by Caleb Krisp
Finding Rebecca wasn’t difficult. I suspected she was close when I passed through the drawing room and saw a maid shrieking about ghosts and running for her life. Rebecca was in the great hall. And she wasn’t alone. Lady Elizabeth sat on the steps of the grand staircase, looking at her granddaughter, her weathered face a mixture of wretchedness and wonder.
“I . . . I do not believe it,” she muttered to herself. “My granddaughter has come back.”
The dead girl now glowed blue, as the Duchess had. Her skin threw off an icy light, her dark eyes danced. But she was a ghost on the hunt. Her brow was knotted, darting from room to room and returning each time to the great hall. And I understood why.
“She will come,” I told her with certainty. “Your mother will find you here.”
Rebecca threw her arms around me. “You made it, Ivy! Oh, I was worried that you would be lost in that awful void.”
“Yes, I made it,” I said softly. “Though I cannot say the same for the Duchess.”
But Rebecca’s thoughts were elsewhere. “Do you really think she’ll come, Ivy? Oh, but how will she know where I am?”
“She watches you, dear. Trust me, she will come.”
Lady Elizabeth got to her feet with some effort. Leaning heavily on her cane, she walked toward Rebecca, her beady eyes roaming her granddaughter’s ghostly glow. “You have come home, Rebecca,” she said.
“Yes.” Rebecca shook her head, starlight leaping from her hair. “No. I am waiting for my mother.”
“Oh.” Lady Elizabeth let out a faint huff. “I thought you had come to haunt me. . . .”
And the old bat sounded disappointed. I was struck by the silence in the vast house.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Most of the servants gave notice after the calamitous ball,” she said. “Some claptrap about Butterfield Park being cursed.” She huffed again. “Idiots!”
“Where is Matilda?” asked Rebecca. “Perhaps I could say hello—and Lady Amelia, is she about?”
Lady Elizabeth rested both hands on the top of her cane. “They are gone.” She let out a shallow breath. “Set sail for Australia.”
“You are here alone?” said Rebecca.
The old woman ignored the question. “When your mother died,” she said, her wrinkled face a mask of torment and shame, “I did what I thought was best. I wanted you to get on with things, to stop being so glum—but I did not behave as I should have. I was cruel.” She nodded her head. “Yes, cruel . . . and I am sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter now, Grandmother.” Rebecca touched the old woman’s cheek. “If it’s forgiveness you seek, I give it freely.”
With these words, a great sob flew out of Lady Elizabeth. It was deep and long buried and rather beautiful.
“She is here!” cried Rebecca, pointing at the window.
I looked out and saw Rebecca’s mother. She was standing out in the meadow by the schoolhouse. Her glowing blond hair falling about her shoulders. A marvelous smile spread across her face. Lady Elizabeth gasped. I waved. Rebecca’s mother waved back—lovely ghost!
Her mother’s presence seemed to answer all of Rebecca’s doubts. All her fears. Before she departed, Rebecca turned and kissed her grandmother.
“You better get going,” I said as brightly as I could. I was determined not to howl like a girl who was saying good-bye to the best friend she had ever had. It wasn’t a complete success.
We threw arms around each other and embraced. I felt the coolness of her skin against my own. Then I felt her kiss my cheek. “You brought me home, Ivy.”
“Be a shiny bright star,” I whispered, squeezing her tight. “A shiny bright star, so I’ll always know you’re there.”
I don’t recall exactly what happened next. One moment Rebecca was with us in the great hall, and the next she was a shadow slipping through the door. Lady Elizabeth and I watched as she flew toward her mother. When they came together, it was as if they merged—Rebecca’s light and her mother’s spilling into each other. Then washing away, leaving a hazy afterglow that splashed briefly over the wildflowers and was gone.
Some time passed before anyone spoke. I turned around and regarded Lady Elizabeth. She was a broken woman, made humble and frail by loss. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her—she had been thoroughly wicked to me. But somehow it didn’t much matter anymore.
“Well,” I said brightly, “I suppose you’ll beg my forgiveness now—cry buckets, kiss my feet, butter my toast and whatnot.”
“You?” Some of the old spark crackled in her eyes. “Never!”
“Well, then, you might at least take my advice—unless you want to die all alone in this beastly house of yours.”
She huffed, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I’m listening.”
“Fix things with Lady Amelia and Matilda,” I said. “Go and make it right. You are a horrid old bat, but I’m almost certain you didn’t start out that way. Lady Amelia deserves your respect and Matilda needs your example—show her that being hateful and vengeful and cruel makes for a lonely life. Let her see that you are trying to change, and then she might too.”
The old bat thought on this a moment. Then she gulped. “Australia?”
I nodded. “Afraid so.”
She huffed again. Tapped her cane on the floor. “There are worse places, I suppose.”
“Not really, dear—but that’s the spirit!”
Lady Elizabeth had a note sent booking a berth on the next ship sailing for Australia. She offered me an iced tea and a raw potato, but I told her it was time that I departed. She was kind enough to give me five pounds for the train. We were not friends—how could we be after the wretched things she had done? But without saying it aloud, we both understood that whatever had happened between us, we were leaving it there in that hall. I slapped her on the shoulder and headed for the door. I was almost there when she called my name.
“Where will you go, Miss Pocket?” she asked.
I thought of my destination. And who would be waiting there. “Good-bye, Lizzy.”
Moments later, as I walked down the gravel drive toward the train station, I looked back at the great house and saw in its grand splendor a kind of emptiness. It was beautiful, yes, but how little joy I had seen within its walls. I couldn’t say whether Lady Elizabeth would return with Matilda and her mother. Or if the mansion would sit empty for the next hundred years. I only knew that Rebecca was now somewhere far away. Blissfully happy and at peace. And that my part in the story of this sad place had reached its end. And I was glad of it.
“It’s good to see you, miss,” said Bertha for the seventh time. “I was awful scared you’d never set foot in England again, and that’s a fact!”
I had sent word from the train station at Butterfield Park that I would be arriving in Dorset the following day. Bertha and Jago were there to meet me—Jago shook my hand in a most vigorous fashion, Bertha wept like a burst pipe. As I had no luggage, we headed straight to the wagon and set off for Weymouth.
There was a great deal to discuss. My adventure, of course. I gave them all the particulars. Jago was rather glum when I mentioned that Miss Frost would not be back.
“She’s as tough as old boots, Miss Frost,” he said, his voice ringing with admiration. “Doesn’t take any guff neither.”
“Very true, dear, and well said.” I bumped his leg in an encouraging fashion. “You have a marvelous way with words. Have you ever thought of giving English a try?”
Jago burst out laughing. Then Bertha joined in. Which was confusing, but really rather nice. There were other matters to talk over—Mrs. Dickens was still at the apartment in Berkeley Square, awaiting our return.
“She sent a box of your things, pretty dresses and such,” said Bertha cheerfully. Then she snorted. “Though I can’t think why she included a battered old clock. Her note said you would understand.”
It must be Rebecca’s clock. And the thought made me smile despite the sadness. Bertha prattled on a lit
tle longer, declaring that Mr. Partridge had written several letters. But really there was only one topic that mattered to me.
“How is my . . . how is Anastasia?”
“She’s getting stronger every day,” said Bertha.
Jago turned the horses and we left the main road, rolling up a prairie bursting with tall grass. “All she did was hum and shake that first night,” he said. “But after Miss Frost called at the cottage, your ma was a different person. Let Bertha clean her up and started eating and talking some. This morning she was singing as she dug in the garden.”
“She has a lovely voice, your mother,” said Bertha.
I saw the little cottage as we crested the hill. My mouth went dry. A knot pulled in my stomach. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt so ill. Despite my mad wish that the dirt road would stretch on for a thousand miles, we were there all too soon. Jago pulled the horses up in the yard. “Are you ready, chatterbox?”
It seemed that I had been on this journey for an age and that here, at last, was the destination. So why was I not leaping from the wagon and bounding into my mother’s arms? Perhaps it was travel sickness. Or scurvy.
“It’s going to be grand, miss,” said Bertha gently.
“Blimey, she’s lost for words!” said Jago.
“What a horrid thing to say!” I declared.
In the end, it didn’t matter how I felt. There was only one thing to be done. So I stood up, ignoring the uncertainty and doubts whirling through my head, and jumped from the carriage.
21
She was waiting for me in the garden. Standing beneath an elm tree, the ocean at her back. It was a great shock to finally see who was behind that curtain of matted hair. She wore a pale green dress. Her dark hair glistened in the sun, flowing down her back with no bands or ribbons. Her face was scrubbed clean. Bright blue eyes. A fetching smile. Her hands were clutched together.
Bertha and Jago stopped at the back door. I did not mind that they were there. Perhaps I had imagined my mother would run to me and bundle me up. But she didn’t. She lifted her hands to her chest as I walked the length of the yard. When I stopped in front of her, there was a brief moment where I worried she was about to start humming. But then something warm and tender bloomed on her face.
“You have come a long way,” she said.
I nodded.
“How are you, Ivy?”
“Utterly stupendous, dear,” I replied. “There have been a great many thrills and spills—life on the line and whatnot. Your mother’s something of a nutter, but I expect you know that already.” I sighed. “Most ordinary girls would have curled up like kittens and sobbed for days. But not me. Yes, there was danger at every turn and a great many people trying to get me. But I didn’t flinch. Bashed people left and right. Rescued Rebecca. Pushed Miss Always into the great lake. Cured the Shadow. Became Queen. Met my other half—the mad cow could talk underwater—and then became a whole girl again.” I sighed once more. “So you see, dear, it’s been a rather marvelous adventure.”
Anastasia Radcliff crouched down, her eyes level with mine. She lifted her hands and cupped my face. “How are you, Ivy?” she asked me again.
“How am I?” Had she not heard me the first time? Was my answer not thrilling enough? Had I not dazzled and amused her? Yet there was such tenderness in her lilting voice that it nearly took my breath away.
And I saw that she was asking something completely new of me. Something of which there was no need for tricks or games. In her face and in her question, twice asked, this strange woman was asking me to take a leap of faith and speak of something true and unvarnished and as real as the heart pounding in my chest. She wished to know how I was, who I was . . . and although a part of me raged against offering this part of myself, I ignored it and set the words free.
“Scared. I’m scared.”
“Scared of what, Ivy?”
“A great many things. I’m scared that this isn’t real. That you are just a dream. I’m scared that if you are real, you won’t like me. I’m rather a lot to take, you see. And I’m scared that even if you wish for us to be together, that it won’t work. That I will wear you out and you will send me away. Or you will leave a note on my pillow and flee into the night.”
My lips had a mind of their own and were trembling madly, tears congregating in my eyes with no regard for my dignity. But I was glad of it. For so long I had used my imagination as a place to hide. But now all I craved was something real. Something true.
“Before you knew I was your mother,” said Anastasia, still holding my face in her hands, “when I was just a lunatic in a madhouse, you cared enough to help me. I spent twelve years humming to you, day and night, dreaming of this day—and as you walked toward me just now, I was terrified that I would disappoint you. Ivy, my love is nothing you need to wish for. I am your mother, I will stay by your side come feast or famine, and I will remain there until my last breath. If you have faith in nothing else, have faith in that.”
I found myself nodding—for I believed every word. I don’t recall flinging my arms around my mother, but I must have. We hugged for the longest time, and I don’t think either of us wanted to let go. I heard Bertha sniveling in the background. And Jago telling her to blow her nose.
When you meet the person to whom you are a link in the same chain, there is a great deal to talk about. We ended up in the kitchen, eating crumpets with honey and speaking of a great many things. Bertha brewed a pot of tea. Jago watched in wonder. Words tumbled out one atop the other. People spoke at once. Things were repeated and repeated again.
My mother told me about Sebastian Dumbleby, my father. She said he was a dear man with a good heart and that he was overjoyed when I was born. She spoke of Justice Hallow, of growing up at her knee in Prospa House—and how she escaped her cruelty, changed her name, and fled into our world.
“I suppose I am Ivy Radcliff,” I said, finishing off a delectable crumpet. “Or is it Dumbleby?” Then I gasped. “Estelle is my aunt. How beastly!”
“Hallow was my mother’s name,” said Anastasia. “And Radcliff was the surname of the nurse who took care of me—I always wished that I was her daughter, so I took her name. As for Dumbleby, I think that family has caused us enough pain.” She leaned across and placed her hand on mine. “Pocket is a fine name, and I would be honored to take it—if you agree?”
“Of course she agrees!” said Bertha, sobbing into her crumpet.
I thought that was a glorious idea.
“Still hungry, chatterbox?” said Jago, offering me the last crumpet.
“Famished,” I replied.
“Bertha, sit down and drink your tea,” said Anastasia. “You’ll wear yourself out.”
“I don’t mind, miss.” The kindly lump sat down and looked about. “Not so long ago I lost my poor mother and had nowhere to go—now look at me!” She smiled and shook her head. “Life has a way of surprising, don’t it?”
Bertha’s words hit me as I took a bite of fresh crumpet, the honey drizzling down my chin. The events of the past year had been thoroughly gobsmacking. But then, my story had always been certain to involve breathtaking adventure, bone-shattering courage, and frightful danger. And it was destined to end in a homecoming of the most wonderful kind. I had found the one person in the whole world who yearned for me as I had yearned for her. Somehow, some way, we had found each other again. Which was hardly a great shock when you think about it—for I have all the natural instincts of a happy ending.
Epilogue
“Goodness, Ivy, I do hope it goes well.”
I peeked through the curtain and looked out. People were streaming in. Taking their seats. Talking eagerly. “It will be a raging success, Ma. We’re practically sold out, after all.”
“Ten minutes until curtain up!” cried Bertha, hurrying past. “Jago, where is the sheet music?”
“I just gave it to Mr. Spencer,” said the boy. While his voice had gotten deeper, his grin was as mischievous as ever. “Unless
you or Mrs. Dickens want to play the piano?”
“Not me, lad,” said Mrs. Dickens, rushing from the dressing room. She had a needle and thread in her hand and a dress flung over her shoulder. “Two girls with uneven hems—I’m run off my feet, I am!”
Two years had rushed by in a wondrous blur. After a few months in Dorset, we had settled into the apartment in Berkeley Square; me and Ma, Mrs. Dickens and Bertha, and of course Jago. We were a family in every way that mattered. With some of the money from Mr. Banks, Ma had opened a music school in Hampstead—Pocket’s Melodies. Ma taught piano and singing to girls and boys from all over London.
“The children are rather nervous about singing in front of their families.” Ma had her hands clutched together like she did when she was fretful. “Oh, Ivy, it’s our first big concert. Do you think we are ready? Perhaps we haven’t rehearsed enough or spent enough time—”
“Your students are ready, and so are you,” I said, gripping her arm. “Everybody knows their part, they will sing their hearts out, and the whole concert will be a smashing success.”
Ma was like that at times. Fretful. Anxious. Usually she was strong and sure—but not always. Some nights her dreams were bad. She would cry out. About Lashwood. And my father. And the years we had lost. But I always told her that what we have now is so stupendous because it took two worlds, one necklace, and a great deal of calamity and good fortune to get us here.
Some others hadn’t been as lucky. A few months after the ball at Butterfield Park, Mr. Partridge got word that Estelle Dumbleby’s family fortune was gone—stolen by an underhanded banker who spent every pound Estelle had to pay for his gambling habit. The grand house in Highgate had been sold, and Estelle was last seen at a dress shop in Mayfair, begging for employment. Which was glorious!
Countess Carbunkle had fared even worse. After her humiliation at the Butterfield Park anniversary ball, Miss Anonymous wrote a wondrously snarky story under the headline COUNTESS CATASTROPHE STRIKES AGAIN! The story was printed in newspapers far and wide. Utterly humiliated and a worldwide laughing stock, Countess Carbunkle had purchased a lighthouse off the coast of Alaska, vowing never to show her face in public again. So good news all around then!
