Bring Me the Head of Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  My grin was triumphant. “As Esmeralda Cabbage, that’s how.”

  7

  The gentleman with the furrowed brow and bright blue vest looked me up and down. “An actress, are you?”

  “Oh, yes,” I answered. “Painfully gifted. Stupendously talented. You might have seen me in such productions as The Girl Who Slapped Her Majesty, which ran for nearly a year, or Lady Vivian’s Rabbit, a play so heartbreaking the theater flooded most evenings.”

  I stood in a vast and rather shabby second-story workshop. The home of BUZZBY’S STAGE EMPORIUM—FOR ALL YOUR THEATRICAL NEEDS. I had once followed Miss Always to this very place—her wickedly brilliant transformation into Miss Carnage was the work of Alfred Buzzby. Which is why I had come to see him.

  Naturally, I couldn’t tell him the real reason I needed a convincing disguise. So I posed as an actress about to take the lead role in a brilliant new production.

  “The lead role, you say?” Mr. Buzzby was wiping down a mirror, mounted on the wall behind a long table filled with powders and glues and molds of every shape and size. “I’ve got two musicals, three plays, and a pantomime on my plate. Why would I take on another job, missy?”

  At which point I produced a roll of pound notes from my pocket (now being fabulously wealthy and whatnot). “Because you will be ten pounds richer if you can turn me into a convincing aristocrat.”

  Mr. Buzzby moaned. “I suppose you want me to make you look pretty?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I declared. “I’m playing an aristocrat. Make me look like the daughter of a pair of chinless first cousins. A nose so stubby it points toward the sky. Blotchy skin smothered in freckles. And a set of buckteeth that could chew through a fence post.”

  I saw the possibilities dancing in his hazel eyes. So I went in for the kill. “Perhaps you haven’t the skills to transform me?”

  “Haven’t the skills?” he shouted, spit flying.

  “Not to worry, dear,” I replied, stepping away. “We can’t all be brilliant.”

  He lunged, practically pushed me into the makeup chair, and turned my face toward the large mirror. “Watch and learn, missy.”

  “Heavens!” cried Mrs. Dickens.

  “I didn’t even recognize you!” offered Bertha.

  “Of course you didn’t, dear,” I said, pulling off my nose.

  Mr. Buzzby had done a wonderful job. With a blond wig, freckles by the dozen, a stub nose, and a wondrous set of teeth, Esmeralda Cabbage had come to life. The entire process had taken most of the day, but I had studied Mr. Buzzby’s methods carefully so that I could complete the transformation myself when the time came.

  “The ball is in three days,” I said, popping out the false teeth and placing them on the kitchen table. “If all goes according to plan, Bertha and I shall leave tomorrow.”

  Bertha looked startled. “I’m coming with you?”

  “A fine young aristocrat like Esmeralda Cabbage can hardly travel without a maid, now can she?” Using a damp cloth I began to remove the layer of freckles from my face. “Besides, while I hunt for clues among the gentry, you can snoop belowstairs.”

  “Like a regular detective,” said Bertha dreamily.

  “But what do you expect to find at Butterfield Park?” said Mrs. Dickens, who was energetically deboning a duck for supper.

  “Anastasia,” was my simple reply. “While I can’t say for certain that she is being kept in that house, we know that she is no longer at Lashwood. And we know that Estelle has business in Suffolk. There must be a connection, don’t you see?”

  The housekeeper didn’t look at all happy. “If they discover who’s lurking about under all that makeup, they’ll have you locked up.”

  “How could they possibly find out?” I pulled off my wig. “You saw my disguise, it’s brilliant. And my acting skills are the stuff of legend—they’ll never know it’s me.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Bertha, nodding eagerly.

  “How does a girl who doesn’t exist get invited to Butterfield Park?” challenged Mrs. Dickens, her purple nose twitching up a storm. “As you say, the ball is in just three days—all the invitations will have already been sent.”

  I informed my housemates that I had taken a small detour on my way to Mr. Buzzby’s theatrical emporium—dropping into the law office of Mr. Partridge. Where I convinced him to wire a message to Butterfield Park on behalf of Lady Morag Cabbage.

  “Who’s that?” said Bertha.

  “My mother,” I replied. “Well, Esmeralda’s mother.”

  “Lord save us,” muttered Mrs. Dickens.

  “Mr. Partridge’s cable,” I continued, “said that Lady Morag’s young daughter Esmeralda, who has lived in India these past seven years, was back in England for the season and was very keen to make the acquaintance of the right sort of people.”

  “That’s awful clever,” said Bertha. “And they said yes?”

  “Not yet,” I replied. “Mr. Partridge promised to send Lady Elizabeth’s reply as soon as it came to hand.” I sat down at the kitchen table and smiled knowingly. “But I am awfully confident.”

  I didn’t feel the need to add that I may have browbeaten Mr. Partridge into adding that Esmeralda was the second cousin of the King of Spain. And that she would be very keen to invite Matilda to meet the King and his family when they visited London in the coming spring. While I was carefully packing away my new face, there was a knock at the door. Bertha hurried from the kitchen to answer it.

  “Lady Elizabeth sounds like a shrewd and dangerous woman,” said Mrs. Dickens somberly, slicing into the dead duck’s breast. “I don’t imagine she’ll throw out invitations to her fancy ball as easy as that.”

  Perhaps she was right. In my excitement, I hadn’t really considered the possibility that an invitation to Butterfield Park wouldn’t be forthcoming. So when Bertha entered the kitchen with a note from Mr. Partridge, I was suddenly rather nervous. I opened the letter and read it through carefully—three times.

  “Well, what does it say?” said Bertha.

  “The answer’s no, isn’t it, lass?” said Mrs. Dickens.

  I slapped the note down on the table. “We’re in!”

  Mrs. Dickens packed sandwiches for the train. She was full of doubts, as you might expect. Bringing up every little thing that might expose my real identity.

  “Bertha worked for Estelle’s family for years,” she bellowed as we hopped into the carriage bound for the station. “She will take one look at the girl and smell a rat.”

  “Nonsense, you silly woman,” I said, closing the carriage door and sticking my head out the window. “Esmeralda Cabbage is new to England, so it makes sense she would seek out a local maid. And Estelle knows full well that Bertha is unemployed and destitute—so it makes perfect sense that I would hire her.”

  “With so many guests around, she might not even notice me,” said Bertha hopefully.

  Lady Elizabeth had fallen right into my trap. Not only had she issued an invitation for Esmeralda to attend the ball, she had invited the girl to stay at the house as her special guest.

  The journey to Suffolk was smooth and without incident. We were in first class, and my disguise was working a treat. I was in a perfectly lovely pale blue dress with lace trim, a white ribbon fixed around my golden locks—and the worst of the aching had faded from my bones. We were nearly in Suffolk (just a few stops from Butterfield Park’s nearest station) when Bertha hit upon a bright idea. “Why don’t you show off that necklace of yours?” she said eagerly. “They’d believe you were a regular toff if they saw a diamond that huge.”

  I explained to Bertha that if any of the Butterfields got a glimpse of the Clock Diamond, the jig would be up. “I must be inconspicuous, dear. My aim is to become a close friend and confidant of Estelle Dumbleby. That is the key to finding Anastasia.”

  It was raining lightly when we stepped off the train. Wishing to make something of an entrance, I hired a carriage and four horses to spirit us to
Butterfield Park. As the carriage curled up the long drive, past the schoolhouse and the gardens, I must admit to a few nervous butterflies.

  The horses pulled up under the portico, and a footman was there to open the carriage door. “Here we go, dear,” I whispered to Bertha, checking that my nose was still stuck in place.

  We exchanged a secret look and a nervous grin. Then Esmeralda Cabbage and her maid stepped out of the carriage.

  Pemberton, the head butler, greeted me formally as our bags were unloaded from the carriage. He stepped aside as I glided into the great hall. Memories of my last visit rushed at me. The opulent chandelier that I had swung from. The grand iron staircase that Rebecca had pushed me down (for perfectly good reasons!). And just down the hall was the imposing two-story library where my lost friend had put on the Clock Diamond and withered before our eyes.

  “Welcome to my home, Miss Cabbage.”

  Her voice was like a snake slithering into my ear—slippery and dangerous. I turned with a smile fixed upon my rubbery face. “You are Lady Elizabeth, I presume?” I said rather grandly.

  The old bat walked toward me, cane in her hand, her head as craggy and crinkled as a walnut. “Who else would be welcoming you to this house?”

  Behind her, Lady Amelia came rushing down the stairs, fixing a brooch to her splendid bosom and apologizing for being late. The old woman shot her daughter-in-law a withering glance.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you both,” I said.

  “It’s been years since I was in India,” said Lady Elizabeth. “Where exactly is your family’s tea plantation?”

  That was one detail I hadn’t given a great deal of thought to. But I knew it was vitally important that I dazzle her with my local knowledge. “Bombay,” I declared with confidence. “You’ve probably never heard of it. Terribly small. Hard to find on a map. My great-uncle, Beelzebub Cabbage, discovered the place under a fallen banana leaf.”

  “What the blazes did she say?” barked Lady Elizabeth, squinting furiously.

  “I was off my chops with excitement when I received an invitation to your ball, Lady Elizabeth,” I said quickly. “By the way, shall I call you Lizzy?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Quite right too.” I gazed up at the chandelier. “I was just telling my maid, Bertha, what a lovely little house this is. Having lived these past seven years in the grand splendor of our Indian palace, it’s such a comfort to be staying somewhere so snug and cozy.”

  “Oh, my . . . ,” muttered Lady Amelia.

  “You have a lot to say for yourself, Miss Cabbage,” said Lady Elizabeth sharply. “Though how much sense you make is another matter.”

  I was acting up a storm. Convincing these blockheaded aristocrats with every word and gesture. “It’s rather daunting to be so far from my family, but I already feel as if you’re my very own granny.” I beamed at Lady Elizabeth. “While we’ve never met, your strength of character and hardy spirit are legendary.”

  Lady Elizabeth grunted. “Are they indeed?”

  “Oh, yes!” I continued. “Which is all the more remarkable, given that you resemble a leather glove left out in the rain.”

  Lady Amelia clutched her bosom and began to pant.

  “A feather dove left where?” said Lady Elizabeth, cupping her ear.

  “It’s not important,” said Lady Amelia hastily.

  “The journey has tired my lady,” said Bertha, trying to yank me away. “She will be more herself after a bath and a lie-down.”

  What was the silly girl talking about? Did she not see how well I was doing? I leaned close to Lady Elizabeth and yelled into her good ear. “I was just saying that you are magnificently young at heart for a shriveled-up bag of bones!”

  The old woman’s beady eyes tightened, causing wrinkly fault lines to buckle all around her face. She lifted her cane and then brought it down swiftly, hitting the stone floor like a gunshot. “Outrageous!”

  “Nonsense, Lizzy,” I said, pinching her sagging cheek. “You are a medical marvel, and I won’t hear a word of protest.” I smiled in a humble fashion. “I’m not one to blow my own trumpet—did I mention I’m magnificent on the trumpet?—but I am known throughout India for my lavish compliments.” I slapped a passing butler in a noble fashion. “Show me to my quarters, good fellow, and have the kitchen send up whatever dead bird they have handy. I’m positively famished.”

  Lady Elizabeth glared at me in admiration while Lady Amelia stood utterly speechless, looking at me with a mixture of awe and profound confusion. I bid them good day, called to Bertha, and followed the butler up the grand staircase.

  8

  That night I dreamed of the garden of weeds and wildflowers again. Only this time I was inside the tiny thatched cottage. Sitting on a stool by the kitchen table. Looking out at the yard, my skipping rope curled around the trunk of a tree. Winter had come, I knew that much. There was a woman with me. Working some lumpy dough with her hands.

  From my position by the window, I couldn’t see her face. Not properly. Just her profile—brown hair flecked with gray. Pink cheek. Her neck pale and spotty. She sniffed, wiping her nose with a floury hand. And I noticed she was crying.

  “They won’t answer my letters.” She coughed violently. “We’ll . . . we must look for somewhere else to live. The money’s gone, and the landlord has a heart of stone. I told him so too.”

  The sun washed through the frosted windows, blinding my eyes.

  “They won’t answer my letters,” she said again. “Come, Ivy, my fingers ache—help your mama knead the dough.”

  Knock knock. A distant squeak. Then footsteps.

  The kitchen vanished like a snuffed candle.

  “Time to wake up, miss.” It was Bertha.

  I was frowning before my eyes even opened. “Why did you wake me?” I groaned. “I was having a frightfully important dream.”

  “What about, miss?”

  My mother. My very own mother. But I didn’t say that to Bertha. “What time is it?”

  “Time you were heading down to breakfast.” Bertha threw off the bedcovers in a brutal fashion and ordered me to stand. “The house is busy as a train station this morning. All the important guests have arrived. I’ve never seen so many duchesses in one place before!”

  I stood up, yawning—feeling stronger than I had since hiding in that beastly well. Looked about the bedroom. It was a charming suite in the west wing, with a carved four-poster bed and a lovely view of the woodlands. How different it was from the attic Lady Elizabeth had stuck me in the last time I had stayed at Butterfield Park.

  I removed my nightdress and put on the yellow muslin frock Bertha had laid out, my mind busy with thoughts of my mother. I had no real memories of her—recalling nothing of life before Miss Frost took me to the Harrington Home for Unwanted Children. But now, thanks to the dreams, I had seen her—well, a glimpse or two anyway. While she wasn’t exactly as I had imagined, it was my mother, and that was all that mattered.

  “I’ve already started digging about,” said Bertha, turning me around and tying the pale yellow ribbon around my waist. “Miss Estelle was expected early this morning, but her train’s running late and she mightn’t arrive until after breakfast.”

  “Then I’d best get started,” I declared. “First, I will chat with Lady Elizabeth and see what I can unearth, then I will set my sights on Matilda.”

  I turned and headed for the door.

  “Stop, miss!” whispered Bertha rather fearfully.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” I said, turning around.

  “Your face,” she said in an accusing fashion. “You haven’t put it on!”

  Which was utterly true. I had removed my disguise before retiring to bed the night before—sleeping as Esmeralda could damage my artificial nose and leave an awful mess on the pillow. So I’d packed it away under the bed and locked the door so no one would come in uninvited and discover my secret. (Bertha slept in a small anteroom off the closet.)

>   “Well spotted, dear,” I said, diving under the bed and pulling out my box of materials. “You’re a great deal smarter than you look, and that’s a fact.”

  “Oh . . . thank you, miss.”

  When I had transformed into the blue-blooded Esmeralda Cabbage, my stub nose glued on, my wig firmly in place, Bertha and I set off for the breakfast room. As we came down the stairs, she filled me in on some of the fancy guests. Only one name caught my attention. “Who did you say?”

  “Countess Carbunkle,” said Bertha bitterly. “I was just fetching a fresh jug of water so you could wash before breakfast when I accidentally ran into her on the landing. She told me I was a blundering fool and stormed off—awful rude, she was!”

  “Her bark is worse than her bite,” I said as we crossed the great hall.

  “You know Countess Carbunkle?”

  I nodded. “I was her maid in Paris.”

  Bertha and I separated outside the breakfast room. She went to the kitchen to snoop and eavesdrop, while I headed for the breakfast room. A duke and a baronet passed me, bidding me good morning. I was nearly at the door when I came to a halt—suddenly struck by memories of walking these same halls with Rebecca. It felt wrong. Being in her home without her. But the shroud of gloom soon lifted. While the Clock Diamond hung lifeless beneath my yellow dress, I still had an excellent plan B. And my mission to find Anastasia Radcliff had had its beginnings in the very breakfast room I was poised to enter. With that in mind, I took a deep breath, and stepped into the fray.

  Breakfast was a grand affair. Platters of food, fresh flowers, and butlers by the dozen. While my appetite hadn’t returned, I managed a boiled egg and some crispy bacon. I would have preferred a slice of raw pumpkin—but Ivy Pocket’s peculiar eating habits were well known to the folk of Butterfield Park, so I thought it best not to eat like a dead girl.

  “Are you not hungry, darling?” It was Lady Amelia, her voice ringing with maternal devotion. “What about a lovely cup of tea?”