhead. Despite what they’d written about going to see Ada, they passed stolid Government House and started out on the stone walkway around the harbor. A steamer was approaching, and fishing boats and a few stray pleasure crafts nodded at anchor. Over it all loomed the huge fortress named for Queen Elizabeth, which could always be reached by boat or sometimes on foot over the causeway when the tide was out.
Nellie stretched her strides to keep up with Lucy. However petite Lucy was, she walked like the very dickens. “It’s as if this pathway presents damp treasures from Poseidon’s realm, like seaweed hair from mermaids and polished pebbles for their jewels on this magic road to another time.”
“Mm,” Lucy said. “It’s the military men in their natty uniforms I like looking at.”
“Just think, you’re ready to come out—well, if you can say that in a forsaken place like this, however many dances and soirees the Norcotts offer at Government House in the season. If you wed a naval man, hopefully one who will someday become an admiral, he could get assigned to some wonderful place, and you could see the world.”
“I’ll see the world. Somehow.”
“But you’d rather see Paris, right? Ah, me too. Look,” Nellie said with a sweep of her hand. “It’s so clear today you can even see the houses in France, only about twelve miles away and yet so far. Too bad Mother’s letter to her distant relations will mean an invitation for you to visit only old England and cold Scotland.”
“She wants me out of the house because I stand up to him, and he can’t abide me. Nice to have mutual feelings, I warrant.”
“I would miss you if you went—terribly,” Nellie admitted as they climbed stone stairs to the walkway along the walls. It had the best view, but the wind tugged at their hats and hair.
“I know you long to see Paris too,” Lucy said, “especially after all those wonderful tales Grandmama told of all her relations living there. Remember those barrels of goods she’d get near Christmas? You loved the books, but I loved the clothes, the latest Paris fashions in cold, rough Canada.”
“And made such for your dolls. I vow, it was the only reason you liked dolls. You preferred to roughhouse with the neighboring boys.”
“And Grandmama was so strict. Always proper manners, learning to sit still in silence, to be self-contained, as she called it. You could do it, but I could not.”
“I just made up stories in my head,” Nellie said as they walked through the entrance gate under the grim walls. “Stories about castles and princesses. I never told you, but I used to think my fate was to be that of the heroine in The Princess and the Goblin. I fully expected to learn later I was really a princess in disguise after all.”
Lucy leaned her elbows on one of the narrow, deep windows of the fortress wall and inhaled the tangy sea breeze. “If you are the princess, then poor mother is really a queen who has married a goblin.”
“And you then?”
“I don’t deal in fancies or fiction. I want things real and ready. I want to look outward, not in some book.”
Nellie looked hurt. They stood in silence, gazing out for a while, watching the waves bash the rocks below. At least, Lucy thought, Nellie wasn’t going to stage one of her dramatic scenes or use a bunch of big words like castigate and incorrigible.
“It’s true,” Lucy spoke finally, putting her hand on her younger sister’s shoulder, “that we’re as different as night and day, looks and interests, but we will stick together, no matter what, whoever we marry or where we go or what we do. Promise? I do.”
“And not ever argue again.”
“Really, don’t go overboard. Oh, there’s the tidal warning bell, so we’d best head back already. Mother or the maid would cover for us, no doubt, but I don’t want to get my feet wet on such a windy day.”
“Just get your feet wet with exciting people and having things your way,” Nellie dared as they set out back down the stone stairs at a good clip, amid the crowd of others hurrying back. Already the tide was licking at the causeway, and the occasional gust of October wind blew spray on them so they could taste salt when they licked their lips. No doubt Mother would know they’d been to the shore. Oh crumbs, Lucy thought, she couldn’t think of everything.
Lost in their separate thoughts and warmed by having pledged even a ragged oath to each other, the sisters held hands and quickened their steps.
CHAPTER Two
Nellie was miserable, more so than usual. Not only was Lucy off visiting Mother’s relations in England, but Ada’s father had been recalled to London, so she’d lost her best friend, too.
“That is, except for all of you,” she whispered to the pile of books she was unpacking and shelving.
Mr. Kennedy had moved the family, such as it was, into town to a small house called Colomerberie. Most houses here had names, and Nellie was convinced she could have done a better job picking this place or its name. Forlorn might do. Yes, Forlorn House, even though her stepfather’s books had been shipped from Scotland, and she was going to read most of them as well as keep up her visits to the town library. And the kind, elderly widower next door, who knew Mr. Kennedy, had encouraged that and told her she could borrow books from his private library too.
Hungry and feeling cramped from so much kneeling and stretching, Nellie got up and went out into the hall to ask Cook for something to eat. She was not a live-in cook but a girl who came for the afternoon with groceries and prepared tea and then dinner. Mother had a guest for once, a retired naval captain’s wife, Mrs. Ruth Rancal, and Nellie could hear their voices as she passed in the hall.
“That flaming red hair of hers will be a problem when she comes out in her first season,” Mrs. Rancal was saying. “It may look come-hither, but she’s rather shy, isn’t she?”
Nellie wilted against the wall. They were talking about her. She’d heard whispers before that what she liked to think of as her ruby red hair made her look brazen. That’s what one of their banished governesses had said, the same one who had scolded that it was unladylike to devour books and read about “naked” Greek and Roman gods and goddesses.
“Her lovely green eyes may not be the usual blue and her eyebrows are quite dark, but they only accent her fine features,” Mother said. At least Mother was defending her. She had her dander up.
“But overly striking in color,” the woman insisted. “Quite. And draws the wrong sort of attention. But I have something that may help. I truly came to help, you see.”
Nellie didn’t see. Mother said, “I know the ideal of beauty is pale brown or golden hair but—”
“Indeed it is, and you and your eldest have softer coloring. But here, this is an iron comb of a particular ilk. They say, if you comb her hair with it, it will darken that bright red.”
Their voices went on, Mother’s on edge now. Nellie nearly staggered back into the library. She was ugly. Everyone thought she was ugly. Now she knew why, when she’d done charades or amateur theatricals with Ada, she had always been given the comic parts with padded or disguised faces, sometimes even wigs. Almost sixteen years old and ugly! Of course, Mother loved her and would never say so, but she hadn’t thrown the woman out.
Nellie grabbed her cloak and bonnet off the hat tree and tore outside into the chilly fog. At least Lucy was coming home soon, but that would make things worse. Lucy would have her first social season here, even if it was in “just” Jersey. And poor, shy, lonely, ugly Nellie might as well go talk to the cows in the fields or witches on the ch
imney seats!
She leaned against the front door, wishing she could disappear into the fog. How hard she’d worked to fashion her hair, twisted round her head in a thick plait ending in a small Grecian knot at the nape of her neck. It was graceful, even if it was roaring red. She swirled her cape around her shoulders and popped her bonnet on, yanking its ribbons tight.
“Hello, there, Miss Sutherland!” came a jaunty call as Nigel Wicker emerged from a hired hackney and headed toward his house next door. He was the kindly, retired gentleman who talked about books with her, recommending and loaning her some. Upon occasion, they sometimes walked together to the library. But the most fascinating thing about Mr. Wicker was that he had actually held a post called Queen’s Messenger for Queen Victoria. He regaled Nellie with all sorts of stories, and, after all, she too believed in the Divine Right of Kings and Queens. So romantic, the royals of the realm, even—almost—Mr. Wicker.
“How is the bright and beautiful Nellie Sutherland today?” he asked, stopping partway toward his door to doff his hat. Evidently, when he saw her storm cloud face, he went on hastily, “By the by, my nephew Charles will be visiting me on his break from Eton soon. I would hope you might have time to meet him. He is sixteen, and I want him to realize the beauties of this place,” he added with a smile and a wink.
Nellie stared at first like a simpleton, then found herself nodding. “Of course, and Mother would—would love to meet him too,” she managed.
Had that sounded too forward? Or too cowardly? As if she didn’t trust Mr. Wicker’s judgment? As if she couldn’t trust this Charles from Eton if Mother didn’t meet him to approve?
“Lovely,” he said with a smile and another a tip of his hat. “And you are that. I warrant poor young Charles will be swept away. Ah, if I were only half a century younger!”
He smiled and plodded toward his front door. Clasping her hands between her breasts, Nellie just stared. This man was once Queen’s Messenger, and it was as if he had brought her a message from lofty realms, just when she needed it the most. Perhaps not everyone—mayhap, men at least—thought she was ugly. And Mr. Wicker must know that his nephew Charles would like her appearance too, else why would he promote the young man’s making her acquaintance?
Suddenly, she could have flown into the fog instead of walked. But she turned back and went into “Forlorn House” again. Maybe she’d call it “Future House” now, as things suddenly seemed so much better, especially when she saw her mother’s guest leaving. Mother was not only showing her out but hurrying her from the parlor into the hallway, so perhaps she’d given the carper a telling off.
Mrs. Rancal’s eyes went to Nellie’s hair, so she untied her bonnet and swept it off in defiance. Nellie stood her ground and smiled, deliberately showing her teeth. She hadn’t observed her bolder sister all these years for nothing.
“Oh dear, I see the fog is worse,” the woman said after Nellie swept the door open for her.
“Well, one good thing about it, I’m sure you’ll find,” Nellie said, squinting at the woman’s light brown tresses frosted with gray, “is that the fog lends some shine to those with dull hair.”
Mrs. Rancal gasped. Mother’s eyes widened, and she cleared her throat. Nellie thought one or the other would scold her, but Mrs. Rancal bustled off, and Nellie firmly closed the door behind her.
“I dare say you overheard her talking to me,” Mother said.
“I did.”
“Just when I started to stand up for your lovely hair, she switched to news of Mrs. Langtry, so did you hear that, too?”
“No. Last I knew her dalliance with the Prince of Wales was ended but what else? She’s gone back to Mr. Langtry? After all, he was complicit in everything and, no doubt, profited a pretty penny from all that.”
“Come into the parlor,” Mother said, hustling her inside and closing the door. Though Mother almost always stood ramrod straight, she leaned back against it. “Word has just reached Jersey that Mrs. Langtry is estranged from her husband. She’s in a family way without a family, and it’s debatable who—well, who is the father of the child.”
“Pregnant? By the prince and he won’t say so?”
“Evidently not. Although some say the child is that of Prince Louis of Battenberg. And she’s evidently dallied with someone named Arthur Jones, too, and she’s leaving for Paris with him. She’s ruined herself, and, without Prince Edward’s favor, the creditors are at her door. It seems the Langtrys have declared bankruptcy.”
Nellie sank onto the settee, propped her elbows on her knees, and put her chin in her hands, glaring at the floor. She had to write Lucy, though since she was in England, she might already know. Poor Lillie, her and Lucy’s shining star that lit the way out of Jersey into the realms of the great and grand. And now disaster. It made red hair seem like the smallest of problems. It made the world of men and money so much more terrifying.
“My dear, you aren’t ill, are you?” Mother asked and sat down beside her to put her arm around her slumped shoulders.
“Just sick of some things, that’s all, but I’ll be better soon. You’ll see.”
With a roll of her eyes and Mother and Nellie watching, Lucy bent over the dining room table, madly cutting gray satin without a pattern. She had been back in Jersey for over a year and had turned eighteen when she declared to Nellie and Mother that she was going to not only sew clothing but also design dresses for the three of them. Even though they were, she argued, on too strict a budget, and “stuck in a backwater of the realm,” they could still be stylish.
“He doesn’t give us an extra farthing beyond necessities for clothes,” Lucy said with a narrowed glance at the ceiling of the dining room.
“Mr. Kennedy is an absolute layabout, Mother,” Nellie chimed in.
“Both of you, mind your tongue,” Mother chided. “He’s ill, and we are to help the sick.”
Lucy went on, “You could use a new church gown and neither Nellie nor I can look our best in old rags with our young set even here.”
“Now, Lucy,” Mother said in her gentle tone, “hardly old rags. But, my, I admire how you can simply eye a form and figure and cut away. I will treasure that gown and such fine material.”
“Good enough for here,” Lucy said and stuck pins in her mouth to assemble the pieces. She had to mutter now. “But not if Nellie and I were in London or Paris, dining with”—here her pins spilled from her lips onto the fabric—“the uppers, the absolute nobs of the kingdom . . .”
“Or I with Charles and you with Cecil,” Nellie put in.
Lucy straightened and sighed. “Charles and Cecil. Sounds like romantic names from one of your books, does it not, my fair ladies?”
Mother said, “You’re quite taken with Cecil, I know, dear, but you’ve already won and refused three others since you’ve been back, so I’ll wager this is just another passing fancy.”
“Mother, I’m not juggling beaus. And Cecil isn’t a fancy. He’s upstanding. Charming. Dashing in his officer’s navy uniform. From a good family. He adores me and I him.”
Lucy knew Nellie was not as moony over her long-distant Eton beau Charles as she herself was over Cecil. She needed him. She wanted him. Of course they would be married, so there was no comparison to Lillie, who had gone so astray. Cecil was tall and handsome and well spoken. Piercing blue eyes and from a good family in Kent with a town house in London. She could live somewhere at his first posting and escape all this.
Mother, clucking like a mother hen, bustled off to play more endless backgammon with Mr. Kennedy. Time after time, Lucy had warned herself never to become involved with a man who so much as coughed, for their stepfather’s asthma had turned to chronic bronchitis, even here on sunny Jersey. But the handsome, polite, and very attentive Cecil Lockley seemed hale and hearty. He was such a skilled kisser. And his caresses, careful and clever with their chaperones always about—
“You really do love Cecil, then,” Nellie said, interrupting her thoughts.
; “Madly. I’m over the moon. But I’m not one to be simply swept away like one of those swooning maidens in the novels you read. And you?”
“I’m being very careful and not because of the example of our poor Lillie Langtry. I want a love like Father was to Mother. They had enough romance to live on for a lifetime. Lucy, since you’ve been home,” she blurted, “I’ve ever so much wanted to ask you something, and I know you’ll give me an honest answer straightaway.”
“No, I’m not going to elope with Cecil, though I’d like to.”
“Not that,” Nellie said, standing and leaning stiff-armed on the table as if to brace herself. “Do you think I’m unattractive, even ugly? I mean, with my hair and dark brows, green eyes and all, compared to—well, to you or someone like Lillie—though, I mean to say, I would never compare my appearance to hers or yours with your lighter coloring.”
Lucy laid down the pieces for the bodice she was pinning together. Though she was the shorter of the two, she put a hand on the table for balance and stood on tiptoe to look Nellie straight in the eye.
“Ugly? Never! Not you. Your features are more regular than mine, though anyone could tell we are sisters. Your hair is magnificent—if a bit of a surprise at first, as if—as if someone gazed upon a special sunrise. And you know that I tell true.”
“Oh, I do!” Nellie cried and nearly dove around the corner of the table to hug her.
They clung for a moment as they had not for years. Then Nellie stepped back and brushed tears from her cheeks. Lucy, surprised at the burst of emotion from her subdued sister, though she did seem to be more confident since she’d been back, just stood there.
“Well,” Lucy said, clearing her throat, “that’s set then, and let no one else say otherwise, or they’ll have words with me. You know”—she put hands to hips and eyed the gown, all in pieces yet—“I wish to high heaven we didn’t have scratchy boned neck-pieces. But that’s not as bad as the strangling corsets—”
